At the premature
end to my first nights sleep in Airlie Beach's Bush Village
backpackers, I was awoken by a guy looking for a drinking partner,
duties to start immediately. I hadn't celebrated my arrival in Airlie
so enthusiastically that I would still be sleeping in the afternoon,
a decent time to start drinking. It was 9am and this Aussie wino was
looking for his Irish drinking buddie. I thought that to be quite an
unusual endeavour, but it seemed such activities were almost the norm
in this dorm.
This same Irish guy
had spent a previous night sleeping in some one elses room by
mistake, until they came in to query his intentions in a rather irate
manner. Not being Goldilocks, or in anyway welcome in their life,
they sent him on his way. His way ended up being with a police
escort. He did have just cause to be celebrating enthusiastically
after his first week of employment in two months. Not cause enough to
keep celebrating through the next four days of the following working
week.
The aussie guy had
been kicked out for being too pissed too often, and expressing that
state in a violent manner towards a defenceless door. He was snorting
a crushed up zanex tablet when I first arrived, but soon got the
impression he was no more welcomed by the guests as he was by the
staff. Telling some one to fuck off repeatedly will often give them
that impression, irrespective of how constantly smashed they were.
The bus driving job
I wanted before seeing the unstable nature of my would-be-customers,
was taken by another Aussie guy in my dorm. Any drug was his drug of
choice. Beers in the morning may not have been kosher to him, but a
big trumpet of a joint was appropriate for any time of the day. He
was in Airlie solely to party and my bank balance was thankful that I
chose to join him only once in the eleven days I stayed there.
It was the
parrot-head festival, and I spent at least three hours there without
figuring out what that meant. It was supposed to be a reggae street
party, but the most rastafarian element to proceedings was the joint
we had smoked before going. The whole thing was full of old rednecks
bopping away to 80's rock while drinking bundy. Not really my scene,
and neither was 'Beaches', the backpackers pub where I ended up. 33
seems at least ten years too old to be getting smashed with teenage
Swedish nymphets only looking to save money by having some sucker buy
their drinks for them.
On the slow stagger
home along the bicentennial board walk, I came to realise a few
truths about Airlie. It's a great place to party. Shame I'm not
interested now, and never really was, in partying purely for the sake
of being able to do so. It's a great place to do anything involving a
boat. My incapacitating seasickness has subsided over the years to an
infrequent need for food regurgitation. Having to work in that state
seemed to justify its low ranking on the priority scale. Airlie is
also a great place to get a job if you are A/ Not Australian because
a reputation precedes us that we drink far too much and would prefer
the dole to hard work (quite an accurate assumption on the whole), B/
An attractive female because they are stated to be most employers
preference! C/ Able to control your body functions while on a boat,
and D/ Prepared to party even while you work because everyone else is
partying.
Needless to say,
that one full blooded attempt to assimilate into Airlie life showed
me that my best interests lay else where. It was hard to consider
leaving, and I managed to put off thinking about it for quite a few
days. Once my diminishing bank balance started sounding alarms at
every eftpos transaction I knew decisions needed to be made. I
couldn't consider going back down south as I was already adjusted to
wearing shorts and singlets during the day. The night time still
required a jumper and pants, but not thermals.
After a few more
days of contemplation, I decided that the abundant vegetable farms in
Bowen offered the best opportunity to avoid total destitution. I rang
the first backpackers hostel and discovered the unfortunate news that
the season wouldn't get going for another few weeks due to the cold.
I didn't have a few weeks to wait, and I didn't have a plan B. The
duration of procrastination was reducing rapidly, but I still took
half a day to decide to call another backpackers in Bowen to see if
they had work.
They did have a
position for me in a tomato packing shed. But they didn't have a bed
for me. So I spent the first two nights on a mattress thrown in the
corner of a dorm. Even though it is only an hour north of Airlie
beach, even the nights here are warm enough for minimal clothing. And
this is the first time I have gone to sleep in winter with a fan on
me.
