Bonza Voyage©

BONZA VOYAGE NOW AVAILABLE ON AMAZON!

2008-08-26T15:54:00.008+01:00

Dear all,

It has been a while since my last blog, but over the past couple of months things have really taken off for Bonza Voyage.

Having been on sale directly from Lulu, sales went well and feedback was excellent. As a result, it has now been made into an official book and has been taken on by Amazon and Waterstones as well as a number of other online stores! I am also in talks with Waterstones, WHSmiths, Global Gossip as well as a few smaller travel book shops who are interested in stocking it.In addition, I am going to be appearing at a book signing in Stamford in September (more details to follow soon) and have a live interview on BBC Radio Northampton at 9am on Friday 5th September 2008, so please listen out for that.

Please click here to go directly to the Amazon page

Please click here to go directly to the Waterstones page

Please click here to go directly to the Lulu page.

Thank you once again for all your support.

If you have any questions, please contact me - johnwatters84@gmail.com

Ciao for now

BONZA VOYAGE ON SALE NOW!!!

2008-05-13T21:03:00.011+01:00

Hi Everyone!

Great news - Bonza Voyage is finally on sale!!!!

At the moment, it’s available directly from the publisher on a ‘print on demand’ basis. If sales go well, the publisher has agreed to make it available on other online book stores such as Amazon and into some large high-street chains such as Waterstones. The price is £10.00 and it’s worth every penny!

If you wish to go to the site, please click here

Thanks once again for all your support and words of encouragement. I hope you enjoy the book

John

http://www.lulu.com/bonzavoyage

PS If you guys know anyone who is about to embark on a gap year experience, can you please point them in the direction of my book as I think it will prove to be quite useful.

PRODUCTION UPDATE!

2008-04-30T14:05:00.002+01:00

Hello all!

As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, Bonza Voyage will be available for purchase very VERY soon! We are currently in the final editing stages and the paperback cover designs have now been completed (see photo above).

Initially, the book will be put on a 'print on demand' basis. This means that it will only be available online and the book will actually be printed to order. As a result, delivery can take up 1-2 weeks. However, if sales go well, the publisher will then take steps to make Bonza Voyage available on Amazon and various high street shops.

Hopefully everything will be finalised this weekend and the test publishing can start. This process could take a couple of weeks and, when complete, the book will be available for everyone to purchase!

Please keep checking back for updates and I'll be sure to let you all know when Bonza Voyage is available.

Thank you for your continued support.

John

BREAKING NEWS!!!!

2008-04-14T16:40:00.003+01:00

Bonza Voyage is going into print and should be available for purchase within 2 weeks!
More details to follow soon…..

FOLLOWING THE SUN

2008-04-07T22:41:00.005+01:00

As I've reached the half way point with my extracts, I thought I'd have a little break this week and provide you with a poem my friend Emma and I wrote in Byron Bay. It is simply awful in some places but I think it is this amateur rubbish that really demonstrates the sense of enjoyment we were feeling. In short, the poorness of the poem is what creates its special, magical charm. Anyway, please take it with a pinch of salt and simply enjoy.

Following The Sun

By John Watters and Emma Virgo

We came all the way from England,

It was a long, long flight,

But the land Down Under,

Was such a great sight.

We saw The Harbour Bridge,

And the Opera House too,

But something was missing,

There was no Kangaroo.

So off we went to Scruffy’s,

And drank a little beer,

But the was still no kangaroo,

And we felt a little queer.

On the train to Melbourne we saw one,

Our hearts started thumping,

Oh no wait a minute,

It’s just a cow jumping.

We arrived at camp,

And helped children aspire,

To the dreams that they wanted,

And really desire.

So this is where,

Our story begins,

Our tales of travels,

And naughty little sins.

We’re cool and fun,

And good looking as well,

We’re Johnny and Emma,

You’ll love us, we’re swell!

So we left our friends,

For some fun in the sun,

We took a flight to Cairns,

But the rain made us run.

And so we embarked,

On our journey down the coast,

Our epic adventure,

Although we don’t like to boast.

Dicing with death,

We leapt out of a plane,

Rafted down rivers,

We must be insane.

We travelled together,

To every little bay,

We made 25 friends,

Along the way.

Our sense of direction

Is bad, it’s true,

But we didn’t have a map,

Or even a clue.

However, where we want to go,

We always arrive,

We have a sense of adventure,

And a will to survive.

We’ve seen beaches a plenty,

High rise buildings and shops,

We toured the 4 X brewery,

And smelled the fresh hops.

So here we sit in Byron,

Where the birds are humming,

It’s been thirty-one days,

But the jokes keep on coming.

And there you have it,

The end of our tour,

There’s been so many laughs,

But it’s left us quite poor.

However, hear a final word,

About our day in the Zoo,

We didn’t see Steve Irwin,

But there’s the damn kangaroo!

Chapter 14 - The Great Ocean Road

2008-03-31T09:31:00.007+01:00

The Great Ocean Road - is it a great road along an average ocean or a great ocean next to an average road? It was a topic of discussion and one we debated heavily as our car travelled south-west out of the city towards Torquay. This was the second instalment of my Easter week adventure and I was thoroughly looking forward to it. Having arrived back from Bendigo, Skip had fed me and then shipped me off to LJ's as he had some interviews to attend. It is difficult as a traveller, as you do not wish to burden people with your presence, but then any opportunity to spend a night in a bed not infested with cockroaches must be ceased upon. Mel and I hadn't exactly asked Lisa-Jayne for her hospitality, instead we had merely subtly implied that it would be a large help to us and our diminishing funds. The fact that she had a lovely suburban home with a swimming pool may have swayed our decision ever so slightly too. Anyway, we spent an enjoyable couple of days visiting good shopping spots around Melbourne as well as seeing the Gaol where Ned Kelly was hanged, before Mel flew to Cairns to continue her travels around Australia. I was sad to see her leave as her energetic and optimistic outlook had never failed to cheer me up. But more than that, I envied her incredible lifestyle
'Where are you going to stay when you get to Cairns' I had asked her
'Lisa's got some grandparents up there and she's arranged for me to have a bed at their place while I get settled down. But after that - who knows? I'll go wherever the wind takes me'
Many people may view this as a rather wasteful lifestyle adopted by those unsure of their role in life. But I saw it as an incredibly brave adventure conducted by someone unwilling to waste her life in an office. She travelled from place to place until she got bored, and then simply moved on - what could be more rewarding than that? Drifters like Mel should not be looked down upon and pitied by society, but instead admired - for they are the only people daring enough to live life to the full. Everyone dreams of carpe diem, but little do we realise that it's only people like Mel who can truly achieve it. I hoped I would see her again on my travels. Now though, I had my own mini-adventure to conduct.

Being locals to the area, LJ and Tess had travelled along The Great Ocean road many times as children, but had since become oblivious to its charm. It’s understandable really as most people never really appreciate the something that’s on their doorstep – here I was touring Australia and I hadn’t ever been to Scotland. With my tourist-like enthusiasm acting as a catalyst, both seemed to have had their wilted spirit restored as we embarked on the trip with a great sense of anticipation. Stretching for over 300km, the road provides debatably the most spectacular coastline scenery in the world, through an area incorporating world-famous surf beaches, the Otways rainforest and (le pièce de résistance) the lighthouse from ‘Round the Twist’. With the surfboards loaded on LJ’s roof-rack, we arrived at the road’s gateway in Torquay. Taking advantage of its status as a famous surfing town, the streets were dominated by commercial billboards advertising expensive beach merchandise none of us could afford. Each of the famous brands had its own huge, extravagantly built department store which we looked around with interest. Deciding that food for the next two months was a far greater priority, I resisted the temptation to purchase a pair of overpriced board-shorts even though the devilishly attractive assistant insisted I should. Apparently they would’ve made me look like ‘a spunk’ on the beach, but I don’t think she’d noticed my freakishly white skin. Escaping the prowl of these dangerously, irresistible sales women, we jumped back in the car quickly and sped off along The Surfcoast Highway. ………….

………………This first section of The Surfcoast Highway was inland by about 1km and so provided quite an anti-climax for the start of The Great Ocean Road, despite providing some charming countryside views. It was just the lack of ocean that worried us slightly, however this all changed upon arrival at Anglesea. Hoping to take part in some water sports, we soon found ourselves a quiet little beach just west of the town. Having unloaded the boards, we were just preparing for my first lesson when the sun suddenly disappeared and the heavens opened from above. Having not seen much rain for months, Victoria was certainly trying to make up for it now. Running back to the car, Tessa shouted back at me
‘Johnny Boy, where the hell are you going?’
‘Into the car – it’s raining!’ I shouted back, surprised at her question
‘Don’t be such a Pommie wimp! Come on, the rain won’t hurt you’
‘It’s bloody freezing! You’re ok, you’ve got a wet suit on – I’ve just got my feeble English skin’
‘Come on, surfing in the rain is way more fun anyway. You’re going to get wet in the water so what’s the problem? Plus, sharks never attacked people when it’s raining so you’ll be fine’
She had a good point – not about the sharks, but about the whole ‘getting wet’ scenario, plus I admired her perseverance so decided to give the surfing a shot. Luckily, one of her friends had joined us and she just happened to be a qualified instructor which was rather convenient. Lying on a surfboard drawn in the wet sand, I acted out her instructions on how to ‘catch a wave’ and the technique for standing up. I wasn’t sure why I was learning how to stand up, as I was convinced that such a complex skill would be beyond me. Quite naively though, I though it all seemed rather simple. A little too simple perhaps, but I was still full of optimism as I ran towards the rough looking sea. Then I remembered the sharks and stopped in my tracks
‘Tess?’
‘Yes’
‘Are there any sharks around? It seems a little stupid to use a beach without a shark net’
‘You’ve got nothing to worry about – just put the thought of sharks out of your mind. They don’t even like the taste of humans anyway and usually only eat an arm’
‘That’s really put my mind at rest – thank you. But seriously, have there been many attacks around here?’
‘None for years that I’ve heard of’
‘Right there are two things in that reply that worry me. For starts you said ‘not for years’ which suggests there have been some before, which in turn suggests that sharks like it around here. The other thing you said is ‘that I’ve heard of’ which, since you don’t read the newspapers, makes your statement irrelevant’
‘Just get on your board and shut up’
She was right of course – I mean, why worry about going into water infested with something generally considered to be the greatest hunter on the planet. Some people may even refer to it as ‘the perfect killing machine’ but of course it’s probably just misunderstood. With ten other surfers in the sea however, I calculated that my chances of being taken were only 10% even if a shark did attack and so began paddling out towards the breaking waves. This in itself may seem like a relatively straight forward exercise, especially when watching the professionals from the beach, nevertheless I soon discovered that it was deceivingly difficult. Having been embarrassingly flipped over a couple of times by breaking waves it became apparent that your timing was imperative. Unfortunately, it appeared that mine wasn’t. Every time I thought it was a good opportunity to paddle out, another wave would pick me up and ceremoniously dump me upside down into the water below. Imagine (if you will) going to play basketball and then realising in front of loads of onlookers that you can’t even catch a ball and you can start to gauge the sort of humiliation I was feeling. Like a mother helping her child who’s just dribbled all down himself, Tessa thankfully came to the rescue and got me out into the sea so I could finally excel. Obviously I didn’t, but I was a lot better than my efforts to paddle out would suggest. The highlight came towards the end when, after a number of failed attempts, I almost stood up. Looking out to sea, I had seen one particularly large wave approaching and prepared myself for it carefully. Spinning my board around quickly and paddling as fast as my arms could manage, I was picked up by its incredible power. With a sudden burst of energy, I was flying along at what felt like a hundred miles an hour. Grabbing the sides of the board, I pulled myself up and was just about to let out a triumphant cheer when my foot slipped, I fell backwards the board shot out from underneath me. Emerging from the freezing sea and coughing up pints of salt water, I attempted to get my bearings but before I could, another gigantic wave took out its fury on my head. This pattern of events inevitably continued until I was eventually beached on the sandy shoreline like a piece of discarded driftwood. And that, I’m afraid to say, is as good as it got. It was great fun though and I was slightly disappointed when the experience was cut short due to a large rash developing on my chest caused by the abrasion of the board. Thinking about it, I had probably been tempting fate earlier in the day by claiming ‘rash vests were for wimps’. I’ll know never to make that mistake again.

After having some food in a café made entirely out of corrugated iron, we continued on our trip from Anglesea towards Lorne. Immediately, all the doubts I had concerning the greatness of this road were forgotten as we embarked on some of the finest scenery I have ever seen. Hugging the ocean for the entire span, the road meandered round the steep cliffs. As dusk approached, the subtle light accentuated the definition between the contrasting green cliffs and powerful grey sea creating an incredible backdrop. The road was so close to the sea in points that, as I peered out of the car window, it almost felt like we were driving through the raging waves. Rounding a headland, the sun began to set and the clouded skies were illuminated creating an awe inspiring red and purple canvas above our heads. Asking LJ to pull over, I jumped out and captured the image before it vanished for all of eternity. Taking a moment to gather my thoughts, I looked out across the swirling ocean which seemed have calmed since earlier. Instead of waves crashing into the cliff below, the whole sea seemed to be rocking periodically in elegant unison. As the light dissolved, the intricate details of the massive cliffs became clear as they provided a perfect framework for this overpowering picture. With such attention to detail, God had blatantly been swigging Red Bull just before designing this small corner of the Earth. Unfortunately, night fall was approaching and LJ was keen to get on. We continued past The Split Point lighthouse where ‘Round the Twist’ was filmed and onto Lorne – described as the Surfer’s Paradise of The Great Ocean Road. I could see why people would say that, although the overall feel was ever so slightly more tasteful. Desperate to get to a camping site before nightfall though, we drove through relatively quickly and didn’t get a chance to experience it enough to pass any significant judgement. Continuing along this glorious costal road, we eventually arrived at a small settlement called Wye River where we set up camp near the beach and squeezed into a tiny two man tent for some well deserved rest…………….

………………………We then faced a dilemma – turn left and travel directly south to the Cape Otway Lighthouse, or continue on our path towards The Twelve Apostles? I had read quite a bit of literature concerning the lighthouse which was the longest running on mainland Australia until it was decommissioned in 1994. Constructed in 1846, it was seen as an essential piece of engineering to help ships on their difficult and dangerous journey through the windswept western gateway of the Bass Straight known as ‘The Eye of the Needle’. However, since the next region of shoreline was known as ‘The Shipwreck Coast’ it appears all their efforts may well have been in vain. Still, it was a nice symbol and represented an important piece of Australian maritime heritage so I was quite keen to see it. Unfortunately the others were not and I was subsequently outvoted. Still, it gave us time to enjoy a relaxing lunch in a delightful little bakery in Johanna before setting off for the real tourist attractions.

The power of marketing is a wonder to behold. Nobody thinks they are taken in by it, yet we all are. Here we were making a 200km pilgrimage so we could have our photos taken in front of some limestone stacks. When you think about it that way, it seems like pure and utter madness. I’m sure we all loved studying the processes of erosion in geography class, but making such efforts just to witness its effects seems a little extreme. Prior to the 1950s when the world wasn’t dominated by such media propaganda, these stone stacks, standing 20-30 metres from the shoreline, were simply known as ‘The Sow and Piglets’. However, looking for a more appealing name in order to boost tourism in the area, this was soon changed to ‘The 12 Apostles’ despite the fact that there were only 9 of them. But my God did it work. I was expecting a small lay-by, perhaps with a roadside hot-dog van and a tiny platform on which to take photos. Instead, there was a huge car park in the shadow of the ultra-modern visitor centre and hundreds of metres of intricate walkways linking many look-out-points. No wonder everybody I had met seemed to have an incredible photo of The Twelve Apostles – I just thought they had been adventurous enough to climb out onto the delicate cliffs, but it seems they had put in far less effort. On closer inspection though, I was pleasantly surprised to see that these amendments had been implemented with a large amount of dignity. Thankfully, the visitor centre was not a hoard of cheap, tacky t-shirts featuring the statement ‘I love Victoria!’ but instead presented a number of elegant poems written about this astonishing coastline. As we crossed the road, I suddenly began to get quite excited by the prospect just in front of me and realised just how strong the effects of their powerful advertising had been. Having seen so many photos, I suppose I had developed a strange sense of familiarity with the scene, even though I had never visited before. There they were in front of me – The 12 Apostles standing proud and solid amidst the crashing waves on the inaccessible and untouched beach below. The wind was so strong that we all had to hold onto the railings to stop ourselves being knocked over, which gave testament to the extreme conditions this stretch of coast lashes out for those hoping to sail it. I wouldn’t describe the sight as divine like many people, but thinking about what these stone stacks had achieved was certainly inspiring. Unlike the rest of the cliffs around them, these small pillars of strength had not fallen into the sea beneath. Under continuous, immense pressure they had been tough and defiant in the face of adversity. For me, they were not a mythical symbol of religious descent, more importantly, they were a defining example of resilience, courage and spirit. As if to reiterate my point, I recently read that one of the largest ones has fallen down. It seems strange to name something that is slowly eroding away after such important religious icons, although thinking about, it probably provides a good representation of how our modern society is changing.

In 1878, the Loch Ard ship set sail from England on its way to Melbourne. It took about three months before the passengers on board saw the great land of Australia from deck. Relief short lived, imagine their dismay when, just a few miles from entering the Bass Strait, they hit a patch of dense fog. I think you know that luck is not on your side if, having just entered an area of ocean known as ‘Shipwreck Coast’ you have your visibility cut to just a few metres. It would be like wondering into a bear trap testing field blindfolded, which I think you’ll agree is a situation nobody wants to find themselves in. So, it is no surprise (although I’m sure it was to the passengers) to hear that the ship never made it to Melbourne and instead crashed into a reef just off Mutton Bird Island. With a strong, swirling ocean pounding the hull, the ship sank within fifteen minutes preventing any life boats being launched effectively. Shockingly, only 2 of the 54 on board survived. One was an apprentice named Tom Pearce who, having found himself washed ashore in a small cove swam back out to sea in order to save a screaming women named Eva Carmichael. Alive but deserted and cold, the two found themselves on small beach just ten minutes west of The Twelve Apostles, and this is where we found ourselves now. When we got out of the car and walked across the headland, there was an eerie silence in the air. Now named after the wreck, Loch Ard Gorge is a fabulous place to view the extremities of costal erosion. High above the devastating ocean below, we had a fabulous view of the caves, arches and stacks being carefully carved by the relentless sea. Seeing the extent of this damage only made the survivors’ story seem even more miraculous. The beach itself was a tiny circular cove, surrounded almost entirely by steep cliffs with only a small gap for the sea to approach. Modern steps has been built down to the beach, however these obviously wouldn’t have been presented when Eva and Tom were washed ashore here. I tried to imagine what it must’ve been like for them and how (in a cruel twist of fate) their spirits would have been crushed having discovered that they had been washed into an impenetrable cove. As far as I could see, the only feasible escape route would’ve been back the way they had entered. To this day, I still do not know how they escaped but it is an interesting problem to try and contemplate. Still, although I had read the story and was standing in its menacing setting, the reality of it had not registered with me entirely. I suppose I treated it the same way was some kind of mythical legend. Then, we came across the graves of four of the unfortunate and the reality of it became hauntingly apparent. The mood was suddenly very sombre. In a somewhat ironic act of nature, the sun then appeared, brightly illuminating the golden sand and transforming the sea into a warm bath of turquoise. It was hard to believe what sinister acts it was capable of.

With time running out we made one final stop just down the coast at ‘The London Arch’. As the name suggests, it is a huge limestone arch located in the middle of the ocean. I had never seen waves this big in my life, and although we were sixty or seventy metres above the beach, the destructive force of the waves could be felt as their crushing vibrations transferred up through the cliffs and into my feet. The power they portrayed was simply devastating.
‘Those waves are so powerful’ I mused with LJ
‘Yeah, you can see how strong they are just there’ pointing at the arch ‘it used to be called ‘London Bridge’, but the bridge collapsed back in 1990 and trapped some tourists!’
‘Really? Was anyone killed?’
‘No, thankfully nobody was walking across the bridge when it collapsed, but the tourists had to get rescued by helicopter. It just goes to show how much force those waves possess’
With that, we jumped back in the car and started back for Melbourne. It had been a wonderful few days allowing me to experience majestic scenery, exciting legends and the thrill of (almost) riding the waves. The answer to my very first question was now blatantly apparent - this was a great road next to a great ocean.

The next week we were back in Licola for the last few days of the season. Our last camp was cancelled, so we spent our week reflecting on the past few months. Ending the season in style, we purchased all the alcohol the shop could provide and danced the night away! With no neighbours around, we could simply make as much noise as was humanly possible, which was all the encouragement I needed to get on the karaoke machine. Nevertheless, I was ultimately very sad to leave. This incredible little town in the mountains had provided me with the comfort and stability I associated with home. The people too had made Grant and I welcome, incorporating us in their very special Australian society. I appreciated everything they had all done for me and would miss them deeply, but it was time to take this country by storm and unlock some more of its secrets.

CHAPTER 13 - BENDIGO

2008-03-23T22:37:00.004Z

When a train conductor describes somewhere as ‘rather close’, you would be forgiven for thinking it was within walking distance. Nevertheless, you wouldn’t necessarily expect to be travelling for more than say, ten minutes. Pulling into Bendigo station two hours and over 150km later though, I was reminded of the mammoth scale the Australian people work on. Believing I would be alighting relatively quickly, I hadn’t actually taken a seat at the Spencer Street central Melbourne station, but instead stood by the door with keen anticipation. Having returned from Wilsons Prom, we had endured two weeks of solid work with a school for disabled children before conducting a sponsored camp for those who were disadvantaged. Both were incredibly rewarding experiences, but ultimately very exhausting. It was quite a relief to be offered a week’s holiday, so we all accepted with enthusiasm. Fancying a change of scenery and taking advantage of some distant relatives'' hospitality, Grant had flown to Hobart for a week of relaxation. Although I was happy he was going to spend Easter in a lovely furnished family home with a comfy bed and a never ending supply of food, this did nonetheless leave me in a little bit of a pickle. Depressed and facing the prospect of Easter alone in a hostel room that had the uncanny knack of making a prison cell seem luxurious, Skip, Tess and LJ had mercifully come in for the rescue. Like a child burdening his divorced parents, I hassled them for attention, forcing them to take on the responsibility of entertaining me over the next week. Skip had volunteered himself for the first leg and very kindly invited me along on a camping trip to Bendigo, where we could light big fires whilst drinking copious amounts of alcohol, relatively consequence free and without caution.

It was early evening when the train eventually pulled into the station, but the town was alive with that strange bubbly energy that seems to accompany fun fairs on their travels. Discussing our plans for the evening, we decided to take a walk around the rides - not so much to have a go on 'The Big Wheel' but more to soak up the enjoyable festivities. Perhaps it was the dazzling lights and vivacious atmosphere, but I certainly warmed to Bendigo much more than expected. Like other settlements in the area, its origins had occurred during the great gold rush in the late 1950s, in contrast to its brothers though, it had a deep sense of character that was still evolving. Far from mundane, the buildings lining the street actually displayed a large amount of variety in their architecture making me feel like I had finally arrived in a real town. Yes, the large boulevards still existed, but they were surrounded by huge Victorian stone buildings, decorated with beautiful carvings worthy of an avenue in Paris. The proud cathedral was not made out of wood, nor was it painted in any obscene colours – it was made with thick stone and with a traditional gothic design. I loved Bendigo, for this was not the result of a scribbling in a mathematician’s notepad during coffee break - it was an ever-changing example of artistic flamboyance. Okay, maybe I am exaggerating ever so slightly, but I was just so happy to find a town whose design wasn't inspired by a depressingly logical mind. The fact that the high street wasn't merely a never-ending, perfectly straight stretch of repetitive tarmac, periodically intercepted at right-angles by hundreds of cloned roads and littered by a few thousand pedestrian crossings, just made me want to weep with joy. A typical English town (with the exception of Milton Keynes) proudly exhibits pieces of inspiration from many different people, ranging over hundreds of years and incorporating a great diversity in style. Many would say that the result is simply an untidy mess where the confusing streets and alleyways will take you in every direction except the one in which you wish to travel. But, I say to you my friends, you have failed to realise that it is this fantastic characteristic that creates the brilliant sense of adventure and unpredictability our towns are famed - for even the simplest stroll has the potential to turn into a three day expedition through the unknown. In contrast, Victorian settlements are somewhat smothered with an aura of inevitable certainty. Of course, there were still areas of Bendigo that were dominated by this terrible grid formation, but certain parts around the CBD had escaped unharmed, and these were the parts I cherished with joyful enthusiasm.

Skip had loads of female friends, so he had invited two along for a little variation in conversation. It surprised me that Kylie and Jess (being typical city girls) were willing to come camping in the middle of nowhere. To be honest, I don’t know many women who would eagerly sign up for a night in the wilderness in England, but add to the mix redback spiders, along with the ten most deadliest snakes in the world and you’ve got yourself a scenario about as appealing as a honeymoon in Baghdad. I was keen to get their take on things so fired a few questions at them as we enjoyed a schooner in one of the bars

‘Does the fact that every animal in this country is out to kill you not play on your mind slightly?’ I asked

‘Well, how long have you been here? Kylie replied

‘About four months now’

‘And during all that time you’ve been working in the bush. So how many animals have attacked you?’

‘Ah, I see where you’re going with this but, even if a serial killer hadn’t attacked me yet I still wouldn’t want to sit next to him on a bus’

‘Ok fine, but how many spiders or snakes have you seen?’

‘Well a brown snake groped my feet the other day, but I haven’t seen any spiders. Well, actually we had loads of massive spiders in our flat in Licola but Skip said they were just huntsman and not to worry’

‘Umm’ Skip said suddenly joining in our conversation ‘about that – I wasn’t actually sure if they were huntsman or not, I just didn’t want you to panic’

‘Right’ I said in disbelief ‘so in order to stop me panicking, you sent me to bed with a huge, potentially fatal spider. Good thinking – I mean, how can I panic when I’m dead?’

‘Sorry dude, you’re fine though so I wouldn’t worry about it – nobody in Australia really thinks about it’

‘It’s true’ Kylie said ‘we’ve been brought up around all this wildlife and you generally just forget about it. It’s best not to let yourself worry. I haven’t seen a snake in years’

I couldn’t help think that this comment may have been tempting fate. Fortunately, this proved not to be case as our first evening passed completely snake free. Still, if someone had said something like that to me before this trip had begun, I would’ve said ‘yeah right – forget about the deadly assassins all around me?! No chance!’ It was true though – the thought about snakes and spiders had generally slipped to the back of my mind, so much so that I never even checked my boxer shorts when putting them on in the mornings. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.

Our camp site was located in a small area of bush next to a river. In order to get there, we turned off the road into a field, crossed that for about half a mile, before meandering our way through some trees. Basically, it wasn't what you would call an 'official' camping spot

'Are we allowed to camp here?' I asked Skip 'I mean - will anyone mind?'

'This is OZ mate, nobody minds where you camp as long as you clean up after yourself and don't start a bush fire' he said while ferreting around in the back of his car for something

'What if we do start a bush fire?'

'Hmmm, I don't know really. I suppose we'd just have to drive and get away from here as quickly as possible. The public don't take kindly to that sort of thing so it'd probably be best to distant ourselves from it. Don't worry though, my car's fast so we'd have no problems'

On saying these words, he finally emerged from the car with his find - a giant chainsaw. Grabbing the pull cord, he fired it up with a huge grin and announced

'I'm off to get some fire wood'

Why is it that us men get so excited by the prospect of burning things? There must be something in testosterone that turns us all into raging pyromaniacs. Talk to men about football and some will show an interest - talk to men about breasts and many will show an interest. But talk to men about fires and I guarantee they will shake uncontrollably with intense excitement and anticipation. Sweat will drip down their forehead as you report the height of the flames and how the crackles from within were produced with deafening volume. Maybe it is that caveman instinct attempting to free itself from the chains of oppression in which modern society holds it. For some reason, the people who govern our land have seen fit to outlaw random acts of destructive satisfaction, causing those natural urges to remain suppressed beneath our peaceful demeanour. It is my theory that fire provides a unique opportunity to release these feelings and allow them to blossom once again. Am I trying to rationalise the irrational? Perhaps it is just an unexplainable truth, but a truth nonetheless and one I was very aware of when I saw Skip return with a mountain of wood. This was going to be a big fire. Unwilling to settle for just big however, we set off into the wilderness with one goal in mind - make the biggest fire imaginable. The girls were oblivious to our efforts and remained seated by the radio as we gathered fuel for the furnace. They wouldn't understand anyway. We trekked across bush-land looking for that ultimate trophy, until finally, we found it. Rounding a corner, we found a felled, dry tree truck lying in the long grass. I wasn't sure what type of tree it had been, but it certainly wasn't a conventional one with many irregular branches and knobbly shapes coming from the body. I was however, perfectly aware of its potential. About a metre in diameter and two long, it possessed the capability to make all our dreams come true. Attempting to lift it, we soon realised that help would be required. Unwilling to cut it open with the fear of disturbing a deadly spider’s home, we instead used the brute force of the car to drag it into position. The girls were shocked by the sheer size and even more shocked by the effort we had put in just for a log. But this wasn’t any log - it burned all through the day and long into the night with heat so intense we had to sit ten metres from its mesmerising flicker. Taking advantage of the huge energy it radiated, we cooked three meals (including Easter lunch) before huddling around and exchanging ghost stories long into the night.

Suddenly through the a gap in the trees, I caught a glimpse of headlights. They were moving erratically as if the car were travelling across uneven ground. What’s more, they were coming towards us. Looking at our watches, we saw it was nearly midnight

‘Who the hell could this be? Shit, they’re coming straight for us’ said Jess obviously quite scared

‘Get a couple of knives, it could be a mental case’ chipped in Kylie. I tried to calm the mood

‘I tell you what guys - look at us- four youths having a fun day camping in the middle of nowhere and then we completely vanish. This is just like the start of horror movie’

‘Ah shit mate, shut up’ Skip shouted as he reached around for a weapon. All he could muster was a spatchelor though as the lights continued to home in on us and we could hear the high revs of the engine. Standing in a line, each gripping a different kitchen utensil for protection, we waited for the inevitable. I had never really considered how I would react in such a situation. Thinking back now, I am surprised I didn’t run away as my mind was telling me to do. The lights got so bright I could see the whites of Skip’s eyes as they illuminated his face.

‘Guys this is really scary, I think we need to do runner’ Kylie said slowly in a terrified voice

‘And leave all this stuff here? I’m not leaving my car here for them to smash to pieces. Whatever it is, I’m sure we’ll be able to sort it out’ Skip replied with an authoritative whisper.

The car was much closer now – less than twenty metres as it made its way through the bushes just as Skip’s car had earlier that day. It couldn’t be a coincidence, they were coming straight for our location. Ten metres now and we could see the white body work, of the 4x4. Then it stopped. Ten metres away from us with the headlights right in our face to blind our vision. Then a door opened and a voice spoke

‘What the hell is going on here?!’ it said. We looked at each other looking for something to say

‘What? Who the hell are you?’ Skip shouted back ‘we’re just camping’

‘Ah bloody hell’ replied the voice as the driver killed the lights and started walking towards us ‘I’m the ranger from around here – some drivers reported a fire in the woods so I came to check it out. Bloody hell, that’s one hell of a fire!’

‘Jesus mate, you scared the hell out of us’ I said with a sudden sigh of relief. The girls were now laughing at how scared they had been just moments before

‘Sorry guys, I just wanted to check out what was going on. You scared me too to be honest’ turning, he examined our camp ‘that fire’s bloody impressive, how’d you move that tree trunk?!’ he said, obviously impressed

‘We towed it with the car’ Skip said ‘do you want a beer mate?’

‘Now you’re talking my language’

We had a few drinks as he told us some of the funny things he had caught campers doing throughout the past few weeks. He stayed for an hour or so before declaring he ‘probably should get back to the wife’. It was certainly a marvellous experience and one that made me admire this country even more. I couldn’t image a warden (or whatever he was) being so laid back at home. Usually, people abuse authority, but like most Australians he had shown an element of common sense along with the great ability to ‘have a laugh’. Then, without warning, the heavens opened and it started to pour. This was the first rain I had seen in months and I could feel the countryside dancing for joy as it fell. I went back to my tent for some cover, laughing at Skip who was sleeping in just a 'swag' – a full body sleeping bag incorporating a small mattress. These are incredibly popular with campers, especially on tours of Uluru as they keep you ‘in touch with nature’. As the water drained through the feeble face netting, Skip confirmed this claim to be true. A better friend would’ve invited him into the tent, but I was laughing way too much to think about such trivial things.

CHAPTER 12 - SNAKES...AND WILSONS PROM

2008-03-16T19:45:00.006Z

Setting up a picnic, we ate lunch on a veranda attached to the separate barbeque buildings that was across the main lawn. Intrigued as to how the inhabitants grew their own food, Grant, Cherry’s uncle and I made our way down to the organic vegetable garden by the river. It was relatively modest in size, but as I wandered round I couldn’t help feel impressed by the diversity of vegetables they were growing. Looking to investigate further I walked deeper into some longer vegetation and it was then that I heard a frantic rustling up ahead. Stopping dead in my tracks, the grass up ahead started shaking violently and moving straight in my direction – it was just like a velociraptor attack in ‘Jurassic Park’. Thinking back to my initial training and attempting to remain calm, I stood as still as I possibly could. It is a strange sensation as it goes against every natural instinct you possess. My mind was willing my body to run and escape the danger as quickly as possible, but I knew that move could be fatal. Remaining still, the bushes continued to rustle as the noise got louder converging on my feet. Three metres. Two metres. One metre…I dared myself to look down at the ground and as I did, I saw its black body shoot out from the grass, followed by a long tail. The rat sprinted across my feet, not paying any attention to my presence. I sighed with relief as my heart kicked in and started beating again. But then a shuddering thought crossed my mind – what was it running from? Then, from where the rat had just emerged, I noticed the grass move again. This time though, the movements were not of an animal frantically panicking – they were subtle, calculated and produced with purpose. Right then I knew exactly what was coming. Holding my breath, I remained as still as possible and waited for my fate to reveal itself. The nearest hospital was a river crossing, two kilometre walk and eighty minute drive away, so any sort of attack would pretty much mean certain death. It was exactly that thought that was passing through my head when I felt it touch my leg. Before I looked down, I knew exactly what I was about to witness. It was a Brown Snake – generally considered to be the second deadliest in the whole world. With its tongue periodically flicking to taste the surrounding air, it had slithered in between my feet with its dark maroon body following. It moved with the focus of predator – a predator out to kill. Two metres of its body passed between my feet before it was finally gone. Fearing to move, I remained perfectly still for a few more moments before I heard a shout the left. With such drama unfolding I had forgotten that Grant and Cherry’s uncle were here.

‘Look here guys – it’s a bloody brown snake!’ shouted Cherry’s uncle with incredible enthusiasm ‘lets catch the bastard!’

With those words, he ran through the undergrowth chasing it in a style Steve Irwin would’ve been proud of. For so many obvious reasons, this seemed like the most stupid thing to do. Stupid in the same way as playing around with the wires of an armed nuclear bomb ‘just for a laugh’ would be. It is simply madness. Thankfully though, the snake evaded his lunges and we were able to return home venom free.

Five hours later and our Subaru car was finally pulling into Tidal River some 230km away. Bomber was an experienced camper and seasoned traveller, so his claim that Wilsons Prom was ‘the must see place in Victoria’ made this trip rather exciting. Having once described Southend-on-sea as ‘a place that rivals Auschwitz as the most depressing on Earth’, I knew his astute travel analysis was fairly accurate. In his mid-thirties, Bomber (his real name was Anthony, but nobody used it) was a bachelor, freelancing in outdoor education at schools and camps. One of the main reasons he was so good at it was because it was his passion. It is a rare thing to be able to combine a hobby with a job, but Bomber had achieved this feat and appeared a very happy being as a result. Throughout our entire journey, he had entertained us through singing songs, telling comedy stories and playing a huge game of ‘Horse’. This involved spotting horses in the fields, pointing at them and shouting ‘horse’ as loud as you possibly could. The first person to दो सो would receive ten points. Of course other animals were included along the way, including a tortoise which Bomber spotted and subsequently landed him fifty points – that lucky guy. To be honest, it did seem a little like he was making up the rules as we went along, although he assured us that it was purely experience that had seen him romp through to a 500 point victory.

By the time we arrived, the camp site was bathed in darkness, so we set up camp quickly on the sand floor and cracked open our beers. Earlier in the night Bomber had introduced us to a truly fantastic Australian invention – the drive through off-licence. We drove in, ordered our beer and ice and then simply waited as it was carried to our car. Then we drove off, stocked full of alcohol and having wasted no additional calories in the process. Why had no one in England thought of this before? It is quite simply, a genius idea – now, we no longer have to put any effort into getting booze, we can simply roll from the sofa into the car, have someone else load the alcohol at the shop, before driving home and calling our wives to move it into the fridge. Marvellous stuff. Getting the gas-stove burning quickly we settled down for a bit of food after our long journey. Whilst chopping some peppers, I noticed Bomber examining something on his arm

‘What’s up mate, you look concerned’ I enquired.

‘Nothing mate, just checking out this mole on my skin – if it goes black it’s a sign of skin cancer’. He must’ve seen my concerned look ‘don’t worry though John boy, it’s just one of the hazards of living in this beautiful place. Believe me, there’s a flip-side to most things and this is one of Australia’s’

‘Yeah and the fact that every animal is trying its hardest to kill you’ I added, trying to lighten the mood.

Bomber wasn’t depressed though, as it was something he and most Australians had come to live with. They simply saw it as an inevitable consequence of their life, but not a life threatening one if precautions were taken to catch it. I found it difficult to contemplate living in the knowledge that you had a 33% chance of developing skin cancer. I was surprised with how well they were coping with it – their behaviour was admirable. Following a good, fulfilling meal, we were all feeling rather lethargic so I suggested a stroll down to the beach to finish off the beers. It was 11pm at night so, the walk wasn’t exactly straight forward, but as we emerged onto Norman Bay, I immediately knew it was worth it. We couldn’t see the ocean, only hear the roar of the waves and feel the earth trembling as they crashed onto the sand. Taking refuge in a small gap in the sand dunes, we took out a beer each and just sat. The lighthouse flashed intermittently in the distance as a cruise ship sailed across our view. Above us, another incredible canvas of stars again revealed themselves to provide a perfect backdrop. It was nights like this I had dreamed about when planning my gap year. Now I was here and the reality was even better,

‘Quite a night hey Bomber? So, why do you love it here so much’ I asked

‘It’s हार्ड to describe really, hopefully you’ll understand by the end of the trip. I suppose it’s just such a unique place. You get that a lot with this country – just when you think you’ve seen it all, something else of interest emerges. You’ll see tomorrow’

And with that, Bomber quite spontaneously (as he was quite inclined to do) burst into a rousing rendition of a Collingwood football song.

Wilsons Promontory is a national park situated at the most southerly tip of mainland Australia. With an abundance of diverse wildlife it stretches over 90 square kilometres incorporating wild bush land, mountainous walks and some glorious beaches. As with many national parks in the country, there is a strong Aboriginal spiritual connection with some archaeological records, suggesting it was occupied up to 6500 years ago and was possibly used as part of a walkway to Tasmania during ice ages. Having read this information in a local brochure, I could immediately see why Bomber spoke so highly of it. I had already experienced the ‘diverse’ wildlife having had two particularly aggressive possums fight outside my tent for what seemed like the entire evening. Still, it was nice to be up early to witness the sunrise before toasting some hot-cross buns on the fire for breakfast. I had been in Australia for two months now, but it was still hard to believe all the things I had achieved in that time. There were more memories to be had though. So, eager to get my own back on Grant from his early morning wake-up call during the Grand Prix I grabbed a frying pan and wooden spoon. Attempting to keep in my childish laughter, I sneaked into his tent, positioned it by his ear and banged as loud as I possibly could.

‘WAKE UP GRANT! TIME TO GO WALKING!’

‘You’re….an…….absolute……bastard’ is all he could muster in response

Happy that I had finally returned this most annoying favour, I walked across to the modern shower block for a wash. However, having spotted about twenty leaches climbing up the wall of my cubicle, I quickly left. Eager not to have my blood extracted, I decided the sea would provide a much better alternative for a wash. It was then that I remembered that the waters were shark infested – so it was a toss up – leaches or sharks? For some bizarre reason that still remains a mystery to this day, I chose to take my chances with the Great Whites.

The beach we had been on the previous evening was Norman Bay, so we decided to hike north and visit the much talked about ‘Squeaky Beach’. Thinking there may be some kind of exciting fable behind such an unusual name, I asked Bomber about the origins

‘So where does the name come from – is it some kind of Aboriginal legend?’ I asked

‘Ha-ha, no mate, it’s because when you walk on the sand it makes a high-pitch noise. It’s a little bit like a squeak actually’

I was quickly learning not to read too much into place names in Australia as they’re usually fairly straight forward. Take ’90-mile beach’ for example – it’s a beach that stretches for 90 miles. Simple. So with our rations packed and map in hand, we began our 1.5km hike along the headland. The first half provided us with some spectacular views across Norman Bay, which was nice since we had enjoyed it thoroughly but not actually seen it. High above the sea, we had stumbled across a couple of fantastic look-out-points and took the opportunity to have some photos taken. The dense green vegetation along the two headlands provided a perfect frame for the contrasting blue sea and crystal white beach. Across the bay, I could see the ocean vary in colour like the surface of a marble, before becoming clear as the waves broke and blended into the sandy beach below. It was such a wonderful view but what made it even more spectacular was its relatively modest nature. For although this was such a beautiful spot, there were only ten people walking across the 1km beach which gave us an exclusive sense of remoteness. With our hiking gear on, it almost felt like we were explorers who had just discovered this new, natural and unspoiled land. And it was this that made Wilsons Prom special. I was finally realising why Bomber had talked it up so much. Yes it was a great place for hiking and seeing some lovely beaches, but there was more to it than that – it was a real place not dominated by tourism and contempt to be accepted for what it was. The tourist board had not constructed huge bill-boards saying ‘Hey come to Wilsons Prom – it’s swell!’, they were happy to let the fine natural beauty of the spot speak for itself. Thankfully, they had identified the pure essence of the place and realised that by increasing visitor numbers, this would be completely destroyed. So on that note, I issue you this warning – do not visit Wilsons Prom, for your presence will ruin the experience for everyone else. Thank you.

Continuing up to the top of the headland, we took a rest on a strange rock formation. As I looked behind me to the left, I could see Norman Bay with Squeaky Beach on our right. It was a strange sensation to be standing right out in the middle of the sea, trying to imagine a time when this was one solid stone face. Through years of erosion, the two huge bays had been produced giving testament to the sheer power possessed by the ocean below.

‘Bomber, why is the sand so squeaky on that beach’ I said pointing towards Squeaky beach ‘and not on Norman Bay? It just seems strange when they’re both so close together

‘I’ve heard it’s something to do with the quartz content in the sand. But I can’t be sure mate’

‘Just how squeaky is it?’ Grant asked

‘Honestly? You probably won’t notice it’ Bomber said with a smile.

Much to our disappointment, he was right. Climbing down from the rocks, I must admit I was quite excited imagining some sort of orchestral noise occurring when my foot made contact with the quartz sand below. Sadly, I was let down . There was no squeak. There was no noise at all really. I was ultimately a very frustrated victim of false advertising. Not to worry though, for this was a splendid beach which I only had to share with five others. There was a man walking his dog, a couple walking hand-in-hand, Bomber and Grant. Just like earlier, I truly appreciated the remoteness but couldn’t believe such a beautiful spot had remained this untouched.

‘Come on Granty boy, let’s go for a swim’ I said dumping my stuff on the beach

‘Watch out lads cos there’s some strong rips around here. You don’t want to end up like poor old Harold Holt’ Bomber said as we ran off down the beach

‘Harold who?’ I enquired, stopping suddenly in my tracks

‘Harold Holt – he was Prime Minister of Australia back in the 1960s. One day however, he decided to go for a quick dip in the sea near Portsea and was never seen again’

‘He just disappeared?’ Grant asked ‘was it a shark attack?’

‘Nobody knows – he simply vanished. Experts in the area think the most likely scenario was a drowning as there were really strong rips around’

‘What exactly are rips? Grant asked again

‘They’re strong and unpredictable currents which can easily deceive and drown the most experienced swimmer. So you guys watch yourselves’

‘But how the hell are we going to see them? How can we watch out?’ I demanded

‘Hmmm, good point. Well, if you feel yourself going under just make loads of noise and pray someone comes to help you. Sure as hell won’t be me though, I’m going for quick nap.’

With Bomber’s words still ringing, and the unfortunate death of Harold Holt in my mind, I only ventured a few metres into the water. Of course, this decision was made a lot easier for me by the freezing temperature. Even so, the strength of the currents around the beach were very apparent, almost knocking me off my feet on numerous occasions. Determined not to meet such an unfortunate end, I made my way back to camp and threw my wet towel on Bomber’s smiling, sleeping face. Gant too had been a little put off by the story of woe, so we decided to stay on land for the remainder of the trip. With that in mind, we got the map out and planned the afternoon’s activities. Having run over a couple of ideas, Bomber made a suggestion

‘Well guys, we’ve got very limited time here so you’re not going to be able to see much. I think we should do what we can to try and take in as much as possible. And where can you do that? Up there’ he said, pointing behind us towards the top of Mount Bishop ‘from up there, you can see The Prom at its very best’

‘Ok Bomber, it’s just the name that puts me off – Mount Bishop. You see, it has the word ‘mount’ in it which suggests a lot of effort will be required to reach the summit’ I said in response

‘Don’t worry, it’s not too bad a climb and we don’t need to go all the way to the top – I know a great look-out point. Trust me, this will be the best way to see this place’

We began the hike by crossing the inlet at tidal river. Apparently (as the name would suggest) it varies in depth quite dramatically during different tides and has been known to flood sporadically. Thankfully (for the young toddler paddling along the shoreline), it was rather shallow on this occasion. Reaching the base of the mount, I peered skywards towards the rocky peak, contemplating the task in front of us. For the past 2 months I had been encouraging children to challenge themselves and now I found myself in a similar situation. Focusing on the glory that would greet us at the top, we set off at a quick pace entering some typical Australian bush land. The climb wasn’t too steep during these initial stages which allowed us to enjoy the wonderful wildlife in the surrounding environment. Our first sighting (and my first in Australia) was a Kookaburra sitting nonchalantly in nearby gum tree, making a noise that sounded distinctly like an overweight man laughing. After a quick photograph session and a few cricket bat jokes, we soon continued on our way, progressing deeper into a forest that looked distinctly like the Amazon rainforest. It seemed that even in this short 3km walk, the diversity of the Australian countryside could be seen in all its glory. From the open, light and relatively dry Kookaburra filled land, we now found ourselves deep under a thick canopy, navigating around ferns larger than Shane Warne’s ego. Stopping for lunch, we sat down and ate at ‘The Quaint Place’ which had a lovely view dedicated to the lives of those rangers who had served The Prom throughout many years. We sat in silence and simply admired the setting in front of our very eyes before. Then, just as I was tucking into a piece of cheese, I saw something from the corner of my eye. A flash of crimson I thought, but when I turned there was nothing to be seen. Going back to my lunch, I tried to ignore it, thinking it must simply be a trick of the light. But then it happened again - this time though the colour was a deep purple. I tried to ignore it again, but in an instant I was surrounded by four of the most vibrant birds I had ever seen.

‘What are they?’ I asked Bomber as they all began to converge on my sandwich

‘Rosella parrots’ Bomber shouted back ‘they’re native to Australia’

I had never heard of them, but here in front of me, scavenging at my feet like city pigeons, were four of the most flamboyant birds I have ever seen. Even the rainbow itself could not produce such rich and elegant colours. They were the sort of magical creature a child would produced in their colouring-in book and you would simply reject as being a part of their overactive imagination. Incredibly, they were real and trying to steal my lunch. I felt bad kicking (be it rather gently) something that displayed such impressive flair, however, nobody takes my food without a fight.

Passing back from The Amazon, we began towards the summit and hit a landscape that looked somewhat like The Rocky Mountains of Colorado. This truly had been a remarkable journey so far and I couldn’t believe the best was yet to come. Finally, we had reached the peak. Well, it wasn’t really a peak – more a gathering of rocks that formed an impressive overhang facing east. With mount Bishop producing such an air of permanence and stability, these rocks appeared awfully vulnerable, but Bomber assured us that we had to venture out if the view were to be appreciated. To me, that sounded like the exact speech a serial killer would give, just prior to pushing his unsuspecting victims off a cliff. Still, ‘the view will probably be worth it’ I thought and duly began climbing up the sides of the huge boulders with Grant. There were no safety railings or nets, it was simply us and nature. Pulling myself up, I resisted the temptation to glimpse a peak and instead gave Grant a hand up onto his feet. When we eventually turned however, the view was quite simply breathtaking. In fact, it was more than breathtaking – it was awe inspiring. Looking across the sea front, we could see the beaches we had so happily walked along earlier that day and could just about make out others enjoying them now. Tracing a line with our hands, we mapped out the route we had taken along our hike from Squeaky Beach. I was impressed with our achievement as this wonderful secret garden, soared to an even higher level in my estimation. Along the way, all its enchanting qualities had revealed themselves to us, but now we stood and tried to take them all in at once. The result was overwhelming and indescribable. I actually considered not writing about it at all, as there are simply no words that could possibly do it justice. We each sat on our own rock and looked out towards sea. Being so far out from Mount Bishop itself, I felt like I was simply floating gently through the air.

‘Do you ever get bored of this place?’ I asked Bomber

‘Mate, I’ll tell you now that this is one of those places nobody could ever possibly get bored of. Not because there’s so much to do, or so much entertainment going on, but because every time you come back it fills you such an overwhelming feeling. I’m not even sure what the feeling is – you can’t describe it to anyone, but everyone feels it. You know what I mean? It’s an incredible feeling and one I only really experience here. That makes it worth coming back and so I could never get bored. It is one of those truly special regions on this Earth and should be treasured – not just by Victorians, but by everyone’

And with that, two Wedge-Tailed Eagles flew out from the cliffs and circled high above our heads.

We left early the next morning just as the sun was rising on the horizon. Luckily, there was still time to complete our Australian wildlife tour in style as six kangaroos and two emus crossed the road in front of our car. As I watched these defining national symbols silhouette themselves against the poignant red sunlight, I thought about Bomber’s words and felt a real sense of satisfaction - for in this small corner of the country, I had experienced the real Australia. This was not a place you read about in tourism brochures or saw on postcards. Nor was it a marketing trap set up for commercial gain. It was genuine Australia, finally revealing itself to the world in one small, enchanting flash. I felt lucky to have captured it.

CHAPTER 11 - THE GRAND PRIX

2008-03-09T21:14:00.006Z

We were nearly 2kms away but I felt like I was playing chicken in the middle of the track. It was a bit annoying to be honest, as I was looking forward to my first lie in for weeks, but in truth the nails they had used instead of feathers in the pillows had woken me up long before. It was Saturday morning and I was lying in a twin room in The Coffee Palace hostel, St Kilda. We’d paid well over the odds for our room, but looking out at the crowded streets below, I realised what a fantastic, prime position we had acquired. The cars had obviously begun their practice laps as the powerful purr of their jet engines dominated the surrounding air. This only made to heighten the excitement of the fans in the street who were wildly anticipating the start of another formula 1 season. It was only 10am and they were already out in their masses, waving flags and letting off fog horns right next to my ear. Unfortunately though, we had only purchased tickets for the actual race itself so found ourselves with a free day. Keen to explore the cosmopolitan metropolis of central Melbourne, we grabbed a bus into the city. This was a decision I regretted almost instantly for the bus was packed with formula 1 fans. Further more, each and every one of them on this particular bus appeared to be obese, sweaty and topless. Believe me, unavoidably rubbing up against four of them whilst locked in a moving tin can, is probably the most unpleasant experience imaginable. 20 minutes of torture later, we had arrived in central Melbourne and stood admiring Federation Square before venturing underground to the tourist information centre. What exactly did this sophisticated city have to offer? Before my question was answered however, my phone began ringing

‘Hello?’

‘Johnny Boy! How’s it going?’

‘Ummm..yeah it’s going quite good. Who is this?!’

‘It’s Emma. God, it’s only been a few weeks and you’ve forgotten me already!’

‘Emma! Sorry, I haven’t got your number in my phone. We haven’t had any e-mails from you guys so we assumed you weren’t coming’

‘Sorry about that, our internet access has been pretty limited. Anyway, are you here in the city? We’re here for the Grand Prix – have you managed to get tickets?

‘Yep we’ve got tickets for tomorrow and we’re in the city right now, where are you?’

‘Brilliant! We’re at the Queen Victoria Market. Come meet us’

The Melbourne residents I had spoken to had all displayed a great sense of enthusiasm whilst discussing The Queen Victoria Market, so I was rather surprised to discover there wasn’t one signpost for it. Having departed the tram in what we believed to be the correct area, Grant and I began sweeping the streets for any clues we could find. Even more bizarrely, when we stopped members of the public to ask for directions they would talk passionately about the great vibe surrounding the place, but when asked to clarify where it was they would simply wave their arm in a hazardous and ultimately confusing circle, before moving on rather quickly. It was as if it had been created within the imaginations of the locals, built on top of a ludicrous legend, much like the foundations of the Mormon church. We didn’t exactly stumble through the back of a wardrobe, but with a bit of luck we eventually found our destination. Located under a large roofed area, it had the look and feel of a rather traditional market such as Covent Garden in London. Unfortunately, that is where the similarities end. For although there were a few stalls selling relatively stylish merchandise, they were sadly out-numbered by people trying to flog appalling fake BMW jackets, English football shirts and Gucci sunglasses. The problem was that every single stall (and there were a lot of them) was trying to get rid of exactly the same rubbish for exactly the same price. Now, I'm no consumer expert but I'm pretty sure that one of the essentials in business success is to locate a 'gap in the market' and exploit it. They had certainly filled a gap in the market, but only in the literal sense.

'I just went down to the Queen Victoria Market today and had a great plan for a successful business' says the market seller

'Ok sir, what was it?' replies the bank manager

'Have you seen the hundreds of tacky clothes stalls?'

'Yes'
'Well, I think if I got the same merchandise, from the same supplier and sold everything at exactly the same price, I could make an absolute fortune. Nothing could possibly go wrong.'

'Hmmm, I can see a few problems arising here'.

Of course, I doubted whether many of them had gone seeking financial backing from a bank, but the point still stands nevertheless. It was a shame really as intertwined throughout these rip-off stalls were a number of incredibly talented, modest artists. Their work was superb with some great watercolour landscapes really capturing the cultural essence of the city, though I couldn't help feel they were having their reputation damaged by the people surrounding them. Grant and I stood and admired their work for quite a while until the air of tackiness was too overwhelming and we left with nothing. If they had been located at a slightly more up market crafts fair, I'm sure their talent would have been given the credibility it quite obviously deserved........

.........Time slipped into insignificance during our night out in St Kilda and as a result we didn't stumble back to bed until the early hours of Sunday morning. This would have been fine had Grant not insisted on shaking me violently at 6.30am declaring 'come on, let's get down there now so we can get a good seat'. Doing exactly as any normal person would, I ignored him and went back to sleep. Shaking me again, I could detect an extreme sense of frustration in his voice as he shouted at me to get up again.

'We're going to be late!' he said 'come on!'

'It's…' I replied trying to find my watch '6.45am you arse. The race doesn't start until 2. That gives

us…lots more hours sleep'

'We need to beat the rush and get a good seat, get up!'

'I'll beat your face in, if you don't shut up and let me go back to sleep'

But he was persistent enough and I eventually found myself standing in the middle of a vibrant St Kilda, waiting for a bus and nursing a killer hangover. Grant and I weren't really speaking at this point since he had shouted out me angrily for stopping to style my hair. To be honest though, the silence was blissful and allowed me to rest my eyes peacefully for the duration of the journey. Since part of main road was being used as the race track, it was subsequently (and thankfully!) closed, meaning the bus ride to Albert Park entrance took far longer than normal. Even still, upon arrival I consulted my watch and was severely depressed by the thought of being up this early on a Sunday - the day of rest apparently. Calling Harry and Rich, it appeared that they had been sensible and were still in bed asleep. Like us however, Sian and Emma were full of life and already in the grounds, so we eagerly made our way across the park to find them. Prior to 1996 Albert Park was, well, simply a park. Covering over 550 acres of land, the rural haven incorporates a huge lake, numerous grass playing fields and even a golf course. When this was announced as the new site for the Australian grand prix (it was previously held through the streets of Adelaide), the locals understandably panicked at the thought of their park being transformed into petrol heaven for a few days every year. Far from that however, it appears that the revenue generated from the event has been pumped back into its conservation. There was certainly no sign dilapidation on this chilly autumn morning, as we hiked around the lake looking for a good place to set up camp for the day. As we picked a spot on a hill just past the second corner, I sat and looked back across the water. For some reason, there was a very distinctive air of natural calm surrounding the place with many birds singing and ducks swimming in their normal sedative lifestyle. I couldn’t help feel sorry for them, sitting their completely oblivious to dramatic changes that were about to be made to their relaxed, untainted environment.

There were hundreds of stalls throughout the park selling incredibly overpriced merchandise. Of course, Grant was there in an instant. Fondling his way through horrible t-shirts, hats and beer holders, Emma and I sat back to see what monstrosities he would find to waste his parent's money on. Surprisingly (and much to our disappointment), he managed to limit those retail impulses and only ended up purchasing a t-shirt and matching baseball cap. It goes without saying that he put them both on straight away, and although it made him look like a little boy on an outing from a home, I’m sure he was a lot warmer than me. With the weather we had experienced recently, the locals were taking the clouds as a blessing – a welcome break from the torrid sunlight onslaught – as is so often the case however, I had not dressed for such an occasion. I mean, it doesn’t get cold in Australia does it? Well, that is what the locals will have you believe when they complain about the ‘bastard British’ weather, however from first hand experience I can confirm that it certainly does. We continued to follow Grant as he made his way through acres of clothing stalls, food outlets and advertising stands, taking an interest in it all. Then I saw a shop selling earplugs. Confused as to how anyone could make a business selling tiny pieces of sponge, I made my way across

‘Hello there. Cold day isn’t it? So, what are you selling?’ I enquired

‘Earplugs mate, two dollars a pack’ the fat man behind the stand said

‘I’m sorry, for a minute then I thought you said you wanted two dollars. Obviously I must’ve misheard you – I mean, one dollar for a tiny piece of sponge would represent the biggest rip-off since they started selling popcorn’ I said, genuinely confused

‘Nah mate, it’s two dollars for a pack. If you don’t buy some you’ll regret it once the race starts’

‘I very much doubt that my friend and even if I do, I’ll just look down at the two dollars in my hand and smile’

With that, I turned my back and began to walk away from the stand expecting the others to follow me to the moral high ground. Richard did, but to my astonishment the others didn’t. They did exactly the opposite in fact and willingly handed across their money.

‘Boys, you really should get some of these - it’s going to be really loud when the race starts’ Sian said

‘That may be so Sian, but I am willing to accept my fate if it means I don’t give into these thieves who make a living by bumping up the price of essential items when they realise people have no other option. It’s like creating a cure for cancer, but then charging people millions of pounds because you know they’ll have to pay it in order to stay alive. I won’t do it.’

Rant over, we returned to our space on the grass eagerly anticipating the start. With the pre-race entertainment coming to an abrupt halt, the glistening cars made their way onto the track. I hadn’t expected to feel much emotion upon seeing them, but then I realised that right in front of my eyes was something representing the very peak of human engineering capabilities. I thought about the years of testing, designing and heartbreak that had gone into producing these near perfect cars and couldn’t help but admire the finish product with the up most respect. The speed of them was immense as they stormed along, gripping the tarmac track with impossible accuracy that seemed to defy the laws of physics. My eyes strained to keep up, but all I saw was a sudden blaze of colour as they raced past us, blurring my vision. Even the pure roar produced by their powerful engines seemed to struggle to keep up, echoing behind the car and causing the ground beneath my feet to vibrate majestically. The practice lap was over and my head was pounding. Turning to Rich, I could see he was thinking the same thing. I tried to shout to him, but no words could be heard over the sound of the cars. He understood though. Sneaking off so nobody else had the opportunity to say ‘I told you so’ we ran over to the ear plug man and (with a great sense of relief) swallowed our pride. Racing back to our position, the cars were just taking their positions on the grid and there was a tremendous sense of excitement filling the crowd. All the start lights went on and engines fired to full power. Then just like that, the lights were extinguished and these fantastic machines were released from their cage like an over enthusiastic dog, finally escaping its restrictive chain. Usually, with so many cars converging on such a small first corner there is a lot of drama in Australia, but on this occasion they all passed through problem free with the two Ferraris leading (much to the pleasure of the thirty Italians standing in front of us). I don't really have much more to report, on the contrary, I have nothing more to report as this is how it stayed for the entire race - a Ferrari one-two finish. Not that we could tell as, without a big screen to see, it was difficult to make out which car was winning. Every so often, there would be a flash of colour scream past us followed by the roar of a jumbo jet engine and a loud cheer. The problem was, we couldn’t tell whether that person was winning the race or coming last. After sixty or so laps, it’s quite difficult to keep track of how many times each competitor has passed you, especially when you can’t really see them properly. So I gave up trying to work it out and instead concentrated on reading the facial expressions of the Ferrari enthusiasts who were listening to pocket radios. After a couple of hours, they all leapt into the air and began hugging one another so I assumed the race had ended.

After the cars had completed their laps of honour, all the fans began climbing their huge metal fences. Men, women and children clawed their way up and over in order to get onto the track in an incredibly dangerous and potentially fatal manoeuvre. I took the opportunity to have a sit down and take in the wonderful, joyous atmosphere. I had thoroughly enjoyed this day out. Would I do it again? Probably not. Don’t get me wrong, I can see the appeal of a fast car race, but I wouldn’t want to go to one every other week. I’m sure many people will disagree with me, but let’s face the facts - can a sporting event really be that great if you don’t have anyone to support, nobody really knows who is winning and you have to wear two pieces of overpriced foam in your ears just to prevent a brain haemorrhage? Still, at least I can say ‘I was there’.

CHAPTER 1 - A (VERY) BRIEF HISTORY

2008-03-03T13:18:00.008Z

Just through studying some basic facts, I immediately discovered that this wonderful country was harnessing an awesome array of statistics। For example, at 3700km long and 4000km wide it is the largest and most isolated island on Earth. If I can just put this in perspective for you, imagine travelling repeatedly between Edinburgh and London six times, then add forty-degree heat and you have just crossed Australia. As a consequence, the country suffers from three major types of climate with tropics in the north, a desert in the middle and a relaxed maritime environment towards the south. The current day population is estimated at about twenty million, which is around a third of Britain’s. This however does not paint the whole story as, quite sensibly, a majority of these only reside in major cities consequently leaving about 98% of the country essentially deserted. To put it bluntly, Australia is in essence very big but very empty, at least in terms of its human population. If you get lost, which is likely, then you truly are the most buggered anyone can ever be. If of course you do manage to survive this barren desert and unbearable heat, the chances are your high spirits will become a somewhat lovely distant memory as the country's diverse collection of killer wildlife begins to nibble at your shoes. Believe me, there is not another place on Earth that boasts such a terrifying assortment of animals. For example, Australians have at their disposal, an abundant supply of great white sharks, crocodiles, funnel-web spiders, red-back spiders, the ten deadliest snakes in the world and the kangaroo (which I have heard on good authority can give you a nasty kick if you dare get too close). That, my friends, is quite an impressive arsenal I think you’ll agree. And I haven’t even mentioned the box jellyfish which is the most poisonous creature anywhere on the planet and lives in great quantity along the Queensland coast. In short, Australia is a country of enormous size packed full of creatures that actively seek human pray, but is depressingly void of any human assistance should you (god forbid) ever get a little ‘nip’ from a spider whilst out on a countryside walk. Ultimately, by visiting Australia you put yourself at the bottom of the food chain.

But why does Australia differ so greatly from the rest of continents? Well, from the time it broke away from Pangaea like an overeager dog some 150 million years ago, the continent remained relatively untouched। Protected on all four sides by ferocious seas, the wildlife was left to simply flourish. Without any human interference, the country essentially became an extreme science experiment in which every animal was left to follow its own unique, evolutionary path. Evidently, this has produced some quite starling results. Having been finally discovered in 1770, this garden of spectacular growth was finally revealed to the world, but the country didn’t (as you may have expected) develop in a conventional fashion. In contrast, its short 300 year history is somewhat colourful to say the least. However, I was first interested in how this colossal piece of earth had remained hidden for all these years. I mean come on guys, this isn’t a question of finding in a needle in a haystack - it’s more like trying to find an elephant in your back garden. Some 300 years prior to Captain Cook’s famous voyage, scientists has predicted the country’s existence purely on the basis that it made the continental distribution throughout the world seem slightly more even. This is not to say that other explorers did not come close, alas, many came a lot closer than they would ever know. Let me just give you an example: A Dutchman named Abel Tasman set off in his quest to discover the unknown land. Unfortunately, he missed Australia itself but on his way round came across a smaller landmass, which he named Van Diemen’s Land and is now known as Tasmania. By definition, I believe this makes Tasman the unluckiest man in history. It’s like travelling 12,000 miles in a quest to discover England, landing on the Isle of Wight, then simply giving up and going home. Forget trying to find the elephant in your garden, this is like being struck in the face by its trunk but still not realising it’s there. Even if he had given up but left in a vaguely northern direction, he would’ve certainly noticed (if not smashed into) the Victorian coastline and happily constructed his windmill. Sadly for him though, as is so often the case when you’re the unluckiest man in the world, he simply sailed on by without a second glance as the chance of a lifetime slowly faded into a sea of missed opportunities.

In steps Captain James Cook, the son of farmer from Marton, North Yorkshire। Agreed, it is an unlikely source for such a formidable figure, but history it seems to have a habit of producing the unexpected. As part of a global science experiment, Cook, like many other explorers, had been sent across the world in order to gather important astronomical data from the transit of Venus. Conducting his from Tahiti, I doubt whether Cook was particularly enthralled by the prospect but it did nonetheless allow him to explorer the mysterious southern Pacific oceans after. In his ranks was an elite selection of fine scientists and sailors so any new discoveries could be analysed with expert precision. As a result, I imagine there was a great deal of excitement amongst the crew when they first spotted the south east corner of the Australian coast and built up speed towards its shores. And what a nice little bundle of joy they had waiting for them! When they first set eyes on the fantastic array of diverse nature spreading across this land, it must have seemed like an alien environment – either that or the limes had gone bad. Heading north, Cook and his crew then followed the shoreline, which allowed them to map a quarter of the country and complete the first ever east coast tour. Little did they know that 300 years later, young adults from around the globe would follow their pioneering foot sets on a daily basis and although their adventures are filled with a certain sense of drunken inevitability, they are nevertheless still just as exciting. I mean no disrespect to Cook's amazing achievement by comparing it to an all-inclusive holiday in Ibiza, but would merely like to point out the irony that such an historic voyage is now idolised by a group of people who, all in all, are considered slightly less remarkable. I too would become one of these pilgrims, but not until later in this trip. Anyway, having established that Australia was indeed massive and narrowly escaped a close run in with The Great Barrier Reef, the HMS Endeavour turned back cautiously and finally came to a halt at Botany Bay near Sydney.

So Cook had discovered the fabled south land and on 21st August 1770 Australia officially joined the British Empire's vast collection of faraway lands never to be spoken about again। The term 'discovered' should of course be used with caution in this instance - after all it seems slightly strange to suggest somewhere has just been discovered if there are already natives thriving on it. In addition, there is some strong historic evidence suggesting that Dutch explorers used the northwest corner as a nautical service station some 150 years prior to The Endeavour's famous voyage. Taking all this into consideration, it seems Cook didn't so much discover Australia (he wasn't even the first European to step foot on its shores), but was just the first to come home and shout about it. Surprisingly though, nobody really took much notice of him and the country was left to wilt like an unappreciated flower in the far corner of a greenhouse. To be perfectly honest though, this is quite understandable. After all, with such a huge empire at your disposal, why worry about some barren land which takes the best part of a year to get to? It had remained hidden from the world for the past few million years, so there was nothing to suggest it would have a sudden influx of tourists any time in the near future. However, following a gruelling defeat in America, Britain lost its colonies and with it, the largest prison at its disposal. Since you could be arrested for just about anything in those days, the country soon became over run with convicts and with nowhere left to send them, the government struggled to find a suitable solution. With all options seemingly running out, some bright spark suddenly remembered a distant land James Cook had mentioned 17 years ago. Finally, the forgotten country would be put to some use. Granted, it was as a prison but this decision marked a decisive moment in Australia's short but illustrious life. You have to hand it to the British leaders though - I mean, putting everyone from their ‘700 most wanted list’ into a large boat and sending them as far away as is humanly possible to a relatively unknown sterile land is a simply brilliant idea and one I would strongly encourage our government of today to consider.

As the British soon realised however, sending convicts to start a new colony can be somewhat of a tricky ordeal। For starters, the only real skill any of them actually possessed was stealing and, since they had all been caught, it appears they hadn't exactly perfected that either. With a severe lack of natural, survival skills the new settlers immediately found the barren land to be even more hostile than the eight-month sea journey they had just faced. Indeed, the most dangerous creature any of them had previously encountered was the wasp, so they weren’t really accustomed to working in an environment riddled with King Brown Snakes. Since convicts aren’t entirely famed for their agreeable nature also, I can’t imagine the town planning meetings were particularly productive affairs either. As a consequence, I think it’s fair to say that the development of this new world got off to a somewhat stuttering start and after only one year the homestead was abandoned leaving western life in the southern hemisphere looking bleak. However, if I were to take you to that very spot today, we would be standing directly in the middle one of the most prestigious and glorious cities this world has to offer. For these settlers were not just any settlers – they were the first residents of the beautiful miracle we now call Sydney.

It seems difficult to believe that the country could go under such a rapid development in such a short space of time, but this achievement is made all the more impressive when you consider that Australia remained a prison for about 100 years। Essentially, being sent there was seen as an undesirable lifetime infliction which everyone was desperate to avoid. But then, on April 7th 1851 its fortunes (and those for most of its residents) changed forever. Now, people were no longer sent to Australia by a judge but came flooding willingly in their hoards as the country was transformed instantly from a disagreeable, snake infested island to a land of wealthy opportunity. This was all thanks to Edward Hargraves who discovered that, not only did Australia have a little bit of gold scattered across its surface but it was pretty much bathing in the stuff. From that day forth, migrants stormed to the south pacific from all around the world with a pickaxe in one hand and a bucket for their cash in the other. Mining communities were being built on daily basis as this once uninhabitable country began its swift transition into the civilised world. Out of all the states, it was Victoria in particular that got the most attention with Melbourne’s population rising from 75,000 to approximately 500,000 in the ten years preceding 1851 in light of its somewhat healthy financial situation. Such was the interest in this emerging city, it attracted businessman and scientists alike with the Melbourne telescope being commissioned and completed as early as 1868. Unfortunately though, technology was not quite so advanced in Australia so the huge mirror had to be shipped from Europe only to discover on arrival that it had a large crack right down the centre. Not to disgruntled by this minor mishap, another was sent out, but since the project was already running over budget the commissioners decided to cut funding before the dome of the telescope could be completed. As any amateur astronomer will tell you, this effectively rendered the piece of equipment useless as any slightly breeze larger than a mouse cough would severely distort the image of the celestial body being tracked. Still, although this may have proven to be a disaster (and an expensive one at that) it does nevertheless demonstrate that Australia was quickly rising from its swampy origins and developing into a society rich in wealth, spirit and academia.

This trend of intensive migration is still being followed today. For example, a poll during 2000 found that only 4.5 million (not quite a quarter) of the country’s residents were actually Australian born. Far from annoy the inhabitants however, they are incredibly proud of this as it represents the foundations on which their great nation was built. Without this influx of citizens, their country may not have survived the savage British regime, but is now prospering in its diverse, cosmopolitan and multi-cultural society.

PREFACE AND INTRODUCTION - SYDNEY

2008-02-24T19:21:00.006Z

PREFACE

I have been reliably informed by my parents that back in their day there was no such thing as a 'gap year'. But then, back in their day there was no such thing as the internet, inflatable furniture or rotating washing lines. Do we really want to go back to such a primitive age? In fact, when they were growing up smoking was being promoted as 'good for your health' and doctors actively encouraged parents to feed their new-born children whiskey in order to help them sleep. Of course though, the damage caused by this is laughable compared to the sinful delaying tactics used by gap year students in order to try and avoid the inevitable, harsh realities proposed by the working world. Perhaps they are right - after all, as a very wise man once said "the youth of today now love luxury; they have bad manners, contempt for authority; they allow disrespect for elders and love chatter in place of exercise. They now are tyrants." And who was this wise man? The great Socrates in 400BC. My point is that the youth generation have always been criticized for the changes they make to society and gap years are merely the latest victim. Unfortunately, the term is used so loosely that its merits will always be up for debate and I doubt whether a universal conclusion will ever be reached. Are they a waste of time or do they provide an essential tool in young adult development? For me it was definitely the latter as I did not see it as an excuse to avoid work but instead a rare opportunity experience a diverse culture, enjoy a proud heritage and search for acceptance. But I am not here to preach - I am here to tell you about my adventure and then hopefully you can make your own mind up. This is Bonza Voyage - the story of my gap year in Australia.

INTRODUCTION

Why do they call it 'culture shock'? You see, to me this seems to suggest that upon contracting it you will cower in the nearest corner, grab your ears for dear life and then rock uncontrollably back and forth. As I stood in the centre of Sydney on this first night though, nothing dramatic like that really happened. It was unfamiliar of course, but this was just a minor concern compared to my overpowering sense of excitement. I was a 19 year old, as far away from my family and friends as is physically possible with the exception of New Zealand or The Moon. That thought alone should have been enough to shock me, but I suppose naivety has its advantages after all. Even at this early stage though, it hadn’t been a completely easy ride. In fact, as the flight began its descent towards the antipodean tarmac, I positively hated the place. The reason for this was twofold: firstly, upon seeing the seatbelt sign illuminate each of the air stewards on the flight suspiciously made their way to a room at the back of the aircraft. Not only was this slightly disconcerting, but they very rudely evaded my enquiry concerning the possibility of acquiring another glass of ale. To the shock of the passengers surrounding me, they then emerged wearing what can I only be described as primitive, fabric gas masks – but gas masks nonetheless – and armed to the teeth with canisters of a somewhat sinister looking substance. Now, I am no flying expert but this twist was slightly unexpected to say the least. I mean, I knew I was a quite sweaty but taking industrial action against me seemed a little extreme. After all, I had been under the impression that the seatbelt sign was a safety measure designed for your own well being, not a devilishly, sophisticated snare to restrict tourists’ protests as they were disinfected against their will. The steward’s claim that the gas was ‘in no way dangerous’ seemed ever so slightly ironic coming from a man wearing a highly cautious and protective mask. It’s like a man in a space suit bearing a skull-and-crossbones badge dunking a uranium rod in your tea and telling you to drink up before it gets cold. So I was angry at Australia for this and we hadn’t even touched ground yet. Nevertheless, being a calm sort of person and since the on-board entertainment had been turned off, I tried to distract my attention and duly reached into my bag for some light reading. Prior to departure my mother had collected a couple of newspaper cuttings concerning Australia she thought I might find interesting. Now, if you can, please try to imagine my expression when, coughing violently having just been sprayed by some kind of mystery potion I read the headline ‘Croc show’s off man’s body to friends’. Basically I had flown twenty-six hours to a country where they clean you up like a salad before throwing you to a very cruel death. What a marvellous place......

.......Having arrived at our sixty-eighth pedestrian crossing, I was feeling more than confident about my traffic dodging capabilities and majestically swept between a Mercedes and white taxi without breaking sweat. On this occasion though, this feeling of success was short lived for above my head, I suddenly heard a loud ‘whooshing’ noise. I couldn’t tell what exactly it was - but it was obviously moving towards me at very high speed as the ground beneath my feet began to vibrate. I tilted my head very cautiously, but at exactly the wrong moment and duly received a face full of ice cold, muddy water. This was my introduction to The Sydney Monorail - the flying car that explores the city at a leisurely pace and, when it’s been raining, flushes gallons of water off its tracks onto unsuspecting victims. An event so hilariously unsubtle in its execution, it caused a homeless man to stop playing his recorder in order to have a quick chuckle at my misfortune. He soon realized however that we may be a good source of potential income so got straight back to playing his instrument in attempt to woo us with his charm. The wretched sound was simply awful. Next to him though, there was a sign next to him saying ‘At least I’m giving it go!’ That alone was worth fifty cents for its comedy value, although I would immediately regret the decision as this provided him with far more enthusiasm and, as a result, volume.

We rounded another stone pillar, hopeful that it would prove to be our final obstruction. It was. I was now standing in a glorious postcard facing a remarkable scene that every human recognises, but very few had actually experienced in the flesh. Like meeting a famous person, I felt so strangely familiar with the situation yet curiously lost. Lost for words certainly, as I stood back and absorbed the immense magnitude of the view in front of my eyes. Is it the finest known to man? It is undoubtedly spectacular and truly ranks highly in the ‘breathtaking’ awards. The date was January 27^th and it suddenly hit me that I was standing in the exact sport where Australian civilization began some 226 years and 1 day ago. Of course Port Jackson has changed a lot since then and it was hard to imagine how it would’ve looked for the 750 or so prisoners as they jumped off their lime infested boat. I imagine if Britain were to send another ship full of convicts now, they would simply dance as they realized what fate had so kindly dished out to them. I was standing in Circular Quay surrounded by lively street bars and restaurants, looking at Sydney Opera House and The Harbour Bridge lighting up the night sky in all their angelic glory. With the exception of riding across the outback on a kangaroo whilst wearing a large cork hat and drinking a schooner of 'Fosters', it there anything that says 'I'm in Australia!' more? Not as far as I’m concerned and at that moment it hit me, I had done it, it had begun, I had made it to Australia.

CHAPTER 21 - FRASER ISLAND PART 2

2008-02-17T20:13:00.003Z

Its face was half illuminated in the fire light, as it sat there staring into his eyes. Because of the singing, we hadn’t heard it sneak into the camp and, looking at its dirty face, go through our bin. We all sat in complete silence, staring back and wondering what it would do. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, it turned and disappeared into the night. Nervously laughing about the situation, we all returned to our tents quite quickly and zipped them firmly shut.

Throughout the night we were kept awake by savaging dingoes surrounding our camp. It sounded like there were hundreds of them and at one point I was convinced they had developed the dexterity to open the zip and so grasped my pocket knife ready for a fight. As the sun breached the horizon, the noises ceased allowing me to venture out and inspect the damage. The camp was a mess as all the bins had been ripped to shreds by the wild dogs, allowing the rubbish to flutter into the surrounding forest. The humidity had increased dramatically leaving me feeling sweaty. Nobody else was awake at this point so I grabbed my towel and ventured across the beach to the shark infested water for a little wash. Luckily, there was no traffic on the road and I was able to cross without any problems before stripping off completely and diving into the refreshing water. This may seem like a slightly crazy idea, indeed you may be asking yourself why the men in white coats hadn’t arrived to take me away before this point, but I just wanted to embrace this moment in touch with nature. So far I had camped, eaten lots of meet and built a fire – the next logical step was to go skinny dipping. Plus, I calculated that if a shark was going to be big enough to take me, it would need water deeper than a metre to swim in. At least I hoped. As I had imagined, the feeling was completely liberating and separated me totally from the stresses encountered in the modern world. I say - forget about going to university, earning money and getting a mortgage – just strip off and go jump in the sea! Thankfully the waves had lost a lot of their enthusiasm, becoming relatively gentle and allowing me to swim parallel to the shore without much hassle. Unfortunately though, the moment must have grabbed me slightly too much as I heard the imminent roar produced by a 4x4 convoy motoring in my direction. Suddenly very aware of my naked state, I frantically clawed my way to the beach looking for my towel. It then became apparent that the moment had really taken me and I had in fact swum quite a distance along the beach. In doing so, I had lost my towel and, with it, my dignity. It was too late now though, the chance to save myself had passed – I was now merely an incredibly white naked man, covered in goose pimples, parading in front of a mass of traffic. They beeped a lot. One person may have even shouted ‘it must be quite cold mate’. Either way, my embarrassment had been sealed.

Upon returning to the camp, most of the other guys had arisen and were beginning to pack the kit away. ‘You look really tired mate. Dingoes keep you awake?’ I said noticing Tim’s drained look

‘No they bloody didn’t – it was this idiot’ he said pointing to his close friend Dave ‘he was so scared they were going to break into the tent that he sat hugging me for the entire night’

‘Well you did say you liked a little cuddle’ I remarked

‘True. But not from him – plus I was bursting for the toilet this morning because this git wouldn’t let me go in the night – he said the dogs might ‘get him’. What a women’

‘They might’ve though’ Dave said in defence

‘Sure mate, and then what would they have done?’

‘Don’t know…licked my face or something I suppose.’

.So you didn’t let me go for a piss because you were scared a dog was going to lick your face? Fan bloody tastic’.

Tim, Ryan and Dave decided to go off and explore the island on their own during the day, although we all agreed to meet up again for camp in the evening. Having spoken to Jimmy in the Whitsundays, I was anxious to venture inland and experience the fresh water lakes dotted across the island. By far the most beautiful and most notorious is Lake Mackenzie but we had been assured that the adrenaline junkies amongst us would really thrive at Lake Wabby. So that’s where we went first of all with the intention of enjoying Mackenzie on the return journey. However, upon arrival we realised our day was going to be filled simply getting to Lake Wabby.

Having parked the car we wondered into the wilderness, following the sign post which suggested the lake was a mere 1.8km away. Now you must understand that, under normal conditions and on a tarmac road, this would no be an issue. Indeed, for the first few hundred metres which was on solid ground, this distance seemed like a relatively straight forward task. And then it hit us. As I rounded a bend, I saw one of the most beautiful sights known to man – and one of the most demoralising. Stretching out in front of us were hills and valleys of beautiful rolling sand dunes. Illuminated in the strong midday sun, with the wind causing a gentle shiver across the surface, it looked like an infinite field of golden corn moving gracefully in the breeze. But the thought of having to cross it with the sun beating down from the zenith was one of utter despair. Chatting to the others, we agreed that Lake Wabby (from all the anecdotes we had heard) would be worth the effort however, and so set off on foot to cross The Sahara. After approximately 30 seconds I had enough sand in my shoes to build a beach in Dubai so I took them off and threw them into the paralysing bag upon my shoulder. The sand was scorching on my feet but this only made me walk faster thankfully. A long time seemed to pass in those dunes, but eventually the lake came into view submerged at the bottom of a huge hill side. You see, this was the appeal of Lake Wabby – it was surrounded by some of the steepest dunes on Fraser Island, making it fantastically fun. Immediately, through a combination of relief and exhaustion, I collapsed at the top of the largest dune, turned onto my side and let gravity do its job. The thrill was incredible as I gained momentum, my turns increasing in frequency as the water at the bottom got closer and closer. By the time I reached it, I had lost all sense of spatial awareness – I may have been half way down the slope, or still near the top, I simply had no idea. But then the spinning stopped and my body was engulfed by clear, fresh water all around. It was cold - really cold. As I scrabbled around to the surface in order to gain my balance, my dizziness set in causing me to tumble backwards into the water again. Eventually I managed to gain my footing and emerged from the water. It was then that I realised, for the second time that day, I had been caught with my shorts down – quite literally. Still, we all had a good laugh. Lake Wabby was a sublime place to have fun. Throughout the entire afternoon, we devised different games to play in and around the lake. Obviously most (if not all), involved some kind of rolling, running or sliding down the huge slopes into the beautiful water below. Someone even managed to successfully ride the dunes on a surf board – unfortunately the front of the board dug into the dune at the bottom and sent him belly flopping into the lake. Everything followed the same pattern of gaining great speed down the slope before launching ones body into the water. But this giant sandpit was bloody brilliant and the perfect way to release your inner child who has been suppressed for years under the immense strain of the western world.

Forgetting about the monstrous trek back, we thoroughly exhausted all our energy. Consequently, the hike back to the truck was even more daunting. When we eventually made it, the day was coming to a premature close, leaving no time to explore Lake Mackenzie. Instead, we headed inland towards the central station campsite. Having had our night in the extreme wilderness, it was a relief to see a shower and toilet block, alongside some gas barbeques. Luckily, we met the other two 4x4s by chance and followed them to our designated plot of land. I found the tent much easier to construct on this occasion and even had time to laugh at the German Princess who was shouting with frustration at her new spouse as he struggled to peg down their guide ropes. It was difficult to tell how long it had been since the toilet block was last cleaned, but needless to say it wasn’t during this century. Nevertheless, it was nice to finally have some warm, running water and even more satisfying to get rid of the sand between my toes. The 9pm curfew on the campsite made for quite a peaceful setting as darkness set in and Ryan got another blazing fire going. Compared to the previous night, this one was rather subdued as we sat around discussing favourite childhood TV programs and commenting on the unnaturally large size of the steroid loving ants dashing around our fire. Two German girls from the camp next door came and sat with us, bringing beer as a present as we gave them a jacket potato in return. Although nothing really eventful occurred, it was just nice to be a part of this somewhat old-fashioned but ultimately superior society.

There were no dingoes that night, but the ground was so uncomfortable I failed to sleep once again. My frustration and anger soon evaporated though when I got out of the tent and saw that Eva had risen early and bought Emma and myself an ice cream. She was so lovely and quickly becoming a very dependent mother figure. Emma, not surprisingly, was fast asleep in the tent. She didn’t appreciate me jumping on her at all, but soon changed her mind when she spied an ice cream coming her way. Our craving for sugar satisfied, we packed up camp in super quick time in order to make the most of our time at Lake Mackenzie before catching the ferry back to Hervey Bay. I felt sorry for Tom as the inland driving was proving very challenging along the tracks leading to the lakes, causing stress levels to rise slightly. It was times like these that I was actually relieved not to be insured. Eventually, the track simply weathered away leaving us defeated. Not to be outdone though, we grabbed the cricket stuff and marched purposely through the wilderness towards the lake. And there it was. Through a gap in the trees, there was a sudden sparkle like a diamond glistening in the sun light. As we drew closer, I realised that it was the crystal smooth water of Lake Mackenzie lying flat on a bed of pure white sand. Having seen Jimmy’s photos in the Whitsundays, I recognised the unique lake but was not prepared for its sheer extravagance. The elegant sand was reminiscent of that at Whitehaven Beach and created a beach about 20 metres in width. Enclosing the entire space was dense vegetation consisting of a variety of Gum Trees and encapsulating the scene in a landscape of its own. In doing so, it ensured that nothing escaped the eye and all the intricate details remained captured in this small space. The most dominating feature however was the lake itself and the mixture of colours it incorporated into the inviting waters. A clear, turquoise blue surrounding the shore, the water suddenly dissolves into a dark navy about ten metres out, the border between the two so sharp it gives the lake the appearance of an exotic cocktail. Standing at the beach’s edge, the others walked on to set up the cricket where as I just stared and amazement – this scene was a defining moment for my year abroad and truly signified the unique diversity Australia has to offer. Just as Jimmy had said, I dived straight into the water and felt like I could drink every drop. It was pure and free from salt so there were no extreme bouts of choking or intense eye irritation. It was simply clean, fresh and exhilarating. We continued the theme from Lake Wabby, jumping around like children, splashing each other and occasionally dunking our heads under the water. Thankfully I didn’t expose myself this time. Having such a large height and weight advantage, I ran across to Emma and, with the help of Tim, threw her elegantly through the sky, landing in the lake with massive splash of water. I suppose looking back that this was the great appeal of Fraser Island – its detachment from the main land meant a subconscious extrication from the mental responsibilities associated with it. On the island, the mask of maturity could be taken off without critical peer judgement and life could simply be enjoyed. This was of course a unique place because of its special, natural beauty, but its spiritual effect on individuals was deep and created a microcosm of pure enjoyment.

We spent the remainder of the day playing cricket on the beach, involving everyone we could find. It was a truly fantastic experience, one which I didn’t want to end. As I approached a group of young women to invite them to join in with the game, I noticed that one of them was Cory – the Canadian marine biologist Emma and I had met in the Whitsundays. This only went to increase the pleasure of this wonderful day as we caught up and shared stories concerning the island. Apparently she had been lucky enough to see some dolphins off the coast early the previous morning – right about the time that I was running along the beach naked frantically searching for my towel. I’m not sure my story was quite as impressive. Without warning, the sun went below the tree line and departed, taking with it our last few remaining moments on K’gari. The others returned to the 4x4s but I stayed behind, just for a few seconds, to take in the wonderful scene for a few more moments. But no time was long enough. Back in Hervey Bay that evening, all the group together, we hugged, exchanged e-mail addresses. We had all shared such an enlightening and enjoyable experience together and now it was time to go our separate ways.

CHAPTER 21 - FRASER ISLAND PART 1

2008-02-10T21:54:00.001Z

(For this first post, I have decided not to take a sample of the first chapter but one right in the middle of the book. This may seem rather random and slightly illogical, maybe even idiotic, but I like this chapter and thought it would make a nice opening. In a pathetic attempt to keep up suspense I have only put half the chapter on for now - the rest will appear next week. After that however, the chapters will appear is something that resembles a structured order. Please enjoy)

As our boat pulled away from the harbour, I looked down at all the 4x4s on the deck and wondered just what was in store. We could see Fraser Island from the shoreline, but for some reason it portrayed a sense of remoteness entwined with adventure. I felt like an alpine pioneer, battling my wits against the vicious wrath of nature and hoping to make discoveries which would change all perceptions of the Earth. Behind us, Hervey Bay faded into the distance and almost immediately out of memory. We had arrived a couple of days earlier, having completed a 13 hour overnight trip from Airlie Beach. This seemed logical as it saved money on an extra night’s accommodation and meant we could afford to participate in the ‘all-you-can-eat’ pizza challenge at the Palace Hostel. Having arrived early that morning I was exhausted and in need of a power-nap, Emma on the other hand – a girl who could sleep through a ‘Stomp’ concert, was positively glowing at the thought of exploring a new town. The hostel was lovely, probably the nicest so far and set out much like a mini-hotel you would find along the Spanish coast. With pure white wash walls, it was divided into a number of quaint small flats each containing a couple of bathrooms, lounge and kitchen. The rooms were kept immaculately clean, even incorporating a lovely little balcony. After a quick energizing sleep, I took to the street to find Emma and explore the town. What I found was a rather disappointingly, quiet seaside resort, hiding in the shadow of the famous island just a short boat ride away. Don’t get me wrong, it was clean and tidy but seemed to lack any kind of personality. There were advertising hoardings everywhere, but instead of boasting about itself, they all focused on the attractions Fraser Island. It seemed strange to me that a place would focus all their attention trying to get tourists to go somewhere else. The bungalows lining the street were all similar in style, each surrounded by its own pristine garden and competing with each other to see who could fit the most garden gnomes onto their small patch of suburban land. I caught up with Emma

‘God, this place is a little dire isn’t it? Can’t imagine there’s much to do at night around these parts at night’ I said. Looking around at the small esplanade, it seemed strange that almost all the shops appeared to be closed ‘Or during the day it seems’ I added.

‘I’ve just been down to the beach’ replied Emma ‘it’s got that horrible sticky sand on it. It’s all over my feet and I can’t get it off”

Well, this really did put the nail in the coffin as far as Hervey Bay was concerned – not only was there nothing to do, but its beach was also smothered in ‘sticky’ sand. There was no way back I’m afraid. So we filtered away the next few days visiting the shopping mall and as it was ‘tight-arse Tuesday’, watching cheap films at the local cinema. As we strolled back through the dark, lifeless streets having just seen a particularly gory war film (my choice surprisingly!), we discussed the sportsmanship associated with war

‘I don’t think they could have done that in real life, I mean, it would have breached the Geneva Convention’ I said sarcastically, referring to particularly horrible part of the film in which someone was tortured brutally

‘The what?’ Emma replied

‘Didn’t you know? Apparently prisoners of war have rights – you can’t treat them too bad at all, otherwise you’ll be in trouble. I mean, it is a war so you can go around dropping bombs wherever you like but god, if you don’t provide a prisoner with a cup of tea and a Bakewell tart every afternoon then you better watch out’

We had laughed about how ludicrously pointless these laws were all the way home before getting our heads down and preparing for the next few days of camp.

I went back to our truck on the deck of the Ferry and started chatting to the group we had been put with. There were seven of us in total – 5 Irish and then Emma and I. Much to my disappointment, the eldest of the 2 – a couple named Eva and Tom – had been designated as the drivers due to their ‘maturity’. Not that I was jealous you understand. The other 3 Irish girls were from Kilkenny and to this day I’m still not sure exactly what their names were. It wasn’t because we didn’t talk, in fact we talked quite a lot, it was simply because when the spoke I couldn’t understand a single word coming from their mouths. It was like having a conversation with someone who spoke Hungarian and as a result, I found myself using the exaggerated hand gestures I had perfected whilst talking to the Israelis in order to communicate. With map in hand, I jumped into the passenger seat and helped Tom plan a route around the island. In our particular tour, there were 2 other 4x4s travelling, carrying groups of young English lads, a few mildly eccentric Germans, some Canadians and a Norwegian. Having consulted with them and shown Tom the route they were taking, we decided it would be sensible if we all stuck together, at least for the first day. I took out the safety guide book we had been given and decided to read a little about Fraser Island and the general etiquette expected on it.

The island was originally named K’gari by the Butchulla people, which actually means ‘paradise’. According to legend, the island was formed from the goddess K’gari, a messenger from God, who had fallen in love with the beauty of Earth. In order to allow her to stay, she was transformed into a heavenly island of pure beauty. However, since the westernisation of Australia, many original Aboriginal names have been changed into more practical but slightly less imaginative ones. Captain Cook initially noted the island in 1770, giving it the name ‘Indian Head’ having spotted a number of natives inhabiting the land. In 1836 this was changed to ‘Fraser Island’ following the extraordinary survival of Eliza Fraser who lived on the island having been shipwrecked for about 6 months. Following this, attention grew towards the island and it soon built itself up as an incredible tourist attraction due to its wondrous natural beauty, emphasised by the numerous fresh water lakes and exceptional forest. Stretching over 123km in length and covering a staggering 184, 000 hectares, it is the largest sand island in the world and the only one in which rainforest vegetation reaches over 200m high. Within the majestic, sweeping sand dunes, the island hides away over 100 fresh water lakes each enclosed by beautiful white sand as crystal clear creeks run throughout the complex, dense vegetation. According to this safety guide, the immense sand blows act as fossilized secrets from the past, providing the oldest age sequence of any dunes throughout the world. It was therefore declared as a World Heritage site in 1992, thus explaining the vast numbers of pedantic laws being quoted throughout the guide I was reading. Two arrest-able offences that captured my attention in particular were ‘burning wood from the ground’ and ‘interacting with dingoes’. However, it wasn’t so much the laws themselves that intrigued me but the wording. For example, ‘interacting’ seems like a very interesting word to use when talking about a human and a wild animal. I mean, for me the word ‘interacting’ sparks up images of some sort of conversation - are there humans and wild dogs out there having fierce political debates? Or does it just mean ‘heavy petting’? Either way, I couldn’t see any of these situations arising. At least, I severely hoped not. Also, why couldn’t we burn wood from the ground? I’m sorry, but surely phrasing something like that is only encouraging deforestation:

‘Shall we burn this old, rotten driftwood I’ve found on the ground Bill?’

‘Are you absolutely crazy Jim?! Have you not read the Fraser Island environmental guide?’

‘No sorry Bill, what does it say?’

‘You can’t burn wood from the ground you crazy boy. Here’s a chainsaw, go chop down that tree instead’

I couldn’t really make much sense of this, but I put it down to the eccentricity of the Queenslander and concentrated on the adventure ahead.

Having arrived on island, we made our way in convoy into the dense forest. After a few hundred metres, we came across a little shop with all the essentials you could ever need. The roads were smothered in tarmac and, to be honest, it all seemed pretty easy going. I think god was reading me mind however, as when we turned the next corner, we were faced with the road ahead. I say road but really it was a deep sand track, hugged on either side by thick vegetation which stooped across, blocking our field of view. The main highway was on the opposite side of the island and this was the only route to it, so we had little choice. Besides, this was the name of the game and the whole reason you embark on a 4x4 safari. Tom looked worried, so we pulled over and released some air from the tyres in order to increase their surface area and provide some much needed grip on the frictionless sand. Approaching slowly, we entered the dark tunnel and left all signs of daylight behind. The track was littered with deep potholes, causing the truck oscillate vertically in a sporadic fashion. This was worse - far worse - than being back on Blue Thunder and heading out into the stormy Pacific. I could see Emma’s face changing to a pale shade of green. With each bump being exaggerated by the seemingly non-existent suspension, I wasn’t feeling too great either and neither were the girls from Kilkenny. Then all of a sudden we stopped. It was relieving to have a break from the never ending rollercoaster but worrying as to why we had come to such an abrupt halt. I jumped out the back and ran round to the front of the truck to join Tom who was looking concerned.

‘What’s up mate? You look worried’ I said noticing his confused gaze

‘The road seems to have stopped. There’s nothing up ahead at all’ he replied, pointing to a huge shrub which was standing in our way.

He was right, the road seemed to have come to a sudden end. As the other drivers from the two trucks following came to join, I suddenly heard a massive roar coming from the other side of the thick shrubbery. But it was not from an animal. It was an ongoing destructive noise – one that gave an impression of sheer power and dominance. It was the sound of millions of gallons of water falling through the sky and crushing the ground below into oblivion. The others hadn’t seemed to notice as they retrieved the maps, discussing whether we should turn around and take another route. I began walking towards the shrub, approaching the noise as it grew louder and more prominent. I reached out, grabbing the braches and to my shock it moved aside. Old and rotten, it had simply fallen across the track blocking the view in front. As it moved from my view, the vegetation cleared on either side to reveal the source of the noise. In front of me was the sandy beach and bombarding it was some of the most gigantic waves I have ever seen. Natures symbol of pure explosive brilliance, they broke on the beach with such power it caused the ground to shudder slightly. The beach was long and there was still about fifty or sixty metres between myself and the way so I decided to try and get closer to investigate. But as I walked out from between two sand dunes I go a shock. ZZHUMMMMM! That was the sound they made as the Doppler Effect kicked in and the first of many trucks sped past my position at high speed. I had completely forgotten, but during our briefing we had been explained about the beach. We were looking for the highway and here it was. You see, on Fraser Island the main road is the beach. I had completely forgotten and nearly got myself a face full of truck because of it. I looked left, facing north and saw a seemingly endless beach reaching the horizon, about fifty metres in width with hundreds of 4x4s zooming along it at high speed. It was a fascinating sight. I suppose it’s only logical if you have 75 miles stretch of beach to use it wisely – I mean, why waste the natural habitat, time and money building a motorway when there is a perfectly good natural one already in place? Well, I say ‘perfectly good’ but it didn’t exactly have any road markings, speed limits and periodically disappeared completely with the tide, but apart from that it was great. Anyway, those things only go to hinder the fun possibilities we could have on major roads in the western world so I was rather chuffed. I could never see this concept ever being envisaged in England, but that was the point, this wasn’t England, it was a country that knew how to use its natural resources to its advantage. Or maybe it’s just a country full of nutters, either way I was looking forward to getting on the open road. Sorry, I mean beach.

With the tide dictating our plans, we decided to use the time available and head north up the beach towards the The Champagne Pools on the north east part of the island. It was a strange sensation speeding along the beach, watching the waves break perpendicular to our motion. Occasionally we would pass the odd fisherman casting in from the sand. I always thoughts fishing was supposed to be a relaxing sport but I can’t imagine it was very stress free doing it in the middle of a freeway. The beach was littered with mini streams running from the dense forest down into the ocean, some of which had caused quite deep erosion on the beach. This somewhat hindered our progress and made for a rather frustrating journey which was constantly stopping and starting. In that respect, it was like driving in London. But that is where the similarities end. The sense of freedom was overwhelming. Looking at the open beach ahead and the power blue sea on our right, I knew I was part of something unique. As we rounded a corner, our speed slowly increasing having just navigated another little stream, something large and dark appeared on the horizon. As we grew closer, we noticed a number of vans parked and stop around it noticing that it was blocking a large portion of the beach.

‘What the hell is that?’ I said leaning forward to ask Tom and Eva in the front.

‘No idea, I think it might be that shipwreck though’ Tom replied

‘Shipwreck? In the middle of the road? This place just gets more unique by the second” I said reaching for the guide book. If there was a large shipwreck, I was sure it would be in there. And it was. Approaching the wreck with the massive hull half buried, half sticking out into the air, the sheer size soon became apparent. At 400ft long, The Maheno was a luxury liner completed in 1905 for fast travel between Wellington and Sydney. Having recorded the fastest crossing between the two, it was given prestigious status and treated as a national treasure. It then went on to complete a stint of national service during the First World War however, The Maheno found herself being replaced by ships with far superior technological advances. In 1935 she was decommissioned and sold to a Japanese firm to be used as scrap metal. Ironically though, it would be the journey to Japan that would see The Maheno scrapped. Perhaps determined for a noble death - dying what she loved doing - the vessel ran into trouble during the final voyage en route to face the firing squad. In cyclone like conditions, the tug rope broke and she was washed ashore on the east beach of Fraser Island. By looking at the crowd of tourists surrounding the ship however, it appeared her popularity has increased dramatically in death. By inadvertently avoiding such an undignified end in such dramatic circumstances, the ship had cemented it’s named throughout history. And here we were, enjoying that splendid piece history in front of our very eyes. As we walked around the huge wreck, watching the sea and beach slowly chip away at its foundations, I felt emotional. To think that this ship had conquered so many great feats and had played a part in winning the First World War was incredible. Although it was a wreck, the ship’s glorious past somehow shone through as it sat in front of me with a unique sense of pride. For me, it simply symbolized the indestructible nature of the human spirit in the fight against evil. Even now, 100 years on since its construction and 60 since it was sentenced to death, The Maheno still survived, more prominent than ever.

Having completed our photo session, we jumped straight back into the truck and continued north along the beach. The traffic was getting far denser and we found ourselves swerving in and out of slower vehicles at high speed. There didn’t appear to be any kind of rules on which side you should pass or any visible lanes – it was like the start of whacky races with every vehicle doing whatever the hell it wanted. As we ate up the miles, I continued to read on through my fascinating guidebook discovering the wonderful secrets this island had to offer. Eventually though I started to feel a little ill from reading and travelling so put the book away. Everyone seemed quite tired now so conversation was down to a minimum. Instead, I put my face up against the window and peered aimlessly into the breaking waves. It then struck me that I had seen no bathers or surfers in the ocean which seemed strange, especially with brilliant high waves like the ones I was staring at. Yet again, I found myself clawing for my guidebook which was now lying on the floor having been shaken from my bag during a particularly large bump. However, I couldn’t really find much information about the beach and was just about to give up searching when my eyes were drawn towards the nature section. Suddenly everything became clear – the reason no one was even going anywhere near the sea was because that this particular section of ocean was a huge Tiger Shark breeding area. So, the ferocious nature of Australia’s wildlife had struck again. It was slightly gutting as I was imaging myself waking up by the campfire and running down to the beach for a picturesque, morning, refreshing swim. I was just thankful I had read this information before embarking on such a trip as it may have been my last.

By the time we arrived at the headland protecting the Champagne Pools, the sun was beginning its descent. The sand beneath the car was also beginning to get a lot deeper and dry making driving conditions very difficult. As we pulled in to park, we saw a number of people having to dig themselves out of deep sand bunkers. There was a small track going inland connecting this north part of the east beach with the northern beach, effectively cutting down walking distance to the Champagne Pools by quite a substantial amount. However, we had been severely warned against attempting it during the briefing due to the unpredictable behaviour and pockets of sinking sand. Following this advice, we parked up and decided to walk the extra distance. Within minutes we were incredibly glad that we had. The track was quite wide, enough to fit two or three vehicles, with steep edges a vegetation lining the sides but not enough to stop the bright setting sunlight illuminating the golden pathway. Ironically, this beautiful setting made for a complete massacre of 4x4 trucks. They were littered throughout the entire path, half submerged with their inexperienced drivers flooring the accelerator in an attempt to get out the dire situation. I ran over to help a German couple and beckoned Emma to help me pull the vehicle out of its grave along with ten or so other volunteers.

‘What possible difference will I make?’ she said

‘Come on, you can anchor us at the back’ I said making a little joke

‘Oh, that’s a bit harsh’ came the reply, but not from Emma, it was a little guy standing just in front of me tugging the rope as well. I quickly noticed him as one of the drivers from a truck in our convoy ‘you wanna give him a slap for that love. No sex for you tonight hey mate?’ he said laughing to himself

‘Nah, we’re not going out mate. She’s all yours’ I replied and we both laughed. Emma punched me on the arm and looked only mildly impressed.

He told us his name was Tim and he was on a month holiday from England with a number of his friends. Emma and I both liked him straight away as his quick wittedness and natural humour caught our imagination. As we continued to try and pull this German couple out of the sand, there became a great sense or unity and team building within the group – after all, we didn’t even know this couple and here we were using all our energy to help them. If we had been driving along the motorway in Britain, would we have stopped to help them? I doubt it. But this was Australia, where everyone goes that extra step to help those in need. I suppose we had all been captured by the situation.

Having helped the Germans out, we continued to walk along the track and up a small hill towards the Champagne Pools. It was pure pain. You see, although sand dunes are idyllic to look at, to climb up them is exhausting beyond belief. It takes the will power and strength of an Olympic athlete, as the ground seems to constantly be giving away beneath your feet. My calves felt like they were going to burst. By this point, we had been joined by one of Tim’s friends, Ryan. He was tall, stocky and with short dark black hair although he always wore a baseball cap and spoke with a thick Canadian accent. It amazed me just how many Canadians I had already met during my Australian adventure, yet only 1 American. Anyway, as the sand dunes ground away our energy, Tim continued to keep our spirits high by telling some amusing anecdotes concerning his travels so far and how he’d been frustrated following our 4x4 for most of the day

‘That bloody Tom is a shit driver. Did you see him coming across the island? Might as well have been stationary he was going that slow. I was like ‘mate, get the hell out of the way and let me lead’. It was so frustrating. Bet you were frustrated sitting in the back?’ he said ranting to himself in his strong north London accent.

‘Listen to him – he’s been going on like this for the past five hours’ Ryan quickly jumped in apologising, but obviously seeing the funny side too

‘He seemed to be going quite quick to me. Mind you, I’ve got a 1 litre, 4 gears, 1989 Peugeot 205 at home so a sit-on-lawnmower seems fast to me’ I said, laughing at myself in the unique way English people do.

‘Ha-ha really?!’ said Tim ‘you must be looking forward to going for a bit of a razz in these 4x4s tomorrow then?’

‘Can’t. I couldn’t get insurance because I’m under 21’

‘Yeah, but surely Tom’ll let you have a sly drive?’

‘Nah, he said I couldn’t apparently’

‘Are you joking? Who cares if you’re not insured? There’s not exactly much to crash into around here! I tell you what, come with us tomorrow and I’ll let you take it for a little spin’

‘Cheers mate, that’d be sweet” I said as we finally turned onto the northern beach.

As soon as we did, I was sure that trying to drive across this part of the island was a huge mistake – one that a group of Irish lads had evidently learned the hard way. Their truck was upside down in the sand, wheels spinning like the legs of a capsized tortoise and debris scattered across the surrounding area. Seemingly oblivious to dire situation they were in, the owners of the smashed up vehicle were sitting around the car playing a guitar, each with a can of XXXX gripped in their palms.

‘What happened boy? You guys ok?’ I asked approaching them just as one of them cracked a particularly humorous joke, resulting in a burst of laughter.

‘Wha’s that boy? Ah thee truck – jus a spot ah bad luck. Nothin ta worry yaself about’ one of them said reaching for another a beer from the cool box they had managed to retrieve from the rubble. Examining the situation I noticed that, along with the guitar, that was the only thing they had retrieved! Well, I suppose it was important to get the essentials sorted.

The Champagne rock pools were rather enjoyable with some spectacular views across the ocean, but it was something I felt I could experience at most English seaside towns. In contrast, there was a rumour that whales and dolphins were usually visible from the top of the headland, but having hiked across the deep sand, Emma and I were rather tired and decided to enjoy the final piece of sun at sea level. When the others returned, we decided to head back down the east coast and find a nice spot on the beach to set up camp for the evening. After a little while, Tim went past us at unbelievable speed, obviously frustrated by Tom’s lack of adventurous driving. I was just happy not to be upside down like the Irish. About 30 minutes later we saw him take a sharp, erratic right turn in between 2 sand dunes, covered largely with marram grass blowing in the wind. We followed suit and found the others unpacking their camping gear in a lovely little circular camping spot, protected from the fierce costal winds by dunes on one side and dense forest on the other. With daylight reducing quickly and having no experience of how our tents were constructed, I quickly jumped out and began assembling the tents in the most illogical way known to man.

‘Umm I’m not sure it’s supposed to look like that’ Emma watching me struggle whilst stuck in the canvas

‘I don’t know, it looks ok to me. Maybe you could lend a hand?’ I said through gritted teeth

‘I’m okay actually, I’m quite enjoying watching your attempt! You carry on”

I did and a mere one hour later, the tent was constructed and as sturdy as ever – a fine place to reside indeed. Apart from the drooping roof.

‘Finished!’ I shouted emerging from the tent and standing back to admire the handy work ‘let’s just hope it doesn’t rain’.

Whilst I had been constructing our shelters for the evening, the others had been assembling the barbeques and preparing generous portions of meat for everyone. In addition, the beers had been cooling nicely and were now ice cold. As Tom, Eva, Emma and the other 3 took care of our cooking needs, I put my scouting skills into operation and started collecting fire wood. I have to say, not using timber from the ground was quite a challenge! Luckily though, we had stopped off at one the assigned collection points to gather some earlier during the day. As I began to assemble the fire surrounded by smoke from the sizzling barbeques, Ryan came over to give me a hand.

‘I can see you’ve had fire building experience’ he said remarking on the textbook scout fire I had built

‘Well I should, it’s all I’ve been doing for the past few months on camp. God, I’ve just put a bit of pressure on myself to perform haven’t I?’

‘Yes, I believe you have!’

The western part of the sky had now turned a deep shade of red, blending into indigo, navy and finally black the further west you looked. A few stars were scattered across the darker regions with the southern cross again posing brightly, even at this early stage of the evening. I gathered a few more pieces of damp wood and continued to build up the fire as I remarked on the view to Ryan

‘That sky looks absolutely amazing doesn’t it?’ I said as Ryan began to strike a match

‘Yeah man, it’s fantastic and so beautiful. I tell you, when I get all my travel photos developed I’m going to have enough incredible sunset shots for an entire album’ he replied looking up at the beautiful colours above our heads

‘I know mate, it’s superb isn’t it. I just hope I don’t start taking it for granted’

‘No way man. I’ve been travelling for nearly a year and I love it every time I see a sight like that. Even if you lived around here, you’d never ever get bored of seeing that at night. God I love it here’

I agreed, it was a truly incredible sky and probably the most perfect setting for a camping trip. Yet again I wished my friends and family were there, experiencing it with me, as I knew no words or photos would ever portray the incredible feeling of freedom and happiness sights like this could provide.

The fire flared up on the first attempt and went someway to restoring my pride that had been unquestionably damaged during the tent construction. Ryan threw me an ice cold beer as we fashioned a number of seats from the surrounding sand and sat back admiring the glorious scene in front of our eyes. We didn’t say much in those few minutes, instead we stared into the mesmerizing fire watching the blanket of diamond stars reveal itself above our heads. A few moments later, Emma came to join us with a plate full of cooked cow and a mountain of baked potatoes. There were various varieties of steak, burgers and even beef sausages which I felt obliged to sample along with another chilled stubby of XXXX. As I munched through my steak, drank my beer and stared into the fire I had just built, I felt like a man. A real man! On a negative note, most of the food seemed to have a large sand content but I think that is one of the things you have to expect on an island constructed from the stuff. Apart from that, the food was gorgeous and left me feeling positively stuffed at the end. Having completed my best attempt at washing up, I returned to the fire area and took my seat next to the warming flames as night started to close in and the temperature dropped. Ryan and I threw on the rest of the wood to create a furnace as all the other members of the camp came across to socialise and enjoy the security of the fire. In the third 4x4 there was an incredibly eccentric German lady on a honeymoon with her exact opposite conservative husband. They had been arguing for the entire day in German making it quite clear that she wasn’t satisfied with camping on their honeymoon, and as a result was refusing now to leave her tent. I couldn’t imagine the tent was much comfort, but I think secretly he was relieved to have escaped her childish screaming so made little attempt to persuade her out and instead came to join us for a drink. He had short dark hair, glasses and a suede coloured shirt which was tucked into matching shorts. In true stereotypical style, he was wearing lovely sandals over a pair of bright white socks. All of this meant that he wouldn’t have looked out of place working as an archaeologist in Egypt. We handed him a beer and gave a sympathetic look towards the tent. He didn’t speak much English, but he made hand gestures which seemed to say ‘Women – know needs them?’

The tide continued to come in as the roar of the sea increased a few more decibels making the ground shake beneath us. By this point, everyone was huddled around the flames, wrapped in blankets and enjoying conversation. Tim, having taken an obvious liking to Emma, came and sat next to us and proposed a game where we all introduced ourselves and explained where we were from. It felt kind of childish, but was certainly interesting to see the variety of cultures on our trip. As we all talked amongst ourselves, I heard Tim lean over to Emma

‘You know what luv, I really miss just having a cuddle. I love cuddling’ he whispered

I burst out laughing, unable to contain myself. With no embarrassment at all, Tim stood up and announced to the group his desire to have a cuddle with someone. Thankfully, with rejection looming Ryan stepped up and took one for the team, grabbing Tim in a tight bear hug much to the amusement of the audience.

‘Guess how old I am’ Tim said addressing the group

‘38’ I shouted as my response

‘Cheeky bastard. Nah, I’m 24. But, I am proud to announce, I am the most immature 24 year old you’ll ever meet’

‘Ha-ha, well that’s good to hear’ I said ‘what’s the most immature thing you’ve done?’

‘Well, now that you ask, there was this one time when I was drunk that I really wanted to meet Pete Waterman. You know – the geezer from Pop Idle. I thought I’d ask him to give me a job. So, in order to meet him, I went down to the auditions. Unfortunately, they stood me there for a preliminary round before I could meet him and asked me to sing’

‘Really?’ Emma said laughing ‘what did you do then?’

‘Sang the first thing that came into my head - the ‘Only Fools and Horses’ theme tune’

‘Brilliant! Ha-ha – so what happened?” I asked

‘They threw me out actually. Never did get to meet him. Ah well, it’s quite a funny story I suppose’

‘So is that why you came travelling – because you didn’t make it as a Will Young look-a-like?’

‘You know what – I just wanted to experience the world. I was sitting in a rubbish job and one day mentioned to my mate that I might want to do a bit of travelling and he looked at me and said ‘are you stupid? Why would you want to go and waste your money on that – you’ll end up driving a Corsa for the rest of your life?!’ and that sealed it for me really. I was surrounded by people with such a lack of ambition – people who measured life on what car they drove. I didn’t want that, so I got out as soon as possible’

‘Fair play mate’ I said ‘I think most people here have a similar outlook’

It was true and that’s why you get on with most people you meet travelling. Although you all come from different backgrounds and cultures, the overall beliefs you possess are the same. Sensing the conversation was getting a little too heavy, Tim then broke into song and gave us his appalling rendition of ‘Only Fools and Horses’, only to stop half way through as one of the Danish guys gave a massive, highly pitched scream. I looked up to see what was going on and there, about ten centimetres from his face was a dingo....

SYNOPSIS

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Bonza Voyage© is a piece on non-fiction literature recalling the tale of my gap year in Australia. Written in a light-hearted, humorous and anecdotal way, the book not only provides an insightful piece of travel analysis, but also allows the reader experience the intense planning involved in organising such a huge event. With a defining three part structure, it is divided into sections dealing with my pre-departure research, my essential acclimatization into an intriguingly eccentric new culture, and finally the exciting adventure of individual travel. By integrating into this society with a voluntary job, I am able to finally reveal Australia’s exciting secrets along with its most exceptional characters, in a brutally honest but affectionate style. Finally, I take on the challenge of entering the unique psyche of the backpacker and explore the country from entirely different perspective, making Bonza Voyage© an essential item for any travel enthusiast.

Beginning on my first daunting night in Sydney, the book initially focuses on the overwhelming and somewhat confusing array of emotions experienced at such a defining moment in any trip. Sydney Opera house is in front of my eyes and even though its formidable presence is inspiring, it represents an intimidating gateway into the unknown. This is the defining moment in my journey, but before the reader has a chance to dwell, they are taken back a year prior to departure. The following four chapters constitute part one of Bonza Voyage© and concentrate primarily on my fight to escape the suffocating grasp of formal education in rural Northamptonshire. Having assessed the decisions that lead me to choose Australia as a suitable destination, I conduct a brief historical analysis of the country before discussing the various travel options available. With the security of an in-country agent and a guaranteed voluntary job upon arrival, I choose to travel with an English based company and reveal the shocking truth behind their assessment ordeal and recount my endless attempts to raise money by instigating various fund raising tasks.

Section two comprises of a further ten chapters, detailing the cultural impact of arriving on Australian soil and the dramatic transition to my job working as an outdoor activity instructor for a school camp, situated deep in The Alpine National Park east of Melbourne. Suddenly living in such severe isolation, I find myself stranded for three months without television, radio or even mains power. However, as these burdens of society are quickly forgotten about, I start to revel in the local’s strong sense of community and begin to truly appreciate the humbling environment in which they live. As I am accepted as an honorary countryman, life-long relationships are soon formed and I begin to indulge in the hidden, real Australia with the enthusiastic natives by my side. Exploring parts of forgotten Victoria and Melbourne during my free weekends, I develop a powerful attachment to my adopted home which makes it incredibly difficult to leave.

The final thirteen chapters form the third part of Bonza Voyage© and concentrate on the individual backpacker experience. Having touched the country as a native, I am keen to tackle it from a tourist perspective and do so by conducting a tour of east coast – beginning in Cairns and travelling south by bus back to Sydney. Along the way, I try to get to grips with (all to no avail) the bizarre world of Aussie Rules football, the ballet at Sydney Opera house, how a town can be called Airlie Beach when it doesn’t have a beach, the Queensland awfully blunt sense of humour and sharing a toilet with thirty four hung-over backpackers on a tiny yacht. Combine that with a heart-stopping skydive, a thrilling scuba experience on The Great Barrier reef, a couple of close encounters with a crocodile and some of the most extravagantly exuberant characters on the planet, and Bonza Voyage really does capture the enchanting spirit of the long distant traveller.

HOW TO BUY THE BOOK

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I created this book because I love travelling and writing. I hope that comes through in the text and I succeed in capturing the magical essence of the trip. Talks are currently taking place with a number of publishers and agents, however I thought I would provide the public with an advance glimpse of what is to come.

Therefore, throughout the next couple of months I shall be publishing extracts from my manuscript EVERY SUNDAY. If you can't wait that long, I will also be selling advanced e-copies of the entire book in return for a small contribution. If you would like to know more, please e-mail me.

In the meantime, please enjoy these little snippets and I'd be delighted to know you comments. If you want to contact me in regard to the book or purchasing a copy, please e-mail me at johnwatters84@gmail.com.

Thank you