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Mother Nature gets all moody and confused

AUSTRALIA | Tuesday, 5 October 2010 | Views [725]

Hamish and I sheltering from the sandstorm.

Hamish and I sheltering from the sandstorm.

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.

Tags: beaches, friends, television

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