Broome has never looked so appealing.
When viewed from 3,000kms away, it seems very much like the
quintessential oasis in the desert. The constant sunshine, palm trees
swaying in the gentle breeze, time slowing down like it's as stoned
as most of the towns inhabitants, turquoise oceans filled with all
manner of friendly vermin just itching to get closer to you. So, that
last example falls way short of appealing, but it isn't the blood
hungry mozzies, sandflies, crocs, sharks, real estate agents, dope
dealers or Woodside that has stopped me from returning there yet. It
is the awesomeness of Fremantle.
A 10 day stop over was planned,
foolishly thinking that would be long enough to exhaust all
possibilities for fun that Trev seems to come up with on a daily
basis. Like Hobart, Trev had a house and a job waiting to tempt me
into a longer stop over. Wanting to extend my three months off work
long enough to write at least three autobiographies, I didn't jump at
the opportunity the universe was handing me on a silver platter.
Working in a boutique beer shop looked like the step my developing
palate wanted to take, but a warmer climate is my foundation for
feeling happy. I eventually agreed to a four week stint, if only so I
didn't return to Broome broke enough to consider begging.
Kate, of Broome Symphony Orchestra fame
for her enviable trumpet rolling skills, was holidaying on Rottnest
Island at the time and insisted I started sponging off her parents
like adopting strays was their favourite past-time. It made a
pleasant change that would have my own parents subconsciously sighing
in relief on the other side of the country without actually knowing
why. Believing my stay was still limited to a month, I thought it
best to squeeze as much touristy fun out of my time as possible.
Returning to the mainland, a
conversation unfolded between Trev and myself about the virtues of
living and working on the Island. The next day, the universe had
posted a job opportunity on gumtree and it no longer became possible
to deny that I was where I was supposed to be. That the job turned
out to be the biggest lemon this side of the Hindenburg proves the
universe has a strange sense of humour.
As the Beer shop retained an air of
normality, things out on the island went from mildly baffling to
flagrantly ludicrous. Whereas the former was run and staffed by the
nicest group of people you would want to meet, the latter was run by
a bi-polar crack addict with a penchant for developing a new and more
annoying personality every day. She also ran the pharmacy next door
and I reckon she was scoffing down more drugs than she was selling.
Craft beer is a hot ticket and constant
upgrades are efficiently implemented to keep pace with buyer demands.
The only buyer demands I heard on the island related to refunds and
disbelief that the place could be so vastly different to the way it
was advertised on the ferry over. The complete absence of profit
meant they should have operated as a charity, and claiming as much
might have afforded them some tax relief at least.
One job paid modestly for stacking
slabs of beer and telling people how trolleyed certain beers have
gotten me. The other paid so handsomely for making coffee that part
must have been compensation for having to witness the most
ineffectively run business in the history of commerce. The place was
essentially a case study in how not to run an successful business.
That I was paid so well and could only bear it for a month gives some
indication of how much it compromised my faith in humanity.
Aside from the nut house, the extra
time on the island gave me more opportunity to explore a place I
would not have been able to otherwise. I wasn't able to take my bike
over initially because I had managed to partly unwind a section of
cable during a 'routine' brake service. Two hours after the 10
minutes I had put aside for the task, I decided that no cost is too
large for a repair when it means that no one will be shot. $25 the
bike repair man charged me, forever freeing me from thinking that
relying on professional help is too financially prohibitive,
especially so when it is also saving my sanity.
Once my bike had made it across, minus
my purple seat cover which gained its autonomy somewhere across the
channel, the whole island opened up to me. 11kms wide and devoid of
all cars, the ride couldn't be easier unless the bike had a motor. A
paved pathway encircles the island linking each bay with a more
deserted version the further you ride away from the pier. By the time
you reach Westend, the only company is fur seals whose days are spent
in virtual catatonia. As the above photo shows, when they are not
laying around doing bugger all on land, they lay around doing bugger
all in the water.
Like Broome, there isn't a great deal
to do other than enjoy the peace that comes from unspoilt natural
areas. There are plenty of little sheltered coves if pretending you
are a castaway is how you like to spend your free time. It isn't a
mecca for flora or fauna with little diversity and too much
competition from early settlers and subversive indigenous people who
were considered subversive only because they were indigenous.
The only animal in abundance there are
Quokkas. Strange little rodents that seem to share more in common
with ewoks than any animal I have seen. Being a protected species,
they are free to meander round at their own ridiculously slow pace,
eating whatever human food scraps they can and often just falling
asleep where they stand. Being so docile, they could have shared the
fate of dodos were mentioning Quokka soccer not on a par with
shouting “bomb” on a plane.
Since telling the lady that her job is
better suited to people familiar with straight-jackets, I have
reverted back to my usual workload of the barest minimum to survive.
I work four days a week at the liquor store, sufficient to survive as
a spend-thrift with a taste for expensive beer and an online shopping
addiction. The other three days should be used drawing, painting or
writing, but I am having too much fun for such serious pursuits.
There is plenty of bike paths winding
their way through Perth and the opportunity to explore them further
is a big selling point when compared to Broomes one route only
option. Even my strenuous relax-load doesn't permit me as much time
on the bike as I would like. I still ride Miranda often enough to
remind her of our love, but not enough to satisfy either of us. There
are enough hills around to give me the shivers of recollection but
the biggest factor could be rain; an environmental oddity for the
next 8 months in Broome.
A holiday back to Broome has been
planned for the end of May. Initially a birthday present to myself, I
must have forgotten what date that was as I return to Fremantle six
days before I turn 37. Other than catching up with wonderful friends
and living life safe in the knowledge it won't rain at all, my time
will be used to decide on a home for the rest of the year. Will the
laid back pace and Utopian climate tempt me back to Broome or will I
grow some man nuggets and face up to my first real winter in ten
years for the sake of enjoying the more entertainment, more people,
more opportunity, less remote aspects of Fremantle? Or will I go left
field and choose somewhere random like the East Coast, Thailand, or
the International Space Station?
That is one of the main benefits to
having no ties, your plans are only limited by your imagination! And
your ability to back up any wild scheme financially, an inhibiting
factor that has stopped me from even buying postage stamps with
rockets on it, let alone visiting the ISS. As a wanderer I love the
idea of not knowing where I could be in a months time. While I feel
that Freo or Broomo are most likely, all it takes is a random strike
of abject craziness and even things like fruit picking in Bowen will
sound like a good idea. I think that is one lesson I have learnt, but
hold on and let's see where the next journal is written from.
