The
only way to make continual sunshine seem better is by throwing in the
occasional rainy day. I know there is a vengeful deity with a
perverse sense of humour who makes those rainy days fall on my days
off. That turned out better than enduring the few rainy days at work
though. The alfresco area of the restaurant would stay empty while
everyone else tried to cram inside, with very little patience or
success. This particular dry season hasn't been overly dry, much to
the displeasure of many tourists, so I'm renaming it 'pot luck'. The
'pot luck' season is slowly merging into the wet, also known
henceforth as 'pot luck', as last years 'wet' failed to live up to
the potential promised in its name.
One
such rainy day managed to get my ugly mug on T.V. again, looking
every bit like a drowned rat. Most of my days off are spent playing
nine holes of Whack-”fuck!”, or golf as it is better known.
Fellow Matso's staff and I were barely halfway round when the ominous
clouds turned productive. We tried to invent some sort of water golf,
but with metal clubs like lightning rods and slipping out of hands
mid swing, our new past time was more life threantening than
entertaining.
The
only other die hard keen enough to be out just happened to be dating
a reporter for the local GWN news. Needing a story on an obviously
slow news day, she requested a volunteer to be interviewed about
their stupidity and struck gold with the keenness of this camera
slut. With a 'recently been swimming fully clothed' appearance
accentuated by my Salvador Dali moustache hanging limply on my lip
like a dead caterpillar, I answered a few questions that went no
where to explain why we had been out on the golf course in the first
place. I had resisted introducing myself as Tiger Woods, but smirked
my way through a few responses as Mikey inexplicably started pelvic
thrusting the camera.
That
night, a short piece on the unseasonable weather, and morons,
featured on the local news with some serious editing of my interview.
The abridged version further highlighted our stupidity, and having my
rambling punctuated by laughter at Mikey's childish, but no less
entertaining 'air sex' moves, made my opinions and experience even
less credible. I should have felt some degree of embarrassment at
such a showing but I do feel strangely unfulfilled without daily
confirmation of how much of an idiot I am. Fate has intervened to
ensure no lasting evidence of such a shoddy piece exists, other than
the reporter probably losing her job.
Another
noteworthy experience suffered at the hands of Mother Nature happened
when 2 fellow trippers joined me on a magical tour up to Manari for
some camping. A mid avo finish for our driver Hamish meant we were
belting along a corrugated dirt track at 80 kms an hour at dusk. That
meant the ensuring peace upon arrival would be all the more calming
for the adrenaline overload on the drive there. With tourist numbers
reduced by the passing of the high 'pot luck' season, the little
piece of paradise at the end of the dirt track was ours, and ours
alone.
Bathed
in soft moonlight, the Baskin and Robbins like sand stretched out in
all directions around us. Small waves broke soothingly on the rock
pool at oceans edge, and a plethora of fish waited patiently for free
bait to nibble on. Understanding of a fish's ability to feel pain, I
refused to partake in any sort of catch and release, but spared the
others my opinions so they could indulge in a past time only I, of
all Broome inhabitants do not go crazy for. Were I to cast a line in,
I know I would hook the oldest, most infirmed fish through the
eyeball and reel in its brain stem rather than the whole fish.
Such
an activity was left to the morning so we could enjoy the camp fire
and conversations with company soon to head off in separate
directions. A gentle breeze slowly built in intensity until it felt
like we were sitting under a landing helicopter. Our nights supply of
wood was burnt in a quarter of the time and our choice of
intoxication worked as effectively as a decaf coffee. My $12 2-man
tent hadn't seen service since last years trip to Bowen and the
howling gale was creating more issues than Reader's digest for
something that had trouble staying upright in pleasant conditions.
The irony was the sand turned out to be the only thing that stopped
it from taking flight and ending up being a raft on its way to
Madagascar. Therefore we opted for an early night to give us more
time for morning entertainment instead of enduring a thorough
exfoliation of our eyeballs and lungs.
I
woke to a stiff breeze, flaccid, er placid compared to the previous
nights cyclone and was extremely surprised to see the beach still had
sand on it. Even with our decaf disappointment though, I had partied
hard enough over my last week in Broome to leave me, and my fellow
trippers keen to leave the fish in peace and head back to
civilisation, or at least Broome'e version of it.
It
was a shame that the outing was spoiled by such inclement weather as
this latest stay in Broome ended soon after. It had been a same-same
but different experience with some of the same people there, but lots
of fun new folk too. I worked at the same place but in a completely
different role. I was still being stung by bandits just to put a roof
over my head, but I didn't have the troubles and responsibilities of
having the lease in my own name. Such concerns seemed inconsequential
when I found out that like most older houses in Broome, my crap shack
was built entirely out of asbestos. That fact made my ganja greed
appear far less harmful to my lungs as smoking it didn't require a
full radiation suit like the removal of asbestos does.
A
last few beers at Matsos was attended by close friends who are either
accurately designated as such, or were just there as another reason
to drink. Most people would still be in town on my return so my
latest mantra quickly became “It's not goodbye, it's see you
later”! And with that, I jetted out of a balmy Broome night to
start my week of wedding madness, and my two month Asian Odyssey.
