After spending the majority of
the past few weeks in the bush and small country towns, driving towards the
bright lights of Brisbane
is a daunting prospect. Four lane
highways, skyscrapers and enough surrounding concrete to keep a Bangkok building developer
happy, it’s definitely a change from the long open roads I’ve become accustomed
to. Fortunately though, it’s Sunday
afternoon and the roads are quiet as the majority of the populace laze at home
in the suburbs. I decide to follow their
lead and I head into the vast expanse of sprawling suburbia.
Like Ronald McDonald and his
hamburger wenches, you’re never too far from an Australian person no matter
what country you’re in. This means that
most travellers will inevitably have a friend or two from the land down under. As a result, I’m now having one of those
surreal travel moments where despite being on the other side of the planet I’m
greeted by a familiar face as I pull the van into a sleepy side-street and park
up. The last time I saw Joel was only two
months ago when we caught up for a couple of beers in the highland village
where I was working, yet as we stand and exchange g’days and manly handshakes
it seems like a world away. He gives me
a quick tour of his welcomingly cool, air conditioned home and then decides we
should pick up where we left off and head out for a few sneaky ales.
Shortly after I’m standing in
what sounds like an aviary fill with steroid fuelled budgies. It’s actually the Normanby Hotel and the
budgies in question are young 20-somethings squawking away to each other over
drinks. The place is packed and there
must easily be over 500 people here, all committed to making the most of their
weekend with a good Sunday sesh. As I’m
standing in the queue for the bar I start to feel like the country bumpkin that
I’ve turned into these last three weeks.
I can’t remember the last time I saw so much bare flesh and cleavage, I
don’t know where to look. I decide to
stick to my innocent, rural ways and start taking in the overall scene instead
of perving on the ladies. The crowd is
pretty evenly split in terms of male and female but the guys generally look as
though they’ve fallen out of bed whilst the women have pulled out all the stops
with summer dresses and, collectively, a tonne of make-up. As my “taking in the overall scene”
progresses to the ladies legs on show I realise that I’m subconsciously
perving. I focus on my beer whilst I
wait for Joel to come back from the ATM.
Within five minutes of being
here, Joel’s met a couple of people he knows and we’re quickly part of a small
group of drinkers. I soon become aware
of the fact that this is the first bar I’ve been to in a long time where you
can be sure that there are no other backpackers. It’s too far from the city for the rucksack-hauling
fraternity to get to and as such I’m a little shocked to find that I feel out
of my depth. Conversations with other travellers have a number of built in
safety aspects. Even if you’re speaking
with the most boring backpacker on the planet you can always ask, “Where are
you going? Where have you been?” etc etc…
So when the conversation among our band of drinkers turns to rugby
league and obscure Aussie sporting legends, all I can do is smile and nod. One of Joel’s friends senses my status as a
simple northern European, devoid of sporting knowledge in the Australian sense,
and tries to bring me into the conversation by asking me about sport back
home. However, as I start to talk about
my football team and the Scottish Premier League, the blank faces looking back
make me realise that my sport chat is the culinary equivalent of a kebab stall
at a vegan convention. I decide to shut
up.
Obviously scared by the
possibility of another sporting contribution from myself, the conversation moves
onto tales of drunken debauchery. I’m
soon in tears of laughter as the stories flow and the drunks around us pitch in
their own performances. One guy stumbles
over and proclaims, “I’ve blown a thong, I need some fack’n tape…D’ya reckon
they’ll ‘ave some at the bar?” He
lurches forward before readjusting and swivelling round to the direction of the
bar. Ten minutes later he’s back with a
fresh beer and his thong/flip-flop wrapped on his foot with a liberal helping
of Sellotape. A security man walks by
and the drunk stops, puts his fists up and starts taunting him. The security man looks at him, laughs, pats
him on the shoulder and then walks away smiling. In the UK, someone’s nose would be broken
at this point.
We leave an hour or so later and
I go in search of greasy beer munchies.
I find myself in Dominoes haggling over the price of a large pizza, to
my surprise it works and I leave with possibly the cheapest pizza in the
city. As we head back to suburbia, I
ponder over the night’s events and decide that I might try and haggle over a
Big Mac tomorrow…
