I wake up, on my first
full day as an ambassador, sweating like an Eskimo in a sauna. I
stumble out of the van, desperate for fresh air, and instantly feel
bad about thinking that Innisfail might be a bit of a hillbilly spot.
I’m confronted by a ridiculously picturesque riverside scene with
lush tropical plants skirting a wide sluggish green river, complete
with an old Aussie guy down by the riverbank, fly-fishing for his
breakfast. The Deliverance banjo has most definitely stopped
playing. After a pointless shower, I constantly smell like a sweaty
old sock whilst I’m in the tropics, I head down to the riverside
for a chat with the fisherman. This turns out to be a bad move.
After a brief introduction, the Aussie fisherman reveals himself to
be a Hungarian immigrant who, despite having been in Australia since
1951, speaks English in a way that suggests a deep hatred to standard
pronunciation. I’m only able to understand about 30% of what he
says but I am able to decipher that most of his stories end with
police intervention. As the tales unfold I start to cook in the
direct sunlight like a snag on a barbie. However, I’ve come to
realise over the years that pensioners should come with safety
warnings attached, once you get one talking it’s difficult stopping
them and even more difficult getting away. Even though they look old
and decrepit they’ll follow you up steep embankments and match your
swift strides with unnerving ease. Despite my best efforts, my
British politeness kept me from running away from him and into the
shade. Instead, I eventually set off from the campground with a
toasted glow of sunburn.
Despite it’s visual
charms and incredibly chatty locals, there isn’t much to do in
Innisfail, unless you fancy a spot of banana picking. So the van is
back on the road by 8.30am and by 9am I’m wine tasting at Murdering
Point tropical fruits winery. You might think that it’s a tad
early to be quaffing vino but I’m sure that the sweet mango wine
would win over even the strongest devotees of morning sobriety. By
9.30am it’s back onto the highway and by midday I’m in
Townsville. The last time I arrived here was after a long, dusty
drive through the outback and after an extended spell in the bush,
the tropical delights of Townsville blew me away. I loved the place.
In fact, after 5 minutes in town I realise I still love he place.
Townsville has, in my opinion, one of the best panoramic views in all
of Australia. Castle Hill sits just behind the CBD and at the top
are 360 degree views of the stunning surrounds. To the west is the
Great Dividing Range stretching north and southwards, to the east is
mountainous Magnetic Island sitting out in the Coral Sea. And in
every other direction is a view of either sprawling urban Townsville
or never ending coastline.
I spend the day walking
around the city wearing nothing but shorts and a rucksack. At the
time it seemed like a good idea but when I head up to the summit of
Castle Hill at dusk, I look like a piece of chicken tikka. The hill
is crawling with disgustingly healthy Australians running the 6km
round trip to the summit. The joggers greet me with a mixture of
sympathetic looks & sniggers as I roam the summit, my skin slowly
turning from chicken tikka into a shade of red previously unknown to
mankind. After accepting the fact that I’m not going to get my
hours of serenity on the hilltop, it’s back to the campsite for a
BBQ with my small band of smelly travellers. The goon is soon
flowing and Richard (a fantastic Yorkshire man who speaks English
like the Hungarian fisherman) decides it’s time to get out Dorothy
his didgeridoo. After a few raspberry blows, he starts making some
good tunes and, out of nowhere, a group of Aboriginal guys turn up.
I start wondering if maybe the didge is an Aboriginal version of a
batman sign in the sky? I mean it has the same results, they may not
be wearing tights and a silly costume but they’re there to save
Aboriginal music from the murderous lips of silly Europeans. The
main didge player introduces himself as Willow and proceeds to try
and teach Richard the circular breathing technique before going on to
give an example of how the didge should be played. Five minutes
later, the guys disappear as quickly as they appeared, no doubt happy
that their ancestors will now have stopped turning in their graves.
We all realise that there’s no point in trying to play the
didgeridoo seriously after Willows performance, so I start a game
which I imaginatively name “Didge That Tune.” The ancestors are
soon turning again as famous TV and movie tunes are parped down the
didgeridoo.
I leave Townsville the
next morning and once again aim the van south down the highway. The
landscape is stunning, never ending sugar cane fields bordered by gum
trees, forest covered mountains to the west and the occasional
mountainous island to the east. It’s sometimes difficult to keep
your eyes off the scenery and fixed on the road. I stop in Bowen and
head down to the beach for some lunch. Picture the scene, the sky
and ocean are perfect shades of blue, the white beach is lined with
palm trees, the iPod in the van is playing the most perfectly chilled
out Bob Marley tunes and there’s a drunk hobo shouting at the
seagulls by the beach…Isn’t it just perfect? The reggae legend
that is Mr Marley, slowly being drowned out by rants of “why don’t
you go and catch your own fack’n food yi seagull
bastards…shit…who’s put saltwater in me wine???”
After a
while the hobo man realised the seagulls weren’t going to offer
much in the verbal sense and he set his sights on giving out gifts to
anyone in the vicinity. I was lucky enough to receive a plastic cover
for the top of a beer keg, which now sits proudly in the window of
the ambassador shack.
An hour or so later I
arrive in Airlie Beach, I wonder if the hobos are as friendly around
here…
