I can take my too-cool-for-school sunglasses off now because some of the shiny gloss has been taken off of Broome. I'm still as happy here as a four year old with a new toy. Or a forty year old. Familiarity breeds somehow, and its offspring is considered to be contempt. I reckon its more like indifference. It’s surprising really as I haven't been given just cause for a change of heart. I haven't eaten a prawn's poo tube. Or been assailed by bar wielding bandits. Or ripped off by cock-eyed crabs who capriciously change course while cruising towards certain victory.
Life has been, as always, everything but sedate. Friends and flat mates continue to leave and make the place seem a little less homely for their absence. Kristen and Tuisku have moved on with their travels, and our search to replace them has left me with only three bunnies and barely enough reason to wear my Hugh Hefner dressing gown at all. One of Broome's friendliest, funniest and inspirational of all people in Trevor moved on with his fiancee to complete their long perambulation around Australia. As the patriarch of Broomes UFC couch fighters collective, only time will tell if our fortnightly boys night will contain as much fighting and alcohol consumption as it did under Trevor's organisation.
It was at Trevor's going away party that one small crab pushed my pacifist beliefs to vein bulging breaking point. The Satay hut has an even mix of locals and tourists drinking booze, playing pool, buying tickets for the crab races and probably eating things with a satay flavour. $5 gets you three tickets and if one of those gets drawn out of a hat, you have yourself a crab contestant. 8 little hermit crabs start from under a small container in the middle of a three metre wide ring. The first one to make it out wins. What incentive they have to move is anyone's guess, and whatever it is some of the crabs lacked it. Ours didn't, and gunned for the line like a junkie chasing a fix. Paranoia set in as the unknown world beyond the ring loomed up before our little crack smoking crustacean. Two inches short of a $110 prize that I would have pissed away at the bar anyway, our meal ticket reverted to the direction that his brethren are famous for. Sideways along the line he ran, possibly aware that his stupidity won't result in me frying him up as a snack out of spite. Slow-poke Rodriguez crossed the line while our Speedy Gonzales completed another lap with enough momentum to ensure every other crab finished before him. The whole thing was probably a animal rights violation in some sense, but I lacked enough sense at the time to only lament my lost fortune.
Trevor's absence from Matso's has not been the only reason for that honeymoon period to disappear. Ultimately, there is only so much job satisfaction you can derive from washing dishes and while I remain happy for the time being, my mind is pondering the next move. Coming in to work one day to watch a security recording of attempted theft and assault left me feeling even less loving towards the place. Some dude defied the heat and wrapped his head in a t-shirt to riffle pointlessly through office stationery after demonstrating a complete lack of safe opening skills. Supervisor Hamish walked in on him, nearly blocked some chocolate and almost got a clubbing for his troubles. Thankfully numbers favoured Team Matso's and a short chase ended with enough blows to subdue him until the police arrived.
If that wasn't bad enough, I then learnt that times are so tough, we make one of our sauces using the faecal laden entrails of prawns. Beurre Blanc is a delicacy that required the French to make something edible out of a creatures slimy, green shit canal. Twice now have I had the displeasure of removing this vital ingredient and their texture and surprising adhesion quickly made the task my least favourite there. I would probably derive some perverse sense of revenge were they crab entrails I had to remove, but our little choker is probably kicking back in early retirement. Anyway, I make my own meals whenever I can now, and leave the poo consumption to the customers we have that don't want to order a steak sandwich or fish 'n' chips.
None of this can be seen as a detriment to Broome specifically, and my love for the place is still strong enough to stop me from leaving. Unfortunately I have a stronger reason for leaving, and what that entails will be saved for the next time my typing fingers are free from prawn crap.
