When the day comes when I
eventually have to go to one of those group therapy meetings for people with
addictions, it is unfortunately fairly inevitable in my case, I’ll be forced to
stand up and admit, “Hi, my name’s Stuart and…I’m…well…addicted to Australia…” Whether or not this admission would be
welcomed with the usual warm, polite round of applause normally associated to
the confessions of drunkards or druggies is unclear. I’ll admit it is a strange idea to be
addicted to a country but when it comes to a place like Australia it’s
entirely possible. In 2005 I spent a
year working and travelling around the girt by sea and the moment I left the
country I knew I had, as you might say these days, issues…
I hankered after iced coffee and
Mrs Mac’s pies, listened to Sydney’s Triple J and Perth’s Nova 937 radio
stations online, I followed the AFL results and cursed like a trooper when time
after time the Eagles beat the Crows in decisive games, I’d casually drop
Australia into a conversation and proceed to preach about the country and it’s
people like a Jehovah’s witness would about Jesus. In short, Australia could do no wrong and was
placed firmly on a pedestal in my mind.
There was even a time when I would have happily exchanged my British
passport for an Australian one (I’ve since, however, come to realise the
endless benefits of having an EU passport, although if anyone from immigration
is reading this then please feel free to post me one of those little blue books
with the emu & kangaroo on the cover!).
On my last trip here I also fell
in love with a beast named Frank. I’d
better explain that a bit better, Frank wasn’t a moustachioed rainbow flag
flyer but a 1993, red Ford Falcon panelvan with a purr that could knock a
kookaburra off its branch from 50 metres away.
He was a monster and the only piece of metal that I’ve loved, well,
until today! Despite only having had the
keys of the Ambassador shack for 12 hours I can feel the love creeping in. Having sweated my way to Travellers Autobarn
this morning and then spent the afternoon rounding up an assortment of smelly
travellers to join the journey, the maiden voyage was made at dusk this evening
from Cairns to
Innisfail. Normally I wouldn’t drive
after dark in Australia
due to the possibility of a suicidal kangaroo making its final resting place in
your radiator, but today I was brave. Or possibly stupid. However, over the 80 odd kilometres there
were only a couple of furry carcasses on the roadside, which isn’t too
bad. Some parts of Australia’s highways look as though
a mobile animal mortuary has past through and slowly emptied its contents over
a 20k stretch.
Marsupial deaths aside, the only
downside to arriving in a place like Innisfail at night is that you can almost
hear the Deliverance banjo playing in
the background. I mean I’m sure that during the day Innisfail is a lovely place
and that if you spend a bit of time here you’d have a ball, but there was a
consensus in the ambassador van that on first impressions Innisfail might be a
bit hillbilly. Tomorrow will tell…
