The Apple Isle. A tasty destination if
ever I heard one. But as delicious as it sounds, the only people
licking their lips were the people catering to / cashing in on the
tourists. Towns are so small and devoid of business competition that
they can advertise prices that cunningly disguise the fact that they
only apply in low season. That was the two weeks of the year when the
weather was hospitable enough for non-Eskimo types. While the
mainland baked through a century long record breaking hot spell,
Tassie was serving up balmy days and mild nights for its brief high
season.
The idyllic conditions came at a price
though, and my weeks budget was blown in the first two days. Instead
of paying an extra $8 to fly with more than just carry-on luggage, I
spent $65 in Hobart buying the things I wasn't able to bring. Shane
had lured me onto this trip by offering to cover car hire costs but
the festive season had haemorrhaged his bank account worse than even
mine. Returning home wasn't an option, pouting and arms crossed in
stubbornness was ineffective but thanks to the dole, the trip was tax
payer funded anyway. Before I get arrested for that statement, let me
say that Shane and I were keen to find work here and have been making
the necessary enquiries to achieve that end. Seems gigolo's aren't in
demand here either.
The very bottom of the range Lancer we
all hired together threatened to stall constantly and ended up
blowing more smoke than what I had been responsible for lately.
Instead of compromising our budget further, we were offered a free
upgrade to an Elantra ten years younger and ten properly functioning
features closer to being road worthy. Bargain Car Rentals gets a free
plug from me for making our trip feel more like the luxurious holiday
making that we were paying for to enjoy a simple backpacking
lifestyle here in Tasmania.
The Lancers last gasps had lasted long
enough to make two trips up Mount Wellington, one of those to see the
city at night while lightning lit up the horizon. It also made a
quick trip to the Huon Valley and got us and two lovely Canadian
girls to Port Arthur (See next post). The Huon Valley boasted an
elevated walkway through the jungle that didn't sound exciting enough
to justify the $20 admission price. At $24 the Hastings Caves hardly
offered better value but we had to see something to make the trip
worthwhile. A swim in the nearby thermal springs was part of the deal
so we hurried in to make the last tour of the day.
Our guide was the scientific nerdy type
who constantly derived absolute wonder out of certain natural
phenomena that provided only temporal interest to the average smuck.
We weren't allowed to touch anything in the cave lest the 'death wax'
on our hands harmed the delicate crystals. This was repeated to us ad
nasuem while we wandered along massive brick tiled pathways and
concrete stairways under flood lighting more at home in a hospital
ward. Obviously the same rules hadn't applied when they fitted the
cave out like an amusement park.
Unfortunately our boffin of a guide
spent too long waxing poetic about the synergies of chemicals and the
environment, rare headless cousins of a spider and any historical
figure to have played a role in changing the cave from undiscovered
to over-exposed. The thermal pool was thus closed by then, but being
of bigger interest to us than the cave itself, no eight foot locked
gate was going to stop us from getting maximum value for our $24.
Sneaking into the compound like sly ninjas high on red cordial, one
could imagine our disappointment in finding something resembling the
sort of poor man's in-ground pool common in most backyards these
days. The water was luke warm at best, with the attached kiddie pool
being only slightly warmer thanks to bladder heating. Gone were the
visions of a bubbly spa bath nestled amongst the rocks and fern
trees, and the initial thrill of petty trespassing soured to a cookie
jar raider's remorse.
So not much pleasure had been derived
from that trip but a major short coming in Tasmania's road management
almost provided enough adrenalin invoking action to make up for it.
Straight roads are harder to find than bargains, and signs detailing
approaching corners are even rarer. That's fine with big sweeping
deviations, but heading into a tight hair pin turn at a decent pace
often sent a spray of gravel out further than my obscenities went.
With half the country covered by the most circuitous routes know to
man, sign posting every corner would stretch any federal budget.
Lucky for the government, there would be plenty of tax paid on the
tourist money being extorted by all the small scale business
monopolies.
