King's Cross is a fascinating place. Every third door on this very short block is a strip club, a tittie bar, a peep show, a dildo store, or a "massage parlor". In fact, once I had to pop through a doorway just because I was so shocked it wasnt something that would make your mother (but not mine) blush. Turns out it was the public library.
I hate to admit it, but Sydney really was better when I was alone, simply because I wasnt really. I found myself meeting the most interesting people. The Canadians, the Dutch couple, the Welsh chick in the park with the fruit bats, the Italian climatologist from the Antarctic, the pincushion-pierced bisexual girl from Melbourne and her fag stag boyfriend, ect.. We have nothing in common except for the fact that we have nothing in common. We bond over our shared desire to talk to total strangers.
Once you stop trying to be a tourist, travelling becomes so much better. I'd hike up and down Darling Harbor, nap with the fruit bats in the Botanical Gardens, check out the Australian Idol finale outside the Opera House, navigating the heineously bad public transport system (delayed by suicide one evening), cheap takeout and bad cooking, or enjoy a "Goodbye Howard" street party in the nifty Newtown... it was never old. Oh, and dont forget my ridiculous evenings on Oxford.
I'm an ecotourist. Always have been. But Sydney was my urban paradise. It reminded me of New York, and I really felt at home, more so than in any tent. I suppose King's Cross is a wholly different form of 'wildlife' and 'nature viewing', but a scene I blended into perfectly. I
f I can offer one piece of advice in this blog for all 3 of my curious readers, it would be to stay away from the tourist hubs, throw away your travel guidebooks, and buy a few containers of boxed wine to chug with your roommates as you all struggle to understand each other in broken English. That's what backpacking is.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Monday, November 26, 2007
The Street (part 2)
Saturday was totally boring, lets skip it.
On Sunday, I was to meet the boy with my father's name again at Arq, because some dumb bitch Australian Idol reject named Ricki Lee was performing. In retrospect, she was actually quite good, but that's irrelevant to the story.
I decided it wouldnt be a bad idea to pregame, and I knew Stonewall had no cover charge. Turns out it was a bad idea. The drag queens on Friday were scary, but this night was some insane major drag event. Almost everyone was in drag, and most were fucking terrifying. Seriously, there's nothing sexy about this. But, interestingly enough, the most hideous one (the one with a witch's nose, wildly frizzed hair, and missing teeth) was also the most entertaining. Go figure.
I tried to quiz the locals as to what the true appeal of drag shows is, but no one could answer. It really is a mystery. However, its apparently a taboo to even ask. I got some daft dirty looks. So, I shut my mouth and returned to the show, at which point my mouth became slackjawed, and I stared with a mixture of curiosity, amusement, and cold fear. Once again I questioned my sexuality.
Desperate for relief from the insanity, I escaped outside and sat on a bench next to a fountain. The peace did not last. Two girls immediately plopped down on either side of me. I seriously entertained the thought that these two young girls were about to mug me. However, they must've heard me mumbling to myself, because they were deeply fascinated by my American accent.
They also had the common courtesy to warn me to not take ecstasy pills with a Chanel or Pac-Man stamp, despite me giving no indication I needed to know this. Luckily, I was rescued when old man in a leather jacket with dirty dreadlocks and sunglasses with one lens missing and a mutt in tow came over and asked the girls if they had a lighter or wanted to suck his cock. We gave him the slip and entered the closest bar. We all had a schooner of beer as they told stories about the time they dated a gang leader or fucked a pro rugby player. Luckily, I was rescued when a drunk fat guy stumbled over and put his arms on our shoulders and said "Get a room, you three!" before zig-zagging out the door.
Apparently, this is a regular Sunday night for them.
Because one of the girls was having a bad trip, they decided to leave and go home, leaving me on my own again. I figure it was time to head to Arq, but walking to it meant walking past Stonewall again. I was not the only one. As I passed, a group of older Asian tourists walked past. Collectively, as if of one consciousness, they all whipped out their video cameras and starting recording the gay bar. You find Asian tourists everywhere in this city, so I dont know why I was surprised to find them after midnight on the scuzziest street in the city with their pocket cams. I guess I was more surprised that they were so interested.
Entering Arq, I found the boy with my father's name quickly enough, though he was not alone. Also with him was a fat boy with a highly common name, and a tall cute boy who shared my name. I very quickly picked up on the dynamic. Father's Name and Common Name were close friends. Father's Name was the life of the party and would show off for anyone. Common Name was interested in Father's Name, but had a bigger, painfully obvious crush on My Name, who only seemed interested in music, always in a trance. Though, Father's Name and My Name might've been occasional fuck buddies. I nestled my way inside.
I thought it would be easy to get with Father's Name again, but he didnt seem to be having any of it, even rejecting my request for a dance. Couldnt tell if it was because his friends were around or he regretted the other night. As the night wore on, I figured him out. My instincts were right; the boy is always performing. He'd always mimicking the drag queens (who are actually pretty funny in Arq) or dancing like an old pro or flirting. Before, it was just us, but now he has Common Name, who soaks up everything he does, enraptured like he'd seen an angel. I wasnt his audience anymore.
I guess that still leaves the question of why he hooked up with me for so long, but maybe that was just another performance. Or he's a bored nymphomaniac. Doesnt really matter now. He left early, with the briefest pleasant-not-intimate hug, and walked off, knowing we'd never get the chance to finish what we started. Common Name followed like a lost puppy, but I was pretty certain his desires were in vain. My Name continued to dance in his trance.
I stayed behind with My Name, and actually managed to draw him out of a comatose dancing state long enough to get to know him some. He's actually quite a pleasant guy, though I dont imagine there's much going on behind the eyeballs, if you know what I mean. Still, I had someone to dance with, so I didnt feel so out of place. And he was easy on the eyes, even though I knew I had no chance and didnt try. And I picked up a few new dance moves from him.
As the night wore on, I discovered Arq has a few shifts. Early on, its basically empty. Then, you have the young cool crowd. But this yields way to older topless men, which eventually becomes older topless thai/asian men. We developed a codeword for old men trying to dance with/grope us. We'd yell "Avocado!" and grab for each other. Seemed to work well enough.
Luckily I left before the last shift. I didnt want to know what it was like at the end of the night, when everyone left is looking for someone to go home with. My knees just hurt too much from bouncing every second for over 4 hours. That's almost 15,000 bounces to go on top of a day of walking everywhere.
As I walked back to the hostel to say goodbye to Sydney, a taxi full of Thai women sailed past, and yelled something that I think amounted to an invite to get in. Finally, at the very end of my stay, I found prostitutes. I'd wondered where they'd been hiding this whole time.
In the end, I'm not sure what I learned. I learned that some gay guys like Father's Name and his friend, while pleasant, are ultimately about themselves. They live to show off. Others, like My Name, are all about the dance. And others still, like Common Name are just regular people, who cant dance and dont have perfect bodies, who realize they'll always be on the fringe of gay culture. But they all realize they're young, and fear the day that comes to the end, when they garner a yell of "Avocado!". Despite the visceral pleasure of making out with my online friend, the experience was actually quite depressing. I'm not long for America, and its about time I started working on reviving my straighter half if I dont want to end up pathetic and alone.
On Sunday, I was to meet the boy with my father's name again at Arq, because some dumb bitch Australian Idol reject named Ricki Lee was performing. In retrospect, she was actually quite good, but that's irrelevant to the story.
I decided it wouldnt be a bad idea to pregame, and I knew Stonewall had no cover charge. Turns out it was a bad idea. The drag queens on Friday were scary, but this night was some insane major drag event. Almost everyone was in drag, and most were fucking terrifying. Seriously, there's nothing sexy about this. But, interestingly enough, the most hideous one (the one with a witch's nose, wildly frizzed hair, and missing teeth) was also the most entertaining. Go figure.
I tried to quiz the locals as to what the true appeal of drag shows is, but no one could answer. It really is a mystery. However, its apparently a taboo to even ask. I got some daft dirty looks. So, I shut my mouth and returned to the show, at which point my mouth became slackjawed, and I stared with a mixture of curiosity, amusement, and cold fear. Once again I questioned my sexuality.
Desperate for relief from the insanity, I escaped outside and sat on a bench next to a fountain. The peace did not last. Two girls immediately plopped down on either side of me. I seriously entertained the thought that these two young girls were about to mug me. However, they must've heard me mumbling to myself, because they were deeply fascinated by my American accent.
They also had the common courtesy to warn me to not take ecstasy pills with a Chanel or Pac-Man stamp, despite me giving no indication I needed to know this. Luckily, I was rescued when old man in a leather jacket with dirty dreadlocks and sunglasses with one lens missing and a mutt in tow came over and asked the girls if they had a lighter or wanted to suck his cock. We gave him the slip and entered the closest bar. We all had a schooner of beer as they told stories about the time they dated a gang leader or fucked a pro rugby player. Luckily, I was rescued when a drunk fat guy stumbled over and put his arms on our shoulders and said "Get a room, you three!" before zig-zagging out the door.
Apparently, this is a regular Sunday night for them.
Because one of the girls was having a bad trip, they decided to leave and go home, leaving me on my own again. I figure it was time to head to Arq, but walking to it meant walking past Stonewall again. I was not the only one. As I passed, a group of older Asian tourists walked past. Collectively, as if of one consciousness, they all whipped out their video cameras and starting recording the gay bar. You find Asian tourists everywhere in this city, so I dont know why I was surprised to find them after midnight on the scuzziest street in the city with their pocket cams. I guess I was more surprised that they were so interested.
Entering Arq, I found the boy with my father's name quickly enough, though he was not alone. Also with him was a fat boy with a highly common name, and a tall cute boy who shared my name. I very quickly picked up on the dynamic. Father's Name and Common Name were close friends. Father's Name was the life of the party and would show off for anyone. Common Name was interested in Father's Name, but had a bigger, painfully obvious crush on My Name, who only seemed interested in music, always in a trance. Though, Father's Name and My Name might've been occasional fuck buddies. I nestled my way inside.
I thought it would be easy to get with Father's Name again, but he didnt seem to be having any of it, even rejecting my request for a dance. Couldnt tell if it was because his friends were around or he regretted the other night. As the night wore on, I figured him out. My instincts were right; the boy is always performing. He'd always mimicking the drag queens (who are actually pretty funny in Arq) or dancing like an old pro or flirting. Before, it was just us, but now he has Common Name, who soaks up everything he does, enraptured like he'd seen an angel. I wasnt his audience anymore.
I guess that still leaves the question of why he hooked up with me for so long, but maybe that was just another performance. Or he's a bored nymphomaniac. Doesnt really matter now. He left early, with the briefest pleasant-not-intimate hug, and walked off, knowing we'd never get the chance to finish what we started. Common Name followed like a lost puppy, but I was pretty certain his desires were in vain. My Name continued to dance in his trance.
I stayed behind with My Name, and actually managed to draw him out of a comatose dancing state long enough to get to know him some. He's actually quite a pleasant guy, though I dont imagine there's much going on behind the eyeballs, if you know what I mean. Still, I had someone to dance with, so I didnt feel so out of place. And he was easy on the eyes, even though I knew I had no chance and didnt try. And I picked up a few new dance moves from him.
As the night wore on, I discovered Arq has a few shifts. Early on, its basically empty. Then, you have the young cool crowd. But this yields way to older topless men, which eventually becomes older topless thai/asian men. We developed a codeword for old men trying to dance with/grope us. We'd yell "Avocado!" and grab for each other. Seemed to work well enough.
Luckily I left before the last shift. I didnt want to know what it was like at the end of the night, when everyone left is looking for someone to go home with. My knees just hurt too much from bouncing every second for over 4 hours. That's almost 15,000 bounces to go on top of a day of walking everywhere.
As I walked back to the hostel to say goodbye to Sydney, a taxi full of Thai women sailed past, and yelled something that I think amounted to an invite to get in. Finally, at the very end of my stay, I found prostitutes. I'd wondered where they'd been hiding this whole time.
In the end, I'm not sure what I learned. I learned that some gay guys like Father's Name and his friend, while pleasant, are ultimately about themselves. They live to show off. Others, like My Name, are all about the dance. And others still, like Common Name are just regular people, who cant dance and dont have perfect bodies, who realize they'll always be on the fringe of gay culture. But they all realize they're young, and fear the day that comes to the end, when they garner a yell of "Avocado!". Despite the visceral pleasure of making out with my online friend, the experience was actually quite depressing. I'm not long for America, and its about time I started working on reviving my straighter half if I dont want to end up pathetic and alone.
The Street (part 1)
There's a number of totally fucked things about Oxford Street. For starters, its the gay mecca of Sydney, so you know there's bound to be sex and drugs. But, here you couldn't walk 30 seconds without passing a peepshow, an "adult bookstore", a fetish shop, or a thinly-disguised whorehouse. Reminds me a bit of New York. The place is simply dripping with bizarre, but I couldn't leave without soaking it all in.
Now, I'll tell you straight up that I generally make a rule of never meeting people online. Its weird, its pathetic, its potentially dangerous, and my dad does it. But for Sydney, I had to make an exception. It just seemed like a bad idea to go clubbing here totally alone. At best I'd be bored, and at worst I'd be drugged, robbed, and raped. So I went on an Australian gay chatroom, and after much sifting, managed to find someone who didnt ask me my cock size before saying hello. He was new to Sydney himself, but he offered to be my drinking buddy if I needed it.
However, I beat him to the punch. Mid-way through the week, after 2/3 of my friends had gone on to New Zealand, the leftover decided he wanted to go clubbing. Feeling a bit sadistic, I lead the way, ending up at a place called Stonewall. All the queers reading this blog should know the significance of that name, but long story short, its a gay bar. A very gay bar.
Before it had time to sink in, I struck up a conversation with the oldest man I could find, and dragged my friend in. This man was eerily similar to the Crocodile Dundee-lookalike assailing me and Chris back in Brisbane. Old Gay Australian must be a new genre of fag.
After a bit, I relieved him of his torture, and we left, but not before I was invited by a total stranger I bumped into to his 3am pool party. Was he inviting everyone at the bar, or just the young naive tourists? Not surprisingly, this set the tone for the rest of my weekend.
I didnt realize at the time, but I had given my friend a mild dose. I would come back to be scared myself.
On Friday, I texted my new clubbing buddy, and we agreed to meet back at Stonewall, the only gay bar I know for a fact has no cover charge. I knew something was wrong when he texted me back saying he'd wait outside because of the drag queens.
I still dont see the appeal of drag queens in gay culture. But I suspect its because of two reasons. One, gays love divas, which are by default girls, and guys cant be girls without surgery, which some drag queens opt to get anyway. I dont understand the diva obsession, but that's a question for another time. However, I think more importantly, gays know they've been marginalized for being 'deviant', so they want to rub it in the heteros' faces by being ridiculously deviant. This might explain why most drag queens are hideous or frightening.
At Stonewall, I also got to meet his fag hag, who seemed like a genuinely nice girl, and another gay friend of his, who also seemed genuinely nice, but always danced like a Madonna backup boy and always wore a "Fuck me, I'm Irish!" look on his face. Tempting offer though. Eventually, we bid them adieu, and made our way alone to Arq, Sydney's answer to Brisbane's The Family.
This was not a chatting venue. The music was loud, the lights were distracting strobes, and the boys where pushy. So chat we didnt, instead opting to dance. I actually cant dance, and he's a professional dancer, so I felt twice as awkward as usual. But he didnt seem to mind.
Still, something seemed odd about the way he danced. Something showy. But I didnt mind when he was grinding up against me. I tried desperately to not throw a bone, but I'm pretty sure I failed miserably. He didnt seem to mind.
The boy really was a tease. He'd whisper to me, his lips grazing my ears, whip my face with his hair, or hold my head like he was about to kiss me, then just say something. I'm not entirely sure even now if he knew that I spent the entire time thinking "Just kiss me, you dumb shit!" It took the longest most agonizing while, but I eventually managed to get him from tease to intimate, and we started making out on the dance floor. Success!
He told me he had to catch his bus, but that didnt stop him from leading me over to the back corner couch and making out, groping, slipping hands in pants, ect, for over an hour. But, we cant exactly go all the way in on a club couch, can we? Bathroom? Too scuzzy. My hostel? 5 roommates. His place? His parents. A sex motel? Yeah, no. Eventually, he really had to catch his bus, since he had an audition the next day, and I walked home excited for the rest of the weekend, but blueballed beyond all recognition. It actually hurt to walk.
Still, there was an element of weirdness. He shares my father's name. Seriously, try making out with someone with your father or mother's name and having to say it in the moment. So fucking weird. But not as weird as what would come next.
Now, I'll tell you straight up that I generally make a rule of never meeting people online. Its weird, its pathetic, its potentially dangerous, and my dad does it. But for Sydney, I had to make an exception. It just seemed like a bad idea to go clubbing here totally alone. At best I'd be bored, and at worst I'd be drugged, robbed, and raped. So I went on an Australian gay chatroom, and after much sifting, managed to find someone who didnt ask me my cock size before saying hello. He was new to Sydney himself, but he offered to be my drinking buddy if I needed it.
However, I beat him to the punch. Mid-way through the week, after 2/3 of my friends had gone on to New Zealand, the leftover decided he wanted to go clubbing. Feeling a bit sadistic, I lead the way, ending up at a place called Stonewall. All the queers reading this blog should know the significance of that name, but long story short, its a gay bar. A very gay bar.
Before it had time to sink in, I struck up a conversation with the oldest man I could find, and dragged my friend in. This man was eerily similar to the Crocodile Dundee-lookalike assailing me and Chris back in Brisbane. Old Gay Australian must be a new genre of fag.
After a bit, I relieved him of his torture, and we left, but not before I was invited by a total stranger I bumped into to his 3am pool party. Was he inviting everyone at the bar, or just the young naive tourists? Not surprisingly, this set the tone for the rest of my weekend.
I didnt realize at the time, but I had given my friend a mild dose. I would come back to be scared myself.
On Friday, I texted my new clubbing buddy, and we agreed to meet back at Stonewall, the only gay bar I know for a fact has no cover charge. I knew something was wrong when he texted me back saying he'd wait outside because of the drag queens.
I still dont see the appeal of drag queens in gay culture. But I suspect its because of two reasons. One, gays love divas, which are by default girls, and guys cant be girls without surgery, which some drag queens opt to get anyway. I dont understand the diva obsession, but that's a question for another time. However, I think more importantly, gays know they've been marginalized for being 'deviant', so they want to rub it in the heteros' faces by being ridiculously deviant. This might explain why most drag queens are hideous or frightening.
At Stonewall, I also got to meet his fag hag, who seemed like a genuinely nice girl, and another gay friend of his, who also seemed genuinely nice, but always danced like a Madonna backup boy and always wore a "Fuck me, I'm Irish!" look on his face. Tempting offer though. Eventually, we bid them adieu, and made our way alone to Arq, Sydney's answer to Brisbane's The Family.
This was not a chatting venue. The music was loud, the lights were distracting strobes, and the boys where pushy. So chat we didnt, instead opting to dance. I actually cant dance, and he's a professional dancer, so I felt twice as awkward as usual. But he didnt seem to mind.
Still, something seemed odd about the way he danced. Something showy. But I didnt mind when he was grinding up against me. I tried desperately to not throw a bone, but I'm pretty sure I failed miserably. He didnt seem to mind.
The boy really was a tease. He'd whisper to me, his lips grazing my ears, whip my face with his hair, or hold my head like he was about to kiss me, then just say something. I'm not entirely sure even now if he knew that I spent the entire time thinking "Just kiss me, you dumb shit!" It took the longest most agonizing while, but I eventually managed to get him from tease to intimate, and we started making out on the dance floor. Success!
He told me he had to catch his bus, but that didnt stop him from leading me over to the back corner couch and making out, groping, slipping hands in pants, ect, for over an hour. But, we cant exactly go all the way in on a club couch, can we? Bathroom? Too scuzzy. My hostel? 5 roommates. His place? His parents. A sex motel? Yeah, no. Eventually, he really had to catch his bus, since he had an audition the next day, and I walked home excited for the rest of the weekend, but blueballed beyond all recognition. It actually hurt to walk.
Still, there was an element of weirdness. He shares my father's name. Seriously, try making out with someone with your father or mother's name and having to say it in the moment. So fucking weird. But not as weird as what would come next.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
It Counts As Surfing
Let me just say right up front that I was in no danger of drowning. Maybe I found myself in a bit of quandary, but given enough time, I'd have sorted it out myself no problem. But, a real man knows there's no shame in asking for help.
With the afternoon free, I decided to try Manly Beach, the second of the two famous beaches of Sydney, the first being Bondi. But, rather than going alone, I invited a couple from Holland staying in my hostel room to come with me. I was up and ready to go by 1:30, but thanks to my new friends, we got out the door at about 3.
We gave up waiting for the bus at 3:30. Good ol' Sydney Public Transport.
Instead, we boarded a train to the harbor, which was only 25 minutes delayed. Between the bus and the train, we could've walked to the harbor and back atleast once. Good ol' Sydney Public Transport.
We arrived at around 5, in the drizzling rain and blustery winds. Both the surfboard and snorkel rental shops had closed their doors moments before, so it seemed the whole trip was wasted. However, I was determined to at least swim in the ice cold testicle-destroying seawater. I challenged the man of the couple to come swimming with me, but he chickened out after toeing the water. Not me. I had set a goal for myself, and I was going to be the bigger man... and upon reaching the water, be the much much smaller man. I swear my balls had seeked sanctuary nestled in my warm intestines.
The waves were not gentle on this windy rainy day. As I walked further into the surf, they pounded me harder and harder, and I just stood my ground, holding up my arms and grunting through the onslaught like Beowulf.
But, when the water reached about chest height, my center of gravity, the waves basically knocked me on my ass, over and over again. No macho man here.
Anyway, as I walked along the coast, I noticed I reached a patch where the waves were subdued. White foam frothed on either side of me, but in front of me, calm little swells bobbed me up and down. Taking advantage of the relief, I walked out further, until it was deep enough that I couldnt stand anymore. I swam slowly into the ocean.
When I turned around, moments later, I realized the furthest surfer from shore was still well behind me. Did I black out and not remember swimming this far? Well, either way, it was too far. Time to head back. I turn and swam. Dont know for how long, dont remember how far, but the shore didnt seem to be getting any closer. Frankly, I'm a crap swimmer and I know it. So I settled in for the long haul.
Attempting to ride in the waves, along with muscle-numbing effort of swimming, I finally reached where I could feel the sand with my toes. The beach was a pretty gentle slope, so I was still far enough that my friends couldnt see me, but I figured it was smooth sailing from here. I began to walk.
Imagine for a moment if you were on a treadmill, but had no idea. Imagine the frustration when every step actually brought you further back than the one before. A few minutes of fruitless effort, and it began to dawn on me, just as a big wave smashed me on the head and knocked me off my feet. I came up for air, and realized I was now even further, and couldnt feel the floor again. Yep, I'm officially stuck in a rip current and cant get back.
Funny though, I went in the water at 6pm, exactly when the lifeguards went off duty. Surfers paddle around me, but avoid the rip. My friends cant see me. An unknown time swimming against the strong current has left me exhausted. I can tread water easily enough, but I'm going nowhere fast and the sun is starting to set. Fuck.
As luck had it, a surfer chick happened to coast by right near me. Considering its probably a good idea to be polite to someone about to rescue you, I held my head above water, and said "Excuse me, can you lend me a hand? I dont seem to be getting to shore anytime soon." This is the proof that I was never in any danger of drowning. I might as well have been asking for some Grey Poupon!
She told me to grab onto her board, and we began to swim back to shore, where upon she explained in polite language to match my own how much of a dumb fuck I was. She also said we needed to kick to get to shore, but I noticed despite the 'we', I was the only one kicking. The bitch!
But, I digress. She was actually a very pleasant young woman, and I owe her some gratitude, even if I was perfectly ok on my own. We both clung to the board as the swells shoved us towards shore. As we got closer, they even began to curl and break over us. But rode them we did, all the way until I really could walk back. I, my friends, had honest-to-god surfed, at one of the most famous surf beaches in the world. And all I had to do was not nearly drown.
With the afternoon free, I decided to try Manly Beach, the second of the two famous beaches of Sydney, the first being Bondi. But, rather than going alone, I invited a couple from Holland staying in my hostel room to come with me. I was up and ready to go by 1:30, but thanks to my new friends, we got out the door at about 3.
We gave up waiting for the bus at 3:30. Good ol' Sydney Public Transport.
Instead, we boarded a train to the harbor, which was only 25 minutes delayed. Between the bus and the train, we could've walked to the harbor and back atleast once. Good ol' Sydney Public Transport.
We arrived at around 5, in the drizzling rain and blustery winds. Both the surfboard and snorkel rental shops had closed their doors moments before, so it seemed the whole trip was wasted. However, I was determined to at least swim in the ice cold testicle-destroying seawater. I challenged the man of the couple to come swimming with me, but he chickened out after toeing the water. Not me. I had set a goal for myself, and I was going to be the bigger man... and upon reaching the water, be the much much smaller man. I swear my balls had seeked sanctuary nestled in my warm intestines.
The waves were not gentle on this windy rainy day. As I walked further into the surf, they pounded me harder and harder, and I just stood my ground, holding up my arms and grunting through the onslaught like Beowulf.
But, when the water reached about chest height, my center of gravity, the waves basically knocked me on my ass, over and over again. No macho man here.
Anyway, as I walked along the coast, I noticed I reached a patch where the waves were subdued. White foam frothed on either side of me, but in front of me, calm little swells bobbed me up and down. Taking advantage of the relief, I walked out further, until it was deep enough that I couldnt stand anymore. I swam slowly into the ocean.
When I turned around, moments later, I realized the furthest surfer from shore was still well behind me. Did I black out and not remember swimming this far? Well, either way, it was too far. Time to head back. I turn and swam. Dont know for how long, dont remember how far, but the shore didnt seem to be getting any closer. Frankly, I'm a crap swimmer and I know it. So I settled in for the long haul.
Attempting to ride in the waves, along with muscle-numbing effort of swimming, I finally reached where I could feel the sand with my toes. The beach was a pretty gentle slope, so I was still far enough that my friends couldnt see me, but I figured it was smooth sailing from here. I began to walk.
Imagine for a moment if you were on a treadmill, but had no idea. Imagine the frustration when every step actually brought you further back than the one before. A few minutes of fruitless effort, and it began to dawn on me, just as a big wave smashed me on the head and knocked me off my feet. I came up for air, and realized I was now even further, and couldnt feel the floor again. Yep, I'm officially stuck in a rip current and cant get back.
Funny though, I went in the water at 6pm, exactly when the lifeguards went off duty. Surfers paddle around me, but avoid the rip. My friends cant see me. An unknown time swimming against the strong current has left me exhausted. I can tread water easily enough, but I'm going nowhere fast and the sun is starting to set. Fuck.
As luck had it, a surfer chick happened to coast by right near me. Considering its probably a good idea to be polite to someone about to rescue you, I held my head above water, and said "Excuse me, can you lend me a hand? I dont seem to be getting to shore anytime soon." This is the proof that I was never in any danger of drowning. I might as well have been asking for some Grey Poupon!
She told me to grab onto her board, and we began to swim back to shore, where upon she explained in polite language to match my own how much of a dumb fuck I was. She also said we needed to kick to get to shore, but I noticed despite the 'we', I was the only one kicking. The bitch!
But, I digress. She was actually a very pleasant young woman, and I owe her some gratitude, even if I was perfectly ok on my own. We both clung to the board as the swells shoved us towards shore. As we got closer, they even began to curl and break over us. But rode them we did, all the way until I really could walk back. I, my friends, had honest-to-god surfed, at one of the most famous surf beaches in the world. And all I had to do was not nearly drown.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Fandom of the Opera
Anyone who knows me knows I'm a huge fan of classical music and opera.
Also, I like having large screwdrivers gouged through my tympanic membrane. That's eardrums for all you arts students.
But, a particularly pansy friend of mine demanded we go, so off we went. Now, let me tell you something that might not be obvious - Very few operas play in the operahouse. Instead, we decided to see an orchestra play. Despite the seemingly minimal desire most people would have to see such tripe, it was sold out. Standing room only.
Go on, try to watch a 2 hour long orchestra after walking around all day and not being allowed to sit. I suppose I made a challenge of it, to not sit, sleep, or leave. Good lord, I needed to do all 3 at once. But I survived the first half, only to find classy booze cost no less than 8 dollars. Fuckin A, I should atleast get free booze for sitting through (no, wait, standing through) this savagery. This would not be allowed at Abu Gharib!
Luckily, my salvation came. A pretty young usher walked up to me as I walked in for the second half, and said in robotic tone, "I believe these are your tickets, sir." I smiled, understanding without asking, and took my seat. With the pain off my ankles, the orchestra was actually kind of enjoyable, for the 4 minutes I was awake.
If you think about it, there's no reason the 4 of us should work. Two of us are scientists, sure, but one is ultrareligious while I'm kinda a fag. Then there's the really flaming straight man who puts the Queer Eye boys to shame, but is consequently homophobic as fuck and called gay people whores, pedophiles, and unworthy of marriage, among other things. And watching from a distance was a guy I just met, a friend of the other two, who spends most of his time asking us to translate what we're saying.
Oh, and photos. I simply dont put myself in photos. They never turn out looking like I want, so why cringe when I can just take pictures of places I see? But no, they have to stop every 5 minutes to pose awkwardly in front of a minor tourist attraction.
But dont think I'm not having fun. Oh, we are. I mean hell, I found a wild Wombat, held a real Sydney Funnelweb in a jar and watched it try to strike me, and got to pet a baby Flying Fox. I knew those rabies vaccines would come in handy one day!
The sites, sounds, and nature here are absolutely wonderful. Its just the people who cause me strife. However, this wont be the case for the next 2 weeks. For the rest of this week in Sydney and my week in Cairns, I'm on my own. Maybe this is how it should be.
Also, I like having large screwdrivers gouged through my tympanic membrane. That's eardrums for all you arts students.
But, a particularly pansy friend of mine demanded we go, so off we went. Now, let me tell you something that might not be obvious - Very few operas play in the operahouse. Instead, we decided to see an orchestra play. Despite the seemingly minimal desire most people would have to see such tripe, it was sold out. Standing room only.
Go on, try to watch a 2 hour long orchestra after walking around all day and not being allowed to sit. I suppose I made a challenge of it, to not sit, sleep, or leave. Good lord, I needed to do all 3 at once. But I survived the first half, only to find classy booze cost no less than 8 dollars. Fuckin A, I should atleast get free booze for sitting through (no, wait, standing through) this savagery. This would not be allowed at Abu Gharib!
Luckily, my salvation came. A pretty young usher walked up to me as I walked in for the second half, and said in robotic tone, "I believe these are your tickets, sir." I smiled, understanding without asking, and took my seat. With the pain off my ankles, the orchestra was actually kind of enjoyable, for the 4 minutes I was awake.
If you think about it, there's no reason the 4 of us should work. Two of us are scientists, sure, but one is ultrareligious while I'm kinda a fag. Then there's the really flaming straight man who puts the Queer Eye boys to shame, but is consequently homophobic as fuck and called gay people whores, pedophiles, and unworthy of marriage, among other things. And watching from a distance was a guy I just met, a friend of the other two, who spends most of his time asking us to translate what we're saying.
Oh, and photos. I simply dont put myself in photos. They never turn out looking like I want, so why cringe when I can just take pictures of places I see? But no, they have to stop every 5 minutes to pose awkwardly in front of a minor tourist attraction.
But dont think I'm not having fun. Oh, we are. I mean hell, I found a wild Wombat, held a real Sydney Funnelweb in a jar and watched it try to strike me, and got to pet a baby Flying Fox. I knew those rabies vaccines would come in handy one day!
The sites, sounds, and nature here are absolutely wonderful. Its just the people who cause me strife. However, this wont be the case for the next 2 weeks. For the rest of this week in Sydney and my week in Cairns, I'm on my own. Maybe this is how it should be.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Australia So Far
I just finished final exams, and now I'm off to travel the country (including New Zealand, the 8th state) for more than a month. How was your day?
Monday, November 19, 2007
The Best Dinner Interlude
You get sick pretty easily of college food. I don’t know how they manage to fuck up white rice, but they pull it off swimmingly. So when I heard the school would be treating us to a farewell dinner, I was probably unreasonably excited.
Our dinner would be held at JoJo’s on the Queen Street Mall. With its big neon rainbow sign, I always pegged it for a lesbian bar. Turns out it’s a crazy buffet/steakhouse/pan-asian extravaganza. However, the connotations weren’t lost in that this would be the first time I’d be meeting my new advisor. The outgoing one slurred in my ear during her farewell drunken bacchanal that she thought her replacement was gay, and she wanted me to find out. Did she expect me to go down on him or something?
Turns out he was straight, atleast from what I can tell. I know the idea of a good-looking young man with visible abdominal muscles and impeccable fashion taste voluntarily turning down women “because of religion” seems suspect, but I think he’s the real deal.
The school, being the greedy cash fiends they are, shocked up by giving us each a 50 dollar tab. We marveled momentarily at this windfall of generosity, until we realized they’re still charging us 40 thousand a year. Well, might as well make the most of it.
And make the most of it we did. We all went for the priciest things we could find, then shared. I bought a 30 dollar steak & shrimp meal, which was by far the best steak I’ve had in years. Then I had a slice of Thai pizza, which made me wonder how I’d lived without it in my life until now. Throw in a spoonful of pumpkin soup, a forkful of pesto pasta, and a handful of cheesy nachos, and you had a pretty satisfying meal.
But, for shits and giggles, I decided to get a 20 dollar Pad Thai meal on top of it, wash it down with a strawberry-apple-banana milkshake, and wrap it up with a slice of orange almond chocolate cake (with a scoop of ice cream on top).
All in all, about 2 and 1/2 meals, and I plainly thumbed my nose at the 50 dollar limit, easily breaking 60 clams. A good effort, I’d say.
The next evening, the college served us unidentified C-grade meat in what may or may not be curry, with a side of overboiled broccoli. At least they spoiled us with dessert, a hard and stale raisin cake served with cold lumpy expired custard.
On the other hand, I’m going to have to learn to cook for myself next year, so I best get used to Easy Mac.
Our dinner would be held at JoJo’s on the Queen Street Mall. With its big neon rainbow sign, I always pegged it for a lesbian bar. Turns out it’s a crazy buffet/steakhouse/pan-asian extravaganza. However, the connotations weren’t lost in that this would be the first time I’d be meeting my new advisor. The outgoing one slurred in my ear during her farewell drunken bacchanal that she thought her replacement was gay, and she wanted me to find out. Did she expect me to go down on him or something?
Turns out he was straight, atleast from what I can tell. I know the idea of a good-looking young man with visible abdominal muscles and impeccable fashion taste voluntarily turning down women “because of religion” seems suspect, but I think he’s the real deal.
The school, being the greedy cash fiends they are, shocked up by giving us each a 50 dollar tab. We marveled momentarily at this windfall of generosity, until we realized they’re still charging us 40 thousand a year. Well, might as well make the most of it.
And make the most of it we did. We all went for the priciest things we could find, then shared. I bought a 30 dollar steak & shrimp meal, which was by far the best steak I’ve had in years. Then I had a slice of Thai pizza, which made me wonder how I’d lived without it in my life until now. Throw in a spoonful of pumpkin soup, a forkful of pesto pasta, and a handful of cheesy nachos, and you had a pretty satisfying meal.
But, for shits and giggles, I decided to get a 20 dollar Pad Thai meal on top of it, wash it down with a strawberry-apple-banana milkshake, and wrap it up with a slice of orange almond chocolate cake (with a scoop of ice cream on top).
All in all, about 2 and 1/2 meals, and I plainly thumbed my nose at the 50 dollar limit, easily breaking 60 clams. A good effort, I’d say.
The next evening, the college served us unidentified C-grade meat in what may or may not be curry, with a side of overboiled broccoli. At least they spoiled us with dessert, a hard and stale raisin cake served with cold lumpy expired custard.
On the other hand, I’m going to have to learn to cook for myself next year, so I best get used to Easy Mac.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Gotta Catch 'Em All! (or Australia Zoo, Round 3)
Fred opens doors. Really, it’s not what you know, but who you know.
Not surprisingly, it was John who first brought it to my attention. The honorary professorship Steve Irwin received before his death would finally be presented to Terri Irwin, after a lecture on the research by Steve and Craig Franklin. John dogged me to go, but I turned him down. Surprised? I figured it would just be a rehash of Craig’s lecture, with the briefest glimpse of the Irwins before they were whisked away in a whirlwind of security and media.
I was half-right. However, the fact remained I had no ticket and I was too late to get one. So I shrugged my shoulders and resigned myself to try again next time I was in Oz. Just so happened fate was on my side. As I wandered around Goddard, unsuccessfully trying to find Professor Goldizen to suck up to her and trying to find a way to the roof of Goddard, I nearly ran smack into Dr. Franklin.
To be honest, the man didn’t seem so happy to see me. He had his lecture in under 2 hours, and here he had me following him around like a lost puppy for the second time. But, my patience was rewarded when he brusquely gave me a free ticket and shooed me out his office. Ka-ching!
An hour later, I made my way to the lecture theater, and knew I had made the right choice. Among four of the people waiting were John, his friend Jennie, croc man Richard, and Bob Irwin. As fun as it would’ve been to interrupt, I do have a shred of tact left. Instead, I amused myself by nagging Richard. And here’s where I discovered the secret: Everyone loves Fred.
Bring up that man, and suddenly Richard transforms to disinterested semi-celebrity to old chum, sharing stories of the old times, despite the fact that my “old times” with Fred was only about half an hour of conversation about a month ago. Armed with my new technique, I was ready to join the lecture.
As I said, I was half-right. As pleasant as Craig’s lecture was, it was a total rehash of his class lecture, albeit with cutesy animation. Then it was time for Terri to accept her award, which she did with requisite speech. I couldn’t tell if the self-admitted “frog in her throat” was due to a respiratory infection or being still choked up at the memory of Steve, over a year after her death. Despite the professional demeanor and brave face, we could see she was still desperately sad in his absence.
Afterwards, I warned John and Jennie to stay back. I’ve had experience with these kinds of public affairs in my role as a reporter, and your best bet is to wait. Most people will flood out, anxious for free food or expecting their guests to make a prompt appearance. In reality, they’ll hang back for press photos.
Terri Irwin and Craig Franklin were absorbed into a circle of important looking people. He was my opening. I sauntered up to Craig in a lull of his conversation with Terri, and congratulated him on the good performance, joking about the goofy animations. Those 20 seconds or so established my legitimacy in the circle, and it was no trouble to turn around and chat with Terri briefly, shaking her hand and making generalized positive statements about her book. Work the crowd. I walked away with a smug grin, as John looked on stunned, and Jennie looked intimidated by the whole affair.
Next up, Wes Mannion. He was chatting with the MP from the Glasshouse Mountains, where the zoo is located. Now, who’s the easier target? Again, I chose the non-celebrity. “Hey, aren’t you the MP from Glasshouse? How’s the election going?” I don’t remember what she said, nor do I care. Point was, I broke up her conversation with Wes. Then I turned to him and pulled out the ace.
“So, I was at the Zoo a few weeks back, and Graham was putting on a show. Afterwards, they held him back to fix his gate, and I had a little time to chat with him... How’s your ass?”
Graham, that infamous crocodile, attacked Wes one stormy night, and ripped off a large chunk of Wes’ upper leg. Got a nasty scar, apparently. But, Wes was a good Aussie bloke, and laughed at my question good naturedly. A short chat and a handshake later, two down.
Next, John Stainton, the producer of the Crocodile Hunter series. He’s a bit overweight, with fading red hair that may have been my shade back in the day. I walked up to him, pointed to his head, and simply asked “Are you secretly my real father?” Check.
Finally, there was Kelsey and Jodie. Kelsey is the curator of the zoo and Fred’s daughter. This one was easy. “Say, do you happen to know Fred?” with a knowing grin. Owner, Director, Producer, Curator. All that was left was Founder, Bob Irwin.
As the photos started rolling in, Bob tried to worm his way out of it. For all he did, he didn’t seem to like the limelight. So from the outside of the circle, I yelled at him like an old friend, “C’mon Bob, get in there! Don’t be shy!” He gave me a dirty look, and knew I had my foot in the door. But before then, I made sure that the new Vice Chancellor knew my name and face for when I want to come back. Just overhearing his wife was from Pennsylvania was plenty of ammo.
Before we left, I figured we should get photos. Again, John didn’t want to intrude, and Jennie was completely petrified to meet her hero. So I brushed them off, walked right through the crowd to the publicity-weary Terri, and asked her “Plenty of press photos, but can you take one with my friend over there who idolizes you?” Always appeal to narcissism. But you know what, I don’t think I struck that nerve. She gave a genuine smile, and said, “That’s what I’m here for. I’d love to.”
Just to add an extra layer of gloat on this, we roped John Stainton, Crocodile Hunter filmmaker, into taking our photo.
But hey, why stop with one? Walk up to Wes, put my hand on his shoulder (keep the chummy dynamic going), and use the same canned line.
However, it seemed we were too late to get Bob. The old man was long gone. But hey, maybe there was still free food left. We strolled out to the reception, where they graciously left the mini tarts last to be cleared up. I immediately started indulging, burning through 8 mini tarts before I realized I was standing right next to Bob.
“Hey Bob, try one of these tarts, they’re pretty good!”
To which he leaned in close to my ear and whispered, “Just between you and me… THEY SUCK!” Mission accomplished.
John, Jennie, and the mysterious German who slipped into our Terri photo quickly ran up and joined us as we began to pick Bob’s brain.
“Where did you discover the Irwin Turtle?”
“How did you find the Canopy Goanna?”
“Did you invent your croc catching techniques yourself?”
You get the general idea. Bob responded by picking up on our American accents, and telling us just how bad America was, and that we should all move to Queensland and become real men. We loved the stubborn old bushman immediately.
Fred and Bob may be the last of an old vanguard, the crusty old blokes who create zoos from scratch, catch the hugest reptiles on earth by hand, and keep us entertained for hours. All we’ve got to do is listen and watch.
Not surprisingly, it was John who first brought it to my attention. The honorary professorship Steve Irwin received before his death would finally be presented to Terri Irwin, after a lecture on the research by Steve and Craig Franklin. John dogged me to go, but I turned him down. Surprised? I figured it would just be a rehash of Craig’s lecture, with the briefest glimpse of the Irwins before they were whisked away in a whirlwind of security and media.
I was half-right. However, the fact remained I had no ticket and I was too late to get one. So I shrugged my shoulders and resigned myself to try again next time I was in Oz. Just so happened fate was on my side. As I wandered around Goddard, unsuccessfully trying to find Professor Goldizen to suck up to her and trying to find a way to the roof of Goddard, I nearly ran smack into Dr. Franklin.
To be honest, the man didn’t seem so happy to see me. He had his lecture in under 2 hours, and here he had me following him around like a lost puppy for the second time. But, my patience was rewarded when he brusquely gave me a free ticket and shooed me out his office. Ka-ching!
An hour later, I made my way to the lecture theater, and knew I had made the right choice. Among four of the people waiting were John, his friend Jennie, croc man Richard, and Bob Irwin. As fun as it would’ve been to interrupt, I do have a shred of tact left. Instead, I amused myself by nagging Richard. And here’s where I discovered the secret: Everyone loves Fred.
Bring up that man, and suddenly Richard transforms to disinterested semi-celebrity to old chum, sharing stories of the old times, despite the fact that my “old times” with Fred was only about half an hour of conversation about a month ago. Armed with my new technique, I was ready to join the lecture.
As I said, I was half-right. As pleasant as Craig’s lecture was, it was a total rehash of his class lecture, albeit with cutesy animation. Then it was time for Terri to accept her award, which she did with requisite speech. I couldn’t tell if the self-admitted “frog in her throat” was due to a respiratory infection or being still choked up at the memory of Steve, over a year after her death. Despite the professional demeanor and brave face, we could see she was still desperately sad in his absence.
Afterwards, I warned John and Jennie to stay back. I’ve had experience with these kinds of public affairs in my role as a reporter, and your best bet is to wait. Most people will flood out, anxious for free food or expecting their guests to make a prompt appearance. In reality, they’ll hang back for press photos.
Terri Irwin and Craig Franklin were absorbed into a circle of important looking people. He was my opening. I sauntered up to Craig in a lull of his conversation with Terri, and congratulated him on the good performance, joking about the goofy animations. Those 20 seconds or so established my legitimacy in the circle, and it was no trouble to turn around and chat with Terri briefly, shaking her hand and making generalized positive statements about her book. Work the crowd. I walked away with a smug grin, as John looked on stunned, and Jennie looked intimidated by the whole affair.
Next up, Wes Mannion. He was chatting with the MP from the Glasshouse Mountains, where the zoo is located. Now, who’s the easier target? Again, I chose the non-celebrity. “Hey, aren’t you the MP from Glasshouse? How’s the election going?” I don’t remember what she said, nor do I care. Point was, I broke up her conversation with Wes. Then I turned to him and pulled out the ace.
“So, I was at the Zoo a few weeks back, and Graham was putting on a show. Afterwards, they held him back to fix his gate, and I had a little time to chat with him... How’s your ass?”
Graham, that infamous crocodile, attacked Wes one stormy night, and ripped off a large chunk of Wes’ upper leg. Got a nasty scar, apparently. But, Wes was a good Aussie bloke, and laughed at my question good naturedly. A short chat and a handshake later, two down.
Next, John Stainton, the producer of the Crocodile Hunter series. He’s a bit overweight, with fading red hair that may have been my shade back in the day. I walked up to him, pointed to his head, and simply asked “Are you secretly my real father?” Check.
Finally, there was Kelsey and Jodie. Kelsey is the curator of the zoo and Fred’s daughter. This one was easy. “Say, do you happen to know Fred?” with a knowing grin. Owner, Director, Producer, Curator. All that was left was Founder, Bob Irwin.
As the photos started rolling in, Bob tried to worm his way out of it. For all he did, he didn’t seem to like the limelight. So from the outside of the circle, I yelled at him like an old friend, “C’mon Bob, get in there! Don’t be shy!” He gave me a dirty look, and knew I had my foot in the door. But before then, I made sure that the new Vice Chancellor knew my name and face for when I want to come back. Just overhearing his wife was from Pennsylvania was plenty of ammo.
Before we left, I figured we should get photos. Again, John didn’t want to intrude, and Jennie was completely petrified to meet her hero. So I brushed them off, walked right through the crowd to the publicity-weary Terri, and asked her “Plenty of press photos, but can you take one with my friend over there who idolizes you?” Always appeal to narcissism. But you know what, I don’t think I struck that nerve. She gave a genuine smile, and said, “That’s what I’m here for. I’d love to.”
Just to add an extra layer of gloat on this, we roped John Stainton, Crocodile Hunter filmmaker, into taking our photo.
But hey, why stop with one? Walk up to Wes, put my hand on his shoulder (keep the chummy dynamic going), and use the same canned line.
However, it seemed we were too late to get Bob. The old man was long gone. But hey, maybe there was still free food left. We strolled out to the reception, where they graciously left the mini tarts last to be cleared up. I immediately started indulging, burning through 8 mini tarts before I realized I was standing right next to Bob.
“Hey Bob, try one of these tarts, they’re pretty good!”
To which he leaned in close to my ear and whispered, “Just between you and me… THEY SUCK!” Mission accomplished.
John, Jennie, and the mysterious German who slipped into our Terri photo quickly ran up and joined us as we began to pick Bob’s brain.
“Where did you discover the Irwin Turtle?”
“How did you find the Canopy Goanna?”
“Did you invent your croc catching techniques yourself?”
You get the general idea. Bob responded by picking up on our American accents, and telling us just how bad America was, and that we should all move to Queensland and become real men. We loved the stubborn old bushman immediately.
Fred and Bob may be the last of an old vanguard, the crusty old blokes who create zoos from scratch, catch the hugest reptiles on earth by hand, and keep us entertained for hours. All we’ve got to do is listen and watch.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Earning New Zealand
Don’t let the title fool you. I did not earn New Zealand. In fact, if I wasn’t so damn poor, I’d be shamed of this story.
I had planned all along to backpack New Zealand on my way back to America. I even bought my flights back in April with this in mind. The only problem is that I don’t actually have a backpack; trying to go “backpacking” with my rolling luggage is just a wee bit pathetic.
However, before I get a chance to buy a shiny new pack, I have a conversation with my mother. She doesn’t want me to go to New Zealand, and is more than willing to use the power of the purse against me. What the hell got into her?
Rather than challenge her directly, I go around her. You know how kids used to do it; Dad says no, so you run screaming to Mom before they can strategize with each other. It’s so much easier when they’re divorced. Despite my father usually being the paranoid one, he seemed to have no problem. I even got backup support from my Uncle for extra leverage.
In retrospect, getting the okay from my Uncle is not the reassurance my Mom wants. He once backpacked through Pakistan despite being jewish, and financed his travels by driving cars across the border with Iran and agreeing to never look in the trunk or ask questions. Stellar role model.
I went back to my Mom and presented her with the facts and the family’s unilateral support. She was unwavering. So I pulled out my big guns:
“Mom, this is New Zealand. The worst case scenario is that I get raped by roving bands of sheep.”
This triggered it. She broke down and revealed the real reason she was afraid of me going to New Zealand: She was scared of me traveling to strange cities alone, going to gay bars, and getting picked up by strangers who proceed to take me home, rape me, and kill me.
So, what’s wrong with this picture? For starters, there are only 4 million people in New Zealand, as opposed to 40 million sheep. Every man, woman, and child can have a harem of 10 sheep to his or herself. There are only 4 cities worth mentioning, and I have doubts there’s a single gay bar in the South Island. The “raped by sheep” scenario is far more plausible.
Add to that the fact that I’ll have way more important things to do than go to a sketch gay club, and I’ve already been living a hedonistic club life right here in Brisbane, going home by no less than the bartender, and I have to wonder what she’s really afraid of. Brisbane, I understand. Sydney, even I’m alittle scared of. But fucking New Zealand?
However, she offers a compromise. She’ll let me go to New Zealand if I go with a tour group, the scenario under which I went to Europe years before. I laughed in her face, then told her essentially that I’m not giving up my freedom to go on a tour group, and that I’ll go with or without her permission. She could threaten all she wants, but ultimately she’s powerless.
So, she fell back on her last resort: Bribery. If I went on a guided tour, she’d pay for half. I agreed, on the condition that the tour be even better than the solo trip I was planning on taking. I then went to find such a grossly extravagant tour. STA had a convenient list, and I immediately went for the priciest tour at $2000. She agreed, and deposited $1000 free no-strings dollars in my account by week’s end. I didn’t realize how much I’d accidentally ripped her off.
For starters, I rounded. The trip was actually only $1800. Secondly, I changed my mind last minute and went for the $1600 tour, which meant I only paid for about a third. And finally, I realized all the prices were given in New Zealand dollars; the tour only cost 1200 American. Essentially, I got to travel to New Zealand almost for free, and to my total discredit, I never mentioned a thing to her or offered a refund.
Turns out, the ones with the last laugh is STA Travel. When I got my itinerary, I found nearly all the activities had suspicious ** next to them. Looking in the back, I found out what I feared: ** means Optional Activity, which means you pay for it yourself. I thought the price seemed too good to be true, and it was; they pay for cheap lodging, the ferry between islands, and some meals. If I want to go bungee jumping or dolphin feeding or cave abseiling, it was coming right out of my own pocket. The trip really would be half and half after all.
But like a Korean masseuse, there’s a happy ending to this story. I remembered that $1500 scholarship from Americorps for underwater weed pulling that I never cashed in. You know that feeling when you find 20 bucks in your wallet you forgot you had? Multiply that by 75. Even though it was my money all along, it felt like a free gift, and went recklessly spending accordingly. Now I understand the stupidity people feel when they get a tax refund check. Dumb schmucks.
I had planned all along to backpack New Zealand on my way back to America. I even bought my flights back in April with this in mind. The only problem is that I don’t actually have a backpack; trying to go “backpacking” with my rolling luggage is just a wee bit pathetic.
However, before I get a chance to buy a shiny new pack, I have a conversation with my mother. She doesn’t want me to go to New Zealand, and is more than willing to use the power of the purse against me. What the hell got into her?
Rather than challenge her directly, I go around her. You know how kids used to do it; Dad says no, so you run screaming to Mom before they can strategize with each other. It’s so much easier when they’re divorced. Despite my father usually being the paranoid one, he seemed to have no problem. I even got backup support from my Uncle for extra leverage.
In retrospect, getting the okay from my Uncle is not the reassurance my Mom wants. He once backpacked through Pakistan despite being jewish, and financed his travels by driving cars across the border with Iran and agreeing to never look in the trunk or ask questions. Stellar role model.
I went back to my Mom and presented her with the facts and the family’s unilateral support. She was unwavering. So I pulled out my big guns:
“Mom, this is New Zealand. The worst case scenario is that I get raped by roving bands of sheep.”
This triggered it. She broke down and revealed the real reason she was afraid of me going to New Zealand: She was scared of me traveling to strange cities alone, going to gay bars, and getting picked up by strangers who proceed to take me home, rape me, and kill me.
So, what’s wrong with this picture? For starters, there are only 4 million people in New Zealand, as opposed to 40 million sheep. Every man, woman, and child can have a harem of 10 sheep to his or herself. There are only 4 cities worth mentioning, and I have doubts there’s a single gay bar in the South Island. The “raped by sheep” scenario is far more plausible.
Add to that the fact that I’ll have way more important things to do than go to a sketch gay club, and I’ve already been living a hedonistic club life right here in Brisbane, going home by no less than the bartender, and I have to wonder what she’s really afraid of. Brisbane, I understand. Sydney, even I’m alittle scared of. But fucking New Zealand?
However, she offers a compromise. She’ll let me go to New Zealand if I go with a tour group, the scenario under which I went to Europe years before. I laughed in her face, then told her essentially that I’m not giving up my freedom to go on a tour group, and that I’ll go with or without her permission. She could threaten all she wants, but ultimately she’s powerless.
So, she fell back on her last resort: Bribery. If I went on a guided tour, she’d pay for half. I agreed, on the condition that the tour be even better than the solo trip I was planning on taking. I then went to find such a grossly extravagant tour. STA had a convenient list, and I immediately went for the priciest tour at $2000. She agreed, and deposited $1000 free no-strings dollars in my account by week’s end. I didn’t realize how much I’d accidentally ripped her off.
For starters, I rounded. The trip was actually only $1800. Secondly, I changed my mind last minute and went for the $1600 tour, which meant I only paid for about a third. And finally, I realized all the prices were given in New Zealand dollars; the tour only cost 1200 American. Essentially, I got to travel to New Zealand almost for free, and to my total discredit, I never mentioned a thing to her or offered a refund.
Turns out, the ones with the last laugh is STA Travel. When I got my itinerary, I found nearly all the activities had suspicious ** next to them. Looking in the back, I found out what I feared: ** means Optional Activity, which means you pay for it yourself. I thought the price seemed too good to be true, and it was; they pay for cheap lodging, the ferry between islands, and some meals. If I want to go bungee jumping or dolphin feeding or cave abseiling, it was coming right out of my own pocket. The trip really would be half and half after all.
But like a Korean masseuse, there’s a happy ending to this story. I remembered that $1500 scholarship from Americorps for underwater weed pulling that I never cashed in. You know that feeling when you find 20 bucks in your wallet you forgot you had? Multiply that by 75. Even though it was my money all along, it felt like a free gift, and went recklessly spending accordingly. Now I understand the stupidity people feel when they get a tax refund check. Dumb schmucks.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Sunrise Over The Beat (Part 3)
Fate intervened. Just as I started down the steps, I looked towards the bar and found a familiar face. “Hold on 30 seconds, I’ve just got to say bye to a friend.” I raced back up the steps and sat down on the stool next to Chris, while Mike sat in a chair in the corner.
10 minutes later, I looked behind me, and Mike was long gone.
I’d stood him up twice now, and figured I’d lost any chance I had at sleeping with him. I sent him an apologetic text, but frankly, I was still enjoying chatting with Chris more. I’d been cruel just like Kyle, and I’d stood him up just like Paul. For a boy who just a few short months ago was raging against the horrors of the scene, I’d become an abusive slutty scene queen myself.
However, I still enjoyed chatting with Chris, despite the free booze and dirty looks Ash continued to give me. And I couldn’t help but laugh when Ash gave Chris a “receipt”. I told him it had the bartender’s phone number before he had the chance to unfold the paper and prove me right. I’d heard of plenty of people give their phone numbers to bartenders on the bill, but this had to be a rare sight I was witnessing. I felt privileged.
Really, I’m not surprised that Ash thought I was still trying to pick up Chris. Even as I sat on his right and chatted, a steady stream of old and sketch men sat down on his left and went up to bat. One was a dead ringer for Paul Hogan, croc skin vest and all, but about 30 years too old to his Backstreet Boy bleach blond bangs. Usually, Chris would just use me as a prop to get rid of him, which just garnished more dirty looks from Ash, not to mention everybody at the bar over 25. I loved the attention.
Chinatown, Saturday morning, 6am, hotcakes, and I stood Mike up. It really was a repeat of the week before. But this time, Chris made it pretty clear he was going for an early morning shag with Chris, so it was the bus for me. However, we almost didn’t make it.
Chris seemed to enjoy coming down from his drunk/high by talking to every stranger who passed us. For the most part, this was just an embarrassment and a nuisance. Until he starts up with 3 tough looking Lebanese men.
They stop, and walk right up into our faces. The one who seems to be the leader looks us both dead in the eyes and asks “Are you on drugs?” Was this guy, who very likely sold drugs, trying to be a moral enforcer? But, hoping to get this encounter over with as soon as possible, assured him we were not. When he asked us where we were, I told him simply “a club”. Eventually, I emolliated his concern, and he decided he was done with us. He shook our hand before walking away, and I was sure to keep “The Beat Megaclub” stamp facing away from him.
Why couldn’t Chris leave it at that? As the 3 began to walk away, Chris called after them “Goodbye!” The biggest and meanest looking one stopped and stared coldly. “I said goodbye!”, called Chris again. “See ya, shoo!”, performing the appropriate hand gesture with his limp wrist. He began to storm back our way, and I simply covered my eyes with my hand. I don’t know him, we’re not associated…
The leader grabbed his arm before he could take two steps. “Why are you wasting your time with faggots?” he asked in his thick accent. More interested in saving face than breaking Chris’s, he seemed to accept this and walked off. Frankly, I was grateful to the leader. I don’t think he was actually homophobic, but he knew denigrating us would put us below the mean one’s radar. I could swallow my pride this once if it meant not having to bail Chris out of a fight he (or I) couldn’t muster.
Finished, I say my goodbyes. In all likelihood, I’ll never see him again. As I round the corner, I brush shoulders with Ash, on his way to get ass. He smirks in victory, and I smirk right back. He thinks he beat me. I never told him that it was I who convinced the indecisive Chris to call him. I might be going home alone tonight (7am), but that doesn’t mean everyone has to. I know helping Ash get laid in no way makes up for how I treated Mike, but I hope it at least gave me back a little bit of karma.
That night, I had the misfortune of sitting with Kyle again. This time, I’d do right by Mike, and tell Kyle what a dick he was. Only problem was that Kyle didn’t remember a thing last night.
“Really, Michael was there? Well, tell him I’m sorry. I know he didn’t want to go out with me again after you told him I cheated on my boyfriend with you, but now he definitely wont.”
Blink blink… *faceplant into soup*
Michael was the name he’d wrongly put Martin in his phone under. He was talking about Martin the whole time!
Next Friday was in the middle of finals, but that didn’t stop Michelle from going out again. This time, I declined. I must’ve missed a good night, because she came bounding up to me the next dinner, antsy to share her stories.
“You should’ve been there man, it was amazing! Oh, and Andy was there, and he still wants to sleep with you.”
I cocked my head to the side like a puppy, very confused. She continued.
“Don’t you remember him texting you a few weeks back? I gave him your phone number.”
Blink blink… *faceplant into mashed potatos*
Now it all became clear. Those creepy text messages that night. Oh, I had the name right the first time, it was the boy I had wrong. I’d blamed “creepy braces boy” for the actions of the elf, and gave him the cold shoulder when he never deserved it. And I apologized to elfin Andy for standing up Mike, who was already upset by Kyle, who actually intended to ask about Martin…
And this, my friends is how it all comes to a close. Mike, Andy, Michelle, Jess, Paul, Pete, Chris, Ash, Kyle, Martin, and myself. Everybody, take a bow. You might think it was all for nothing, as none of us got our happy endings, except maybe Chris and Ash. But I’ll let you in on a little secret. My last night at The Beat, I met young, overweight, fake redhead lesbian just starting to come out. We didn’t know each other, we weren’t attracted to each other, and we don’t even know each other’s name. I was sobering up from my booze, and she was coming down off her pill. But we danced together. And really, it wasn’t dancing, as much as jumping up and down as fast and high as we can, screaming the words to a cheesy Pink song as loud as we could. The sun was starting to come up over The Beat, and the magic would be over soon, but that moment, I felt so fucking alive.
10 minutes later, I looked behind me, and Mike was long gone.
I’d stood him up twice now, and figured I’d lost any chance I had at sleeping with him. I sent him an apologetic text, but frankly, I was still enjoying chatting with Chris more. I’d been cruel just like Kyle, and I’d stood him up just like Paul. For a boy who just a few short months ago was raging against the horrors of the scene, I’d become an abusive slutty scene queen myself.
However, I still enjoyed chatting with Chris, despite the free booze and dirty looks Ash continued to give me. And I couldn’t help but laugh when Ash gave Chris a “receipt”. I told him it had the bartender’s phone number before he had the chance to unfold the paper and prove me right. I’d heard of plenty of people give their phone numbers to bartenders on the bill, but this had to be a rare sight I was witnessing. I felt privileged.
Really, I’m not surprised that Ash thought I was still trying to pick up Chris. Even as I sat on his right and chatted, a steady stream of old and sketch men sat down on his left and went up to bat. One was a dead ringer for Paul Hogan, croc skin vest and all, but about 30 years too old to his Backstreet Boy bleach blond bangs. Usually, Chris would just use me as a prop to get rid of him, which just garnished more dirty looks from Ash, not to mention everybody at the bar over 25. I loved the attention.
Chinatown, Saturday morning, 6am, hotcakes, and I stood Mike up. It really was a repeat of the week before. But this time, Chris made it pretty clear he was going for an early morning shag with Chris, so it was the bus for me. However, we almost didn’t make it.
Chris seemed to enjoy coming down from his drunk/high by talking to every stranger who passed us. For the most part, this was just an embarrassment and a nuisance. Until he starts up with 3 tough looking Lebanese men.
They stop, and walk right up into our faces. The one who seems to be the leader looks us both dead in the eyes and asks “Are you on drugs?” Was this guy, who very likely sold drugs, trying to be a moral enforcer? But, hoping to get this encounter over with as soon as possible, assured him we were not. When he asked us where we were, I told him simply “a club”. Eventually, I emolliated his concern, and he decided he was done with us. He shook our hand before walking away, and I was sure to keep “The Beat Megaclub” stamp facing away from him.
Why couldn’t Chris leave it at that? As the 3 began to walk away, Chris called after them “Goodbye!” The biggest and meanest looking one stopped and stared coldly. “I said goodbye!”, called Chris again. “See ya, shoo!”, performing the appropriate hand gesture with his limp wrist. He began to storm back our way, and I simply covered my eyes with my hand. I don’t know him, we’re not associated…
The leader grabbed his arm before he could take two steps. “Why are you wasting your time with faggots?” he asked in his thick accent. More interested in saving face than breaking Chris’s, he seemed to accept this and walked off. Frankly, I was grateful to the leader. I don’t think he was actually homophobic, but he knew denigrating us would put us below the mean one’s radar. I could swallow my pride this once if it meant not having to bail Chris out of a fight he (or I) couldn’t muster.
Finished, I say my goodbyes. In all likelihood, I’ll never see him again. As I round the corner, I brush shoulders with Ash, on his way to get ass. He smirks in victory, and I smirk right back. He thinks he beat me. I never told him that it was I who convinced the indecisive Chris to call him. I might be going home alone tonight (7am), but that doesn’t mean everyone has to. I know helping Ash get laid in no way makes up for how I treated Mike, but I hope it at least gave me back a little bit of karma.
That night, I had the misfortune of sitting with Kyle again. This time, I’d do right by Mike, and tell Kyle what a dick he was. Only problem was that Kyle didn’t remember a thing last night.
“Really, Michael was there? Well, tell him I’m sorry. I know he didn’t want to go out with me again after you told him I cheated on my boyfriend with you, but now he definitely wont.”
Blink blink… *faceplant into soup*
Michael was the name he’d wrongly put Martin in his phone under. He was talking about Martin the whole time!
Next Friday was in the middle of finals, but that didn’t stop Michelle from going out again. This time, I declined. I must’ve missed a good night, because she came bounding up to me the next dinner, antsy to share her stories.
“You should’ve been there man, it was amazing! Oh, and Andy was there, and he still wants to sleep with you.”
I cocked my head to the side like a puppy, very confused. She continued.
“Don’t you remember him texting you a few weeks back? I gave him your phone number.”
Blink blink… *faceplant into mashed potatos*
Now it all became clear. Those creepy text messages that night. Oh, I had the name right the first time, it was the boy I had wrong. I’d blamed “creepy braces boy” for the actions of the elf, and gave him the cold shoulder when he never deserved it. And I apologized to elfin Andy for standing up Mike, who was already upset by Kyle, who actually intended to ask about Martin…
And this, my friends is how it all comes to a close. Mike, Andy, Michelle, Jess, Paul, Pete, Chris, Ash, Kyle, Martin, and myself. Everybody, take a bow. You might think it was all for nothing, as none of us got our happy endings, except maybe Chris and Ash. But I’ll let you in on a little secret. My last night at The Beat, I met young, overweight, fake redhead lesbian just starting to come out. We didn’t know each other, we weren’t attracted to each other, and we don’t even know each other’s name. I was sobering up from my booze, and she was coming down off her pill. But we danced together. And really, it wasn’t dancing, as much as jumping up and down as fast and high as we can, screaming the words to a cheesy Pink song as loud as we could. The sun was starting to come up over The Beat, and the magic would be over soon, but that moment, I felt so fucking alive.
Sunrise Over The Beat (Part 2)
Chris was in the middle of telling me about the 34 boys who currently want him (was he counting me?), when I realized he kept getting fresh drinks without putting down any money. It was the same bartender each time, a man in his late 20’s with a pretty good body but a mediocre face. And glitter.
“Oh, he’s Ash”, said Chris. “He’s been after me for weeks. But I might just give it to him, he’s pretty persistent and I’ve gotten a lot of drinks… here, you want some?” He slid his gin and tonic over to me before I could answer. Ash shot me a dirty look, but gave Chris a new drink anyway.
Chris tried his drink, but made a sour face. “I guess they ran out of the good gin. You can have this one too.” I tried a sip, but didn’t drink it further. It tasted oddly salty. Did Bartender Ash just try to spike his drink with GHB? Was I an unwitting participant in a failed daterape attempt?
In the meanwhile, I’d received 3 new messages from Andy. I just ignored them.
Sunrise at The Beat. Here’s a sight you just don’t want to see. A gay club is meant to be shrouded in darkness, and the full sunlight just exposes its ugliness. But Chris wanted a last minute cigarette on the club patio, and I was still amused enough to hang around, despite realizing long ago I didn’t have a chance with him. Afterwards, we went for McDonald’s breakfast. Chinatown, Saturday morning, 6am, hotcakes. I was completely sexless, yet knew I’d made the right choice.
I was about to make for the bus stop, when who comes around the bend but Ash and a lady friend. He gives me another dirty look. Looking to score brownie points, he offers to drive Chris home. However, with lady friend in tow, its not like he’s getting any right now. So, to be the gentleman, he offers to drop me off downtown so I can get a bus home.
Chris lives in Nundah, a far north suburb. Ash must really want sex. However, considering I’d never been in the north suburbs, it was a pleasant ride. I realized just how sprawled the city was; despite having only 1 million people, you can drive an hour in any direction from downtown and still be within the incorporated suburbs.
With Chris gone, me and Ash actually had a good conversation. He wasn’t as resentful at my presence as he looked, and with the bartender persona dropped, he was a fairly likable guy. He must’ve liked me too, because when we got back downtown, he kept driving, intending to take me right back to the university. However, he was taking a strange route…
I began to panic. Dude, without the GHB, its just flat-out rape!
My fears were short-lived. We arrived at university… sort of. “We’re here!” he announced, as he pulled into the driveway of QUT, the Queensland University of Technology. “Err… but I go to UQ.” I reluctantly informed him, quickly adding my willingness to take the bus from here. But he was kind enough to drive me back to the right uni, as long as I could give him directions.
I only gave him the wrong turn twice, and I was home by 7:30. I was only out drinking for 12 hours. Good effort. But, isn’t hitchhiking home with strange gay bartenders who may or may not have been drink spiking exactly why my mom didn’t want me to go to New Zealand by myself?
The next day, I regaled Michelle with the whole story of her creepy braces friend and the bizarre bartender.
“Mike”, she corrected me. “You’ve got their names mixed up.” Ah well, I had a 50/50 chance. I dutifully corrected his name in my phone.
Monday rolls by, and Martin is pissed. Seems rather than being grateful, he was upset by my text that night. He’s getting tired at the conflicting stories and he said/she said (Well, both he. Hurray gay drama!). He’s already cut off contact with Kyle, and is now even threatening to cut me off if I don’t stop trying to protect and baby him. Ok, now’s the time that I actually shut the fuck up. Mission accomplished, I suppose. Glad that’s all behind me.
We later make up, but there’s no kissing involved. In fact, he’s now in a stable relationship with I boy I’ve never met. For the better, I suppose.
Before I know it, it’s the weekend again. Going out with Jess for her birthday. Seems safe enough, there’s no way I’m going to have drama with a lesbian. Well, bisexual, but she’s already dating Tom.
“Scott, can you convince Michelle to have a threesome with me and my boyfriend?” My jaw drops. Exactly when did I open shop on my threesome broker business? Can I make good money this way? I give her a definite maybe, that I think about it when I see her next.
Which was in about 20 minutes. Our party kicked on from Alibi Room to Ric’s, which is Michelle’s favorite haunt. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see her there. Fuck me in the goat ass!
Luckily, Jess was getting tired early, and she and most of her entourage decided to drop off early. That just left me with Michelle and her gay friends. A bisexual boy named Chris, who she wanted to get with (then again, as would I), a drama fag named Paul wearing what appeared to be striped spandex pants (I didn’t hold that against him, he was still cute), and Braces Boy, who I’d now correctly identified as Michael. After his onslaught of creepy messages last Friday, I really didn’t want to be alone with him, but the three of them seemed to give us every opportunity. Drinks, bathroom, say hi to friends, ect. Bullshit, I’m telling you. I bet he asked them to do it. But, I tried to be as civil as I can, which usually just resulted in awkward silences.
I did however get the chance to invite her to Jess’s threesome. She freaked, and made me promise I never asked. Great. How is it possible for me, a gay man, to get involved in lesbian drama?
It’s not polite to butt in on your hostess’s man-meat, so I focused my efforts on Paul, who was always off somewhere else anyway. But as the night continued getting later, and the 3am lockout approached, it was decision time. Michelle and Chris decided to go home (l’chaim!), so Paul, Mike, and I decided to back to The Beat. At which point Paul promptly vanished. In the long run, this was good, as I could focus all my strained conversation with Mike into finding Paul. However, disappointing to me as it was, we eventually had to give up on Paul if we wanted to make the lockout.
Michelle texted me a few minutes after lockout. Apparently, right after Paul said he was coming with us, he found a friend and went off to chat with him, basically standing us up.
This night was feeling familiar. Pete was back, and so was Kyle. However, as much as I silently prayed, neither left us alone. Pete just wanted to size up ‘the creepy braces boy’, but hid his ulterior motives well before shuffling off. Not the case with Kyle.
He rocked up to us in a drunk swagger, and greeted me with exaggerated saccharine. I don’t know Kyle and Mike’s history, but I bet it was dark. Kyle talked right at me, seeming to ignore Mike’s very existence. “Hey Scott, how’s your night?... So, have you had sex with Michael yet?” Mike just stared up at him with wide-eyed stupification. I gritted my teeth. “No, not yet. You?” He just shrugged. Luckily, Pete had been watching this whole affair, and intervened just then to drag the drunken Kyle off to dance.
“Do you think he was talking about me?” he asked, looking genuinely upset. I was honest, admitting I don’t know any other Mike. In retrospect, my answer was just as bad as his question, but in my mind, Mike was still the creepy text message braces boy.
We spent awhile long chatting and dancing. In person, he was actually kind of a sweet guy, not-so-subtly hinting he had a crush on me. And I could probably overlook the braces. Maybe I would sleep with him after all. When he invited me to crash at his place at the West End, I took him up on his offer, and we made our way to the door...
“Oh, he’s Ash”, said Chris. “He’s been after me for weeks. But I might just give it to him, he’s pretty persistent and I’ve gotten a lot of drinks… here, you want some?” He slid his gin and tonic over to me before I could answer. Ash shot me a dirty look, but gave Chris a new drink anyway.
Chris tried his drink, but made a sour face. “I guess they ran out of the good gin. You can have this one too.” I tried a sip, but didn’t drink it further. It tasted oddly salty. Did Bartender Ash just try to spike his drink with GHB? Was I an unwitting participant in a failed daterape attempt?
In the meanwhile, I’d received 3 new messages from Andy. I just ignored them.
Sunrise at The Beat. Here’s a sight you just don’t want to see. A gay club is meant to be shrouded in darkness, and the full sunlight just exposes its ugliness. But Chris wanted a last minute cigarette on the club patio, and I was still amused enough to hang around, despite realizing long ago I didn’t have a chance with him. Afterwards, we went for McDonald’s breakfast. Chinatown, Saturday morning, 6am, hotcakes. I was completely sexless, yet knew I’d made the right choice.
I was about to make for the bus stop, when who comes around the bend but Ash and a lady friend. He gives me another dirty look. Looking to score brownie points, he offers to drive Chris home. However, with lady friend in tow, its not like he’s getting any right now. So, to be the gentleman, he offers to drop me off downtown so I can get a bus home.
Chris lives in Nundah, a far north suburb. Ash must really want sex. However, considering I’d never been in the north suburbs, it was a pleasant ride. I realized just how sprawled the city was; despite having only 1 million people, you can drive an hour in any direction from downtown and still be within the incorporated suburbs.
With Chris gone, me and Ash actually had a good conversation. He wasn’t as resentful at my presence as he looked, and with the bartender persona dropped, he was a fairly likable guy. He must’ve liked me too, because when we got back downtown, he kept driving, intending to take me right back to the university. However, he was taking a strange route…
I began to panic. Dude, without the GHB, its just flat-out rape!
My fears were short-lived. We arrived at university… sort of. “We’re here!” he announced, as he pulled into the driveway of QUT, the Queensland University of Technology. “Err… but I go to UQ.” I reluctantly informed him, quickly adding my willingness to take the bus from here. But he was kind enough to drive me back to the right uni, as long as I could give him directions.
I only gave him the wrong turn twice, and I was home by 7:30. I was only out drinking for 12 hours. Good effort. But, isn’t hitchhiking home with strange gay bartenders who may or may not have been drink spiking exactly why my mom didn’t want me to go to New Zealand by myself?
The next day, I regaled Michelle with the whole story of her creepy braces friend and the bizarre bartender.
“Mike”, she corrected me. “You’ve got their names mixed up.” Ah well, I had a 50/50 chance. I dutifully corrected his name in my phone.
Monday rolls by, and Martin is pissed. Seems rather than being grateful, he was upset by my text that night. He’s getting tired at the conflicting stories and he said/she said (Well, both he. Hurray gay drama!). He’s already cut off contact with Kyle, and is now even threatening to cut me off if I don’t stop trying to protect and baby him. Ok, now’s the time that I actually shut the fuck up. Mission accomplished, I suppose. Glad that’s all behind me.
We later make up, but there’s no kissing involved. In fact, he’s now in a stable relationship with I boy I’ve never met. For the better, I suppose.
Before I know it, it’s the weekend again. Going out with Jess for her birthday. Seems safe enough, there’s no way I’m going to have drama with a lesbian. Well, bisexual, but she’s already dating Tom.
“Scott, can you convince Michelle to have a threesome with me and my boyfriend?” My jaw drops. Exactly when did I open shop on my threesome broker business? Can I make good money this way? I give her a definite maybe, that I think about it when I see her next.
Which was in about 20 minutes. Our party kicked on from Alibi Room to Ric’s, which is Michelle’s favorite haunt. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see her there. Fuck me in the goat ass!
Luckily, Jess was getting tired early, and she and most of her entourage decided to drop off early. That just left me with Michelle and her gay friends. A bisexual boy named Chris, who she wanted to get with (then again, as would I), a drama fag named Paul wearing what appeared to be striped spandex pants (I didn’t hold that against him, he was still cute), and Braces Boy, who I’d now correctly identified as Michael. After his onslaught of creepy messages last Friday, I really didn’t want to be alone with him, but the three of them seemed to give us every opportunity. Drinks, bathroom, say hi to friends, ect. Bullshit, I’m telling you. I bet he asked them to do it. But, I tried to be as civil as I can, which usually just resulted in awkward silences.
I did however get the chance to invite her to Jess’s threesome. She freaked, and made me promise I never asked. Great. How is it possible for me, a gay man, to get involved in lesbian drama?
It’s not polite to butt in on your hostess’s man-meat, so I focused my efforts on Paul, who was always off somewhere else anyway. But as the night continued getting later, and the 3am lockout approached, it was decision time. Michelle and Chris decided to go home (l’chaim!), so Paul, Mike, and I decided to back to The Beat. At which point Paul promptly vanished. In the long run, this was good, as I could focus all my strained conversation with Mike into finding Paul. However, disappointing to me as it was, we eventually had to give up on Paul if we wanted to make the lockout.
Michelle texted me a few minutes after lockout. Apparently, right after Paul said he was coming with us, he found a friend and went off to chat with him, basically standing us up.
This night was feeling familiar. Pete was back, and so was Kyle. However, as much as I silently prayed, neither left us alone. Pete just wanted to size up ‘the creepy braces boy’, but hid his ulterior motives well before shuffling off. Not the case with Kyle.
He rocked up to us in a drunk swagger, and greeted me with exaggerated saccharine. I don’t know Kyle and Mike’s history, but I bet it was dark. Kyle talked right at me, seeming to ignore Mike’s very existence. “Hey Scott, how’s your night?... So, have you had sex with Michael yet?” Mike just stared up at him with wide-eyed stupification. I gritted my teeth. “No, not yet. You?” He just shrugged. Luckily, Pete had been watching this whole affair, and intervened just then to drag the drunken Kyle off to dance.
“Do you think he was talking about me?” he asked, looking genuinely upset. I was honest, admitting I don’t know any other Mike. In retrospect, my answer was just as bad as his question, but in my mind, Mike was still the creepy text message braces boy.
We spent awhile long chatting and dancing. In person, he was actually kind of a sweet guy, not-so-subtly hinting he had a crush on me. And I could probably overlook the braces. Maybe I would sleep with him after all. When he invited me to crash at his place at the West End, I took him up on his offer, and we made our way to the door...
Sunrise Over The Beat (Part 1)
Normally, I avoid drama like a hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobic avoids antidisestablishmentarianism. But sometimes I just can’t avoid it. Sometimes its kinda fun.
Yes, the names have been changed, but none of them are innocent.
The first two people I fooled around with on my arrival to Australia were Martin (the French kid) and Kyle at my res-college. Neither went all the way, and I figured they were both one-time things, considering that Martin was a virgin and Kyle was apparently cheating on his boyfriend with me. In fact, considering I spilled about me and Kyle before I knew he was in a relationship and accidentally put him on the rocks, I did my best to even avoid face-to-face contact.
This worked well most of the time, but every so often we’d accidentally sit at the same table at meals, or he’d show up to Carden Room. One particular morning I came in to find Martin chatting with Kyle on the couch. The conversation seemed pleasant with a twinge of awkward, to be expected for meeting strangers. I proceeded to chat with the two of them while avoiding eye contact with Kyle the best I could, hoping the conversation wouldn’t turn to me. For some reason, I didn’t want them to realize I’d hooked up with them both.
When Kyle left for class, I breathed a premature sigh of relief, only to be informed by an excited Martin that I’d misinterpreted their awkwardness. Turned out they’d hooked up themselves the night before. We had an amusing little triangle.
Now, I’ll be honest, I felt slightly jealous. Not because I’d still felt anything for Martin or Kyle, but because I could not longer harbor the illusion of them as “my conquests”. They’d been with each other, and I realized just how incestuous a small-city gay scene could be. I’d like to say my subsequent actions were with good intention, but in reality, this was probably the cause. However, despite nefarious impulses, it was probably better I did it in the long run; Martin was looking for a serious boyfriend, not hookups.
I said, “Kyle has a boyfriend, you know.”
Go ahead, bite my head off. I know it wasn’t my place to interfere. I know he needs to go through the hard knocks. I also know I couldn’t prove what I said. It was just impulsive.
Well, Martin seemed stunned and slightly in denial. “Kyle seemed like such a nice guy last night!” But he thanked me for my input, and we changed the subject.
That night, I couldn’t keep my trap shut. I walked up to Kyle after dinner, and said, “You know, we have something in common. The French boy.” He shrugged.
“You talking about Michael?” he asked, seemingly nonchalant.
“No, Martin.” I rolled my eyes.
“Oh, I must have his name in my phone wrong then. Anyway, he’s more into me.”
I didn’t realize I came off sounding like I was still into Martin. Maybe I still was.
“You know, he’s not the type.” I offered. “He’s more into relationships.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Kyle called back as he walked off. I’d hoped that’d be enough hint to not play around with Martin.
The next day, Martin told me proudly that he’d cancelled his date with Kyle. They’d had a date? That doesn’t sound like the clandestine hookup actions of a boy in a relationship… Did I just totally fuck up?
The next next day, Martin told me they’d had a chat, and he didn’t believe me anymore. The date was on again. This was probably the point where I should’ve shut the fuck up and kept my mouth shut.
Enter the weekend. Big res-college party. A college friend, Michelle, invited me out to a post-party with her friends. What she didn’t tell me was that she was bisexual and all her friends are gay. She had two friends with her, Andy and Michael, but I’m shit at putting faces with names, especially when I’m drunk. One of them was short and elfish, with a matching eyebrow piercing. The other was tall and quiet, not bad looking but still donning braces in his early 20’s. We mingled, and I became acutely aware of the tall one hitting on me, as much as Michelle denied it. But they decided to head home well before I was tired, and I would kick on to The Beat.
I waved goodbye to Michelle, the tall one who I’d come to know as Andy, and the elf, whom I’d come to know as Mike, and headed off to my old stalwart.
Instead, I found Pete dancing quite homosexually by himself. No shocker. However, in the corner of the dance floor, I found Kyle, dancing romantically/slutty with a boy I’d never seen before. However, from the way they were dancing, I assumed that was his boyfriend. We made eye contact, and I accidentally smirked. He returned with the finger. Taking that as a sign, I drunkedly texted Martin, telling him he was here right now with his boyfriend. Still couldn’t prove it.
My pocket vibrated minutes later with a text, but it wasn’t Martin’s reply. In fact, it was an unknown number. One of those two boys from tonight wanted me to come over. Confusing as fuck, but I eventually worked out it was Andy. The scuzzball had gotten my number from Michelle without even asking me. See, I told her he was into me!
However, I was inexplicitly grabbed with sudden hesitation. I didn’t want to go home with him, and I didn’t know why. I asked Pete for advice, but nothing helpful was forthcoming. So I stalled. And the messages piled up.
- So, are you coming?
- I live in the West End
- The 199 bus leaves in 10 minutes.
- Are you on the bus?
- Hey, if you take a taxi, I’ll split the fare with you.
- I’m so strung out right now.
- I’ve got some drugs left if you wanna share.
- C’mon, are you coming?!
I was sufficiently weirded out, but decided to stop being a big pussy and just fuck him. But I never made it out the door. I sat at the bar for a final drink, purposefully next to a rather cute blond guy. I just have a thing for blonds. Mind you, I figured this guy was well out of my league, but I might as well chat for a bit. After all, I’ll get laid either way.
Surprisingly, he seemed kind of into me. Despite being queeny to a point that usually bothers me, I found him fun to talk to. We hit it off pretty well. His name was Chris.
Yes, the names have been changed, but none of them are innocent.
The first two people I fooled around with on my arrival to Australia were Martin (the French kid) and Kyle at my res-college. Neither went all the way, and I figured they were both one-time things, considering that Martin was a virgin and Kyle was apparently cheating on his boyfriend with me. In fact, considering I spilled about me and Kyle before I knew he was in a relationship and accidentally put him on the rocks, I did my best to even avoid face-to-face contact.
This worked well most of the time, but every so often we’d accidentally sit at the same table at meals, or he’d show up to Carden Room. One particular morning I came in to find Martin chatting with Kyle on the couch. The conversation seemed pleasant with a twinge of awkward, to be expected for meeting strangers. I proceeded to chat with the two of them while avoiding eye contact with Kyle the best I could, hoping the conversation wouldn’t turn to me. For some reason, I didn’t want them to realize I’d hooked up with them both.
When Kyle left for class, I breathed a premature sigh of relief, only to be informed by an excited Martin that I’d misinterpreted their awkwardness. Turned out they’d hooked up themselves the night before. We had an amusing little triangle.
Now, I’ll be honest, I felt slightly jealous. Not because I’d still felt anything for Martin or Kyle, but because I could not longer harbor the illusion of them as “my conquests”. They’d been with each other, and I realized just how incestuous a small-city gay scene could be. I’d like to say my subsequent actions were with good intention, but in reality, this was probably the cause. However, despite nefarious impulses, it was probably better I did it in the long run; Martin was looking for a serious boyfriend, not hookups.
I said, “Kyle has a boyfriend, you know.”
Go ahead, bite my head off. I know it wasn’t my place to interfere. I know he needs to go through the hard knocks. I also know I couldn’t prove what I said. It was just impulsive.
Well, Martin seemed stunned and slightly in denial. “Kyle seemed like such a nice guy last night!” But he thanked me for my input, and we changed the subject.
That night, I couldn’t keep my trap shut. I walked up to Kyle after dinner, and said, “You know, we have something in common. The French boy.” He shrugged.
“You talking about Michael?” he asked, seemingly nonchalant.
“No, Martin.” I rolled my eyes.
“Oh, I must have his name in my phone wrong then. Anyway, he’s more into me.”
I didn’t realize I came off sounding like I was still into Martin. Maybe I still was.
“You know, he’s not the type.” I offered. “He’s more into relationships.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Kyle called back as he walked off. I’d hoped that’d be enough hint to not play around with Martin.
The next day, Martin told me proudly that he’d cancelled his date with Kyle. They’d had a date? That doesn’t sound like the clandestine hookup actions of a boy in a relationship… Did I just totally fuck up?
The next next day, Martin told me they’d had a chat, and he didn’t believe me anymore. The date was on again. This was probably the point where I should’ve shut the fuck up and kept my mouth shut.
Enter the weekend. Big res-college party. A college friend, Michelle, invited me out to a post-party with her friends. What she didn’t tell me was that she was bisexual and all her friends are gay. She had two friends with her, Andy and Michael, but I’m shit at putting faces with names, especially when I’m drunk. One of them was short and elfish, with a matching eyebrow piercing. The other was tall and quiet, not bad looking but still donning braces in his early 20’s. We mingled, and I became acutely aware of the tall one hitting on me, as much as Michelle denied it. But they decided to head home well before I was tired, and I would kick on to The Beat.
I waved goodbye to Michelle, the tall one who I’d come to know as Andy, and the elf, whom I’d come to know as Mike, and headed off to my old stalwart.
Instead, I found Pete dancing quite homosexually by himself. No shocker. However, in the corner of the dance floor, I found Kyle, dancing romantically/slutty with a boy I’d never seen before. However, from the way they were dancing, I assumed that was his boyfriend. We made eye contact, and I accidentally smirked. He returned with the finger. Taking that as a sign, I drunkedly texted Martin, telling him he was here right now with his boyfriend. Still couldn’t prove it.
My pocket vibrated minutes later with a text, but it wasn’t Martin’s reply. In fact, it was an unknown number. One of those two boys from tonight wanted me to come over. Confusing as fuck, but I eventually worked out it was Andy. The scuzzball had gotten my number from Michelle without even asking me. See, I told her he was into me!
However, I was inexplicitly grabbed with sudden hesitation. I didn’t want to go home with him, and I didn’t know why. I asked Pete for advice, but nothing helpful was forthcoming. So I stalled. And the messages piled up.
- So, are you coming?
- I live in the West End
- The 199 bus leaves in 10 minutes.
- Are you on the bus?
- Hey, if you take a taxi, I’ll split the fare with you.
- I’m so strung out right now.
- I’ve got some drugs left if you wanna share.
- C’mon, are you coming?!
I was sufficiently weirded out, but decided to stop being a big pussy and just fuck him. But I never made it out the door. I sat at the bar for a final drink, purposefully next to a rather cute blond guy. I just have a thing for blonds. Mind you, I figured this guy was well out of my league, but I might as well chat for a bit. After all, I’ll get laid either way.
Surprisingly, he seemed kind of into me. Despite being queeny to a point that usually bothers me, I found him fun to talk to. We hit it off pretty well. His name was Chris.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Kaka-Doh! (Part 8: The Long Goodnight)
As fun as it would’ve been to party with Beck and Simon, they gave us their final hugs goodbye, and went on their merry way. I hope what Beck said was true, and that the three of us lit a fire under her ass to return to the job next year with renewed vigor. Meanwhile, I could go for one of those about this time; 4 days of no sleep, and I barely had the energy to carry my bag around (now with freshly wet clothing!). But made our way to Vic’s for free mediocre rat feces (referred to by bar staff as “food) we did.
Side note: We know Vic’s is a backpacker bar, because as soon as we walked through the door, a chesty bartendress offered “We have a great deal on jugs of Foster’s tonight!”
After shoveling the garbage into my gut composter, I began to plot how to get trashed with the minimum amount of money. I did not have long to think. A particularly loud and obnoxious MC crashed our table, carrying a fairly putrid (likely Foster’s) jug of beer. “Wanna play a game?” he asked innocently.
The rules were simple. Roll three dice, which have instructions on their faces instead of numbers, and do what they tell you within 30 seconds. Skeptical, I asked what kind of instructions these dice give. Coyly, he responded, “Can’t tell you!” It only took me about 2 seconds to decide “Sure, lets do it!”
Two shakes and a roll.
Dice 1: Hold your nose.
Dice 2: Chug a beer.
Dice 3: Tell a joke.
Simple enough, no?
Pouring about a schooner’s worth into my pint, I held my nose, pinched my eyes shut, and went bottom-up. Now, sculling this amount of beer is not difficult, but cut off from all air, I went even faster than normal, and was still hacking and wheezing when it was all down. John thought I was about to rolf, and took the appropriate steps back. But I couldn’t afford to puke now. With a jug of mediocre yeast piss on the line, I knew I had to go for it.
Between coughing and sputtering, I turned to Lindsey, the only girl left in our group, and told the shortest yet most appropriate joke I could think of:
“What do you call a room full of women on their period with yeast infections?”
She answered with fear and trepidation – “I don’t know”.
Nearly dead, I choked out “A wine and cheese party!”, before collapsing on my stool in victory. The stunned look of total horror etched on Lindsey’s face was just gravy on top.
My recollections of the rest of the night, even now, are pretty hazy. I know I managed to earn our group another jug by successfully recognizing the theme to Jackass. I’m simply glad they didn’t ask me to do a stunt as their follow-up. Lindsey too proved her salt, winning a jug by identifying all 6 Bond actors. Jasper earned our fourth by winning a National Anthem singing contest.
For some reason, Lindsey also participated in this contest, despite not knowing the England national anthem. Instead, she tried for Spice Girls. Gold star for effort. She also tried to teach me Salsa dancing, despite losing a dance contest with David earlier in the night. George, whose name I now discovered was actually Gary, spent most of the night complaining to me about the war between England and Argentina over the Falkland Islands (those little rocks between South America and Antarctica) that occurred about 20 years ago. Jakob and Martin chatted in a corner, while Jasper left early to go home with a girl. Apparently, not only does beer make straight guys gay, it also makes lazy eyes straight.
The only play I got was a girl who accidentally spilled her fruit cocktail on my lap, before force feeding me the alcohol-soaked strawberry in a way her ethanol-rattled mind must’ve rationalized as sexy before walking away. No gay waiters this time.
John simply nursed the same beer all night and watched the rest of us get shitfaced. In its own way, that can be just as fun.
And here, ladies and gentlemen, is where my story ends. We left the bar, taxied to the airport (where they actually checked my ID this time), and hopped on a plane where I promptly fell asleep. Not nearly long enough, of course, and I nearly fell asleep again on the airport floor at baggage claim. 5 consecutive nights of no more than 3 hours of sleep each can take a lot out of a man, and I was beginning to feel those aches you feel when you’re coming down with the flu. Luckily, 20 hours of sleep will clear that right up.
Side note: We know Vic’s is a backpacker bar, because as soon as we walked through the door, a chesty bartendress offered “We have a great deal on jugs of Foster’s tonight!”
After shoveling the garbage into my gut composter, I began to plot how to get trashed with the minimum amount of money. I did not have long to think. A particularly loud and obnoxious MC crashed our table, carrying a fairly putrid (likely Foster’s) jug of beer. “Wanna play a game?” he asked innocently.
The rules were simple. Roll three dice, which have instructions on their faces instead of numbers, and do what they tell you within 30 seconds. Skeptical, I asked what kind of instructions these dice give. Coyly, he responded, “Can’t tell you!” It only took me about 2 seconds to decide “Sure, lets do it!”
Two shakes and a roll.
Dice 1: Hold your nose.
Dice 2: Chug a beer.
Dice 3: Tell a joke.
Simple enough, no?
Pouring about a schooner’s worth into my pint, I held my nose, pinched my eyes shut, and went bottom-up. Now, sculling this amount of beer is not difficult, but cut off from all air, I went even faster than normal, and was still hacking and wheezing when it was all down. John thought I was about to rolf, and took the appropriate steps back. But I couldn’t afford to puke now. With a jug of mediocre yeast piss on the line, I knew I had to go for it.
Between coughing and sputtering, I turned to Lindsey, the only girl left in our group, and told the shortest yet most appropriate joke I could think of:
“What do you call a room full of women on their period with yeast infections?”
She answered with fear and trepidation – “I don’t know”.
Nearly dead, I choked out “A wine and cheese party!”, before collapsing on my stool in victory. The stunned look of total horror etched on Lindsey’s face was just gravy on top.
My recollections of the rest of the night, even now, are pretty hazy. I know I managed to earn our group another jug by successfully recognizing the theme to Jackass. I’m simply glad they didn’t ask me to do a stunt as their follow-up. Lindsey too proved her salt, winning a jug by identifying all 6 Bond actors. Jasper earned our fourth by winning a National Anthem singing contest.
For some reason, Lindsey also participated in this contest, despite not knowing the England national anthem. Instead, she tried for Spice Girls. Gold star for effort. She also tried to teach me Salsa dancing, despite losing a dance contest with David earlier in the night. George, whose name I now discovered was actually Gary, spent most of the night complaining to me about the war between England and Argentina over the Falkland Islands (those little rocks between South America and Antarctica) that occurred about 20 years ago. Jakob and Martin chatted in a corner, while Jasper left early to go home with a girl. Apparently, not only does beer make straight guys gay, it also makes lazy eyes straight.
The only play I got was a girl who accidentally spilled her fruit cocktail on my lap, before force feeding me the alcohol-soaked strawberry in a way her ethanol-rattled mind must’ve rationalized as sexy before walking away. No gay waiters this time.
John simply nursed the same beer all night and watched the rest of us get shitfaced. In its own way, that can be just as fun.
And here, ladies and gentlemen, is where my story ends. We left the bar, taxied to the airport (where they actually checked my ID this time), and hopped on a plane where I promptly fell asleep. Not nearly long enough, of course, and I nearly fell asleep again on the airport floor at baggage claim. 5 consecutive nights of no more than 3 hours of sleep each can take a lot out of a man, and I was beginning to feel those aches you feel when you’re coming down with the flu. Luckily, 20 hours of sleep will clear that right up.
Kaka-Doh! (Part 7: The Hut)
A few miles outside of Darwin is a small store called the Didgeridoo Hut. Unsurprisingly, they sell didgeridoos. We all got our hands at playing the wooden instruments a second time, including a massive thing that may have well been an entire small tree. I wondered if the maker was compensating for something. Pretty fun it’s own right, but the real joy was in the glass cages.
The first animals we stumbled across before even entering the store. I found myself wide-eyed, staring into the even wider eyes of an Asian Water Buffalo. WTF!! Then I realized I’d seen them before. Various things that had almost gotten under the wheels of our 4WD included Agile Wallabies, Wild Horses (called Brumbies), Feral Pigs, and yes, even Water Buffalo. Too bad we never stumbled across any wild camel. Our trip to Kakadu was showing us just how ridiculous the invasive species crisis was in Australia.
Speaking of Feral Pig, one was roaming freely right next to the Water Buffalo. Hulking huge and snorting gruffly, it seemed to enjoy licking my ankles. I’m still not sure why.
Anyway, the glass cages. They held a mini cornucopia. Firstly were the big boys, a Carpet Python and a Children’s Python. Both were unavailable for handling that day, but as we’d already checked them off our list, it was not a huge loss. There was also a juvenile Olive Python, which we had wanted to find because was the largest python in the Northern Territory, but we’d have to make due playing with a cute baby. I also picked up the Blue-Tongued Skink, which this time chose not to crap all over me and my closest neighbors, to our relief. But, the three remaining animals are what truly made this stop so memorable.
Have you heard of a File Snake? Probably not, so allow me to explain. Imagine a 3-foot long kielbasa hot dog. Soft but meaty. Now, put that kielbasa inside a water balloon, and fill it so the hot dog is sloshing around loosely inside its wet skin. Now, make that water balloon rough and pointy like a nail file, and droopier than a Shar-Pei, and you’ve got an Arafura File Snake. While this thing is the exact opposite of dangerous, it was still amazing to finally get my hands on it. It was even cooler than our professor described it. Even now, I really want one as a pet. With its flaccid demeanor and adorable puffy face, even Lindsey was coerced into holding it. I’d converted someone to the status of snake lover… sort of.
Next to it sat an old friend. At barely over a year old and a foot long, this Freshwater Crocodile did not seem dangerous at first glance, but it can and will gash your hand open if not de-glove your fingers. If you’ve ever seen pictures of Steve Irwin posing for photos with his beloved crocodilians, you’ll notice he’s always holding a juvenile American Alligator. They’re not native to Australia, but they need to be used for all PR stunts, because a crocodile will thrash and spin and chomp the fuck out of you. But with the weight of the chip on my shoulder threatening to crush my ego flat, I had to go for it.
The secret seemed to be to wait for the little croc to have its head near a corner. When I try to grab it, it’ll instinctively dart forward into the corner, where its head won’t have a good range of movement. It only took a few seconds of waiting for the right moment, when I thrust my hand into the terrarium and grabbed the croc firmly around the midsection with one hand, and lifted it out of its enclosure. The little monster immediately went wild, thrashing about in spasms that looked like they would break its spine. The tail whipped for my face, while the needle teeth reached for a grip on my wrist. However, neither was able to connect, and after only a few seconds of epilepsy, the croc seemed to calm down, accepting my hand as its temporary new residence. Sure, maybe lifting it from a big fish tank was cheating, but without John’s help I’d captured my first crocodile, perhaps the first of many. My resentment began to slide away.
The woman who ran the store walked up to me, and puckered her lips. “You know, you may think you’re safe, but he can twist his neck almost all the way around and sink his teeth deep into your fingers. We might need to kill him to get him to let go.” Then she shrugged and walked away, leaving any future desire I may have to play the piano in the goodwill of one pissed off reptilian. Slowly, I lowered it into its tank, then basically threw it out of my grip. My hands were down and back out faster than brunch at a bulimic’s convention. But I succeeded.
With a little time left at the Didgeridoo Hut, I figured it couldn’t hurt to go look for a Frilled Lizard in their backyard. However, I stopped short when I nearly tripped over a wallaby. A baby wallaby, no less, it didn’t even reach my knees. I slowly kneeled down, and the adorable critter stayed fast. I reached out to pet it, and it began to lick me like a little puppy. I now knew I needed a pet wallaby to go with my file snake. Nearby, I saw a small bottle with a rubber nipple. Was this wallaby already that woman’s pet? Without asking, I picked up the bottle and offered it to the little joey. Instead, it bit me.
That little shit! Here I am, offering it a bottle of yummy delicious milk, and while it seems to enjoy it for a bit, it decides it likes the taste of my finger better. After 2 dragons, 2 goannas, 7 snakes, countless skinks and geckos, and a fucking crocodile, I’m finally bitten. By a baby wallaby, one I’m bottle feeding no less. For the second time in two days, I wonder how my life became so surreal.
But that little scamp was so adorable, I couldn’t stay mad. Hell, it must’ve only been teething; it didn’t even draw blood. After it settled in and we all had our turns posing with the little camera slut, we left that wonderful little shop behind, and finally returned to civilization.
Well, as close to civilization as you can call Darwin. One movie theater and fifteen bars. No surprise it has the highest rate of alcoholism of any city in Australia. We knew we had to contribute to the statistics before the night was over. Kakadu was behind us, but we had one last hurrah.
The first animals we stumbled across before even entering the store. I found myself wide-eyed, staring into the even wider eyes of an Asian Water Buffalo. WTF!! Then I realized I’d seen them before. Various things that had almost gotten under the wheels of our 4WD included Agile Wallabies, Wild Horses (called Brumbies), Feral Pigs, and yes, even Water Buffalo. Too bad we never stumbled across any wild camel. Our trip to Kakadu was showing us just how ridiculous the invasive species crisis was in Australia.
Speaking of Feral Pig, one was roaming freely right next to the Water Buffalo. Hulking huge and snorting gruffly, it seemed to enjoy licking my ankles. I’m still not sure why.
Anyway, the glass cages. They held a mini cornucopia. Firstly were the big boys, a Carpet Python and a Children’s Python. Both were unavailable for handling that day, but as we’d already checked them off our list, it was not a huge loss. There was also a juvenile Olive Python, which we had wanted to find because was the largest python in the Northern Territory, but we’d have to make due playing with a cute baby. I also picked up the Blue-Tongued Skink, which this time chose not to crap all over me and my closest neighbors, to our relief. But, the three remaining animals are what truly made this stop so memorable.
Have you heard of a File Snake? Probably not, so allow me to explain. Imagine a 3-foot long kielbasa hot dog. Soft but meaty. Now, put that kielbasa inside a water balloon, and fill it so the hot dog is sloshing around loosely inside its wet skin. Now, make that water balloon rough and pointy like a nail file, and droopier than a Shar-Pei, and you’ve got an Arafura File Snake. While this thing is the exact opposite of dangerous, it was still amazing to finally get my hands on it. It was even cooler than our professor described it. Even now, I really want one as a pet. With its flaccid demeanor and adorable puffy face, even Lindsey was coerced into holding it. I’d converted someone to the status of snake lover… sort of.
Next to it sat an old friend. At barely over a year old and a foot long, this Freshwater Crocodile did not seem dangerous at first glance, but it can and will gash your hand open if not de-glove your fingers. If you’ve ever seen pictures of Steve Irwin posing for photos with his beloved crocodilians, you’ll notice he’s always holding a juvenile American Alligator. They’re not native to Australia, but they need to be used for all PR stunts, because a crocodile will thrash and spin and chomp the fuck out of you. But with the weight of the chip on my shoulder threatening to crush my ego flat, I had to go for it.
The secret seemed to be to wait for the little croc to have its head near a corner. When I try to grab it, it’ll instinctively dart forward into the corner, where its head won’t have a good range of movement. It only took a few seconds of waiting for the right moment, when I thrust my hand into the terrarium and grabbed the croc firmly around the midsection with one hand, and lifted it out of its enclosure. The little monster immediately went wild, thrashing about in spasms that looked like they would break its spine. The tail whipped for my face, while the needle teeth reached for a grip on my wrist. However, neither was able to connect, and after only a few seconds of epilepsy, the croc seemed to calm down, accepting my hand as its temporary new residence. Sure, maybe lifting it from a big fish tank was cheating, but without John’s help I’d captured my first crocodile, perhaps the first of many. My resentment began to slide away.
The woman who ran the store walked up to me, and puckered her lips. “You know, you may think you’re safe, but he can twist his neck almost all the way around and sink his teeth deep into your fingers. We might need to kill him to get him to let go.” Then she shrugged and walked away, leaving any future desire I may have to play the piano in the goodwill of one pissed off reptilian. Slowly, I lowered it into its tank, then basically threw it out of my grip. My hands were down and back out faster than brunch at a bulimic’s convention. But I succeeded.
With a little time left at the Didgeridoo Hut, I figured it couldn’t hurt to go look for a Frilled Lizard in their backyard. However, I stopped short when I nearly tripped over a wallaby. A baby wallaby, no less, it didn’t even reach my knees. I slowly kneeled down, and the adorable critter stayed fast. I reached out to pet it, and it began to lick me like a little puppy. I now knew I needed a pet wallaby to go with my file snake. Nearby, I saw a small bottle with a rubber nipple. Was this wallaby already that woman’s pet? Without asking, I picked up the bottle and offered it to the little joey. Instead, it bit me.
That little shit! Here I am, offering it a bottle of yummy delicious milk, and while it seems to enjoy it for a bit, it decides it likes the taste of my finger better. After 2 dragons, 2 goannas, 7 snakes, countless skinks and geckos, and a fucking crocodile, I’m finally bitten. By a baby wallaby, one I’m bottle feeding no less. For the second time in two days, I wonder how my life became so surreal.
But that little scamp was so adorable, I couldn’t stay mad. Hell, it must’ve only been teething; it didn’t even draw blood. After it settled in and we all had our turns posing with the little camera slut, we left that wonderful little shop behind, and finally returned to civilization.
Well, as close to civilization as you can call Darwin. One movie theater and fifteen bars. No surprise it has the highest rate of alcoholism of any city in Australia. We knew we had to contribute to the statistics before the night was over. Kakadu was behind us, but we had one last hurrah.
Kaka-Doh! (Part 6: Culture Shock)
The third day was meant to be a day of culture, which meant in all likelihood I couldn’t give a rat’s ass. History is nice and all, but it’s the past. At no point am I doomed to repeat being an Aboriginal tribesman. Still, suffer through Culture Camp we did. I’d love to tell you all about how we learned to treat toxic yams and cook feral pigs in the ground, but I couldn’t hear much above the buzzing in my ears or see past my hand waving the flies away. However, I recall the black lady being pleasant enough.
Finally, we were released to go spear throwing. Now, this was not the first time I’d done so; World Archeology had a similar morning with the same spear-throwing device. Back then, spear throwing was the only perk of the class. Right now, it was our trough. You try throwing a spear when flies are clogging your nose and invading your mouth! However, it was the same for anyone, so they were no excuse for my shoddy performance.
Our goal was to hit a bunch of cardboard animal targets a short distance away. Jakob, easily the most athletic among us, struck down the flimsy emu in fine form. Martin too was surprisingly adept at the long throw. But me… I barely edged our Lindsey for distance. Hit a target? Hell, I couldn’t even reach them! Our host tried to coach me again and again, but only in the last throw was I even able to reach the closest targets. He claims it’s not about strength, but arm length, and I’ve easily got the longest arm out of all of us. Blame heat or 4 nights of no sleep or flies, but no matter how I tried to rationalize it, I felt pathetic. The chip on my shoulder continued to grow.
Besides, I wanted to try my hand at bracelet weaving with the girl. Why was I sticking around trying to prove my manliness while Lindsey, Beck, and David all seemed to be rather enjoying themselves? Fuck machismo.
Afterwards, we all got our hands on playing didgeridoos, and I taught myself to play the French national anthem surprisingly well for a novice. Call it beginner’s luck. Perhaps the lack of it explains my spear throwing.
Our final stop before escaping the park was a little rock art. Pretty standard fare if you’re going to visit Kakadu, but with the heat and flies still in full effect, I couldn’t care less. However, I did learn a valuable lesson from the experience: Aboriginal artists are totally fucked in the head. Seriously, they’re scary. All their art includes graphic killing. Most of their legends include some form of incest and people being turned into rocks. One particularly explicit painting demonstrated what happens when you drink the water near the uranium deposits (included: projectile vomit, skin lesions, birth defects, and aborted fetuses). And one explanatory sign included this little gem:
“This is Nabulwinjbulwinj [try and pronounce that!]. He is a dangerous spirit who eats females after striking them with a yam.”
Honestly. WTF?
When not being traumatized, I continued to look in every nook and cranny for a snake, finding only skinks. Though, having failed to catch any so far, I saw one resting on a pretty exposed log, and took my chance. My hand slammed down hard. Probably too hard, considering the last skink I “caught” this way came up with a broken spine and blood oozing from its mouth. Luckily, I could still see the tail of this one wriggling, so I knew I didn’t kill it.
Nor did I catch it. Lifting up my hand revealed not one but two disembodied wriggling tails. These slick motherfuckers are so fast that not only did one drop its tail and escape in the time it took me to slam my hand down, but an entirely separate skink crept up and escaped without me ever seeing it. Considering my current tally was one dead skink and two lost tails, I decided to call it a day on skink catching. Instead, I continued walking, blissfully oblivious to what was behind me.
20 seconds later, Lindsey passes along an urgent message from John requesting my presence back at the skinks. Apparently, in my gusto to catch the little worms, I’d completely missed the large and imposing Gould’s Sand Monitor sunning itself on a boulder off the other side of the path. Go figure.
Electing to leave the sharp-clawed bugger alone, we continued our short hike to the lookout, and I sulkily continued my fruitless snake hunt. The return to the truck meant our time in Kakadu was over, and I was going to return home empty-handed.
Lunch in Jabiru reminded me a lot of Los Angeles. The touristy part was fake green, while everything else was dilapidated and brown. The parrots were loud, showy, and quite diva-like. The water was unsafe to swim in. The toilet stall had a glory hole. The entire place had an unmistakable smell. And plenty of Eucalyptus.
Afterwards, it was time for our last swim, albeit in a pool. Even at this last roadhouse, John was able to catch a last dragon. It doesn’t have a common name, but I could ID it immediately as “That long-tailed one that looks like the Gilbert’s Dragon, remember!” He found it on a tree near the Emu enclosure. Nevermind why a small roadhouse keeps 2 Emus (lucky number) in a pen, or why one of them has its lower beak gashed in half. I just knew that they both wanted my blood, and I needed to get as far away from them as I could. To the swimming pool!
Not much to say about the pool. With John, David, and Beck off doing their own thing, it gave me another good chance to get to know the others. We all took turns diving, and I was relieved to know that even face first, my eyebrow piercing will not rip out of my face. On Lindsey’s last jump, she surfaced with a panicked look, clutching her crotch. “I’ve lost my bikini bottoms!” she screamed, and the four of us dutifully looked away.
When George came back from the bathroom, Lindsey regaled him with a repeat of the story. I immediately interjected, swearing none of us looked. “You looked away?” he asked surprised. “Hell, I might have to question your straightness!” I rolled my eyes. Did he want us to look at his wife’s vag?
Freshly fed, freshly wet, and freshly changed, we started back to Darwin. Just for kicks, I decided to keep my eyes open for a Frilled Lizard in the trees boxing in the road. Spending an hour with your head out the window, wind blasting your eyes at 100 kilometers an hour, could very well be the impetus for the creation of Visine. But no dice.
I thought we were headed for home, but we were in for one last surprise.
Finally, we were released to go spear throwing. Now, this was not the first time I’d done so; World Archeology had a similar morning with the same spear-throwing device. Back then, spear throwing was the only perk of the class. Right now, it was our trough. You try throwing a spear when flies are clogging your nose and invading your mouth! However, it was the same for anyone, so they were no excuse for my shoddy performance.
Our goal was to hit a bunch of cardboard animal targets a short distance away. Jakob, easily the most athletic among us, struck down the flimsy emu in fine form. Martin too was surprisingly adept at the long throw. But me… I barely edged our Lindsey for distance. Hit a target? Hell, I couldn’t even reach them! Our host tried to coach me again and again, but only in the last throw was I even able to reach the closest targets. He claims it’s not about strength, but arm length, and I’ve easily got the longest arm out of all of us. Blame heat or 4 nights of no sleep or flies, but no matter how I tried to rationalize it, I felt pathetic. The chip on my shoulder continued to grow.
Besides, I wanted to try my hand at bracelet weaving with the girl. Why was I sticking around trying to prove my manliness while Lindsey, Beck, and David all seemed to be rather enjoying themselves? Fuck machismo.
Afterwards, we all got our hands on playing didgeridoos, and I taught myself to play the French national anthem surprisingly well for a novice. Call it beginner’s luck. Perhaps the lack of it explains my spear throwing.
Our final stop before escaping the park was a little rock art. Pretty standard fare if you’re going to visit Kakadu, but with the heat and flies still in full effect, I couldn’t care less. However, I did learn a valuable lesson from the experience: Aboriginal artists are totally fucked in the head. Seriously, they’re scary. All their art includes graphic killing. Most of their legends include some form of incest and people being turned into rocks. One particularly explicit painting demonstrated what happens when you drink the water near the uranium deposits (included: projectile vomit, skin lesions, birth defects, and aborted fetuses). And one explanatory sign included this little gem:
“This is Nabulwinjbulwinj [try and pronounce that!]. He is a dangerous spirit who eats females after striking them with a yam.”
Honestly. WTF?
When not being traumatized, I continued to look in every nook and cranny for a snake, finding only skinks. Though, having failed to catch any so far, I saw one resting on a pretty exposed log, and took my chance. My hand slammed down hard. Probably too hard, considering the last skink I “caught” this way came up with a broken spine and blood oozing from its mouth. Luckily, I could still see the tail of this one wriggling, so I knew I didn’t kill it.
Nor did I catch it. Lifting up my hand revealed not one but two disembodied wriggling tails. These slick motherfuckers are so fast that not only did one drop its tail and escape in the time it took me to slam my hand down, but an entirely separate skink crept up and escaped without me ever seeing it. Considering my current tally was one dead skink and two lost tails, I decided to call it a day on skink catching. Instead, I continued walking, blissfully oblivious to what was behind me.
20 seconds later, Lindsey passes along an urgent message from John requesting my presence back at the skinks. Apparently, in my gusto to catch the little worms, I’d completely missed the large and imposing Gould’s Sand Monitor sunning itself on a boulder off the other side of the path. Go figure.
Electing to leave the sharp-clawed bugger alone, we continued our short hike to the lookout, and I sulkily continued my fruitless snake hunt. The return to the truck meant our time in Kakadu was over, and I was going to return home empty-handed.
Lunch in Jabiru reminded me a lot of Los Angeles. The touristy part was fake green, while everything else was dilapidated and brown. The parrots were loud, showy, and quite diva-like. The water was unsafe to swim in. The toilet stall had a glory hole. The entire place had an unmistakable smell. And plenty of Eucalyptus.
Afterwards, it was time for our last swim, albeit in a pool. Even at this last roadhouse, John was able to catch a last dragon. It doesn’t have a common name, but I could ID it immediately as “That long-tailed one that looks like the Gilbert’s Dragon, remember!” He found it on a tree near the Emu enclosure. Nevermind why a small roadhouse keeps 2 Emus (lucky number) in a pen, or why one of them has its lower beak gashed in half. I just knew that they both wanted my blood, and I needed to get as far away from them as I could. To the swimming pool!
Not much to say about the pool. With John, David, and Beck off doing their own thing, it gave me another good chance to get to know the others. We all took turns diving, and I was relieved to know that even face first, my eyebrow piercing will not rip out of my face. On Lindsey’s last jump, she surfaced with a panicked look, clutching her crotch. “I’ve lost my bikini bottoms!” she screamed, and the four of us dutifully looked away.
When George came back from the bathroom, Lindsey regaled him with a repeat of the story. I immediately interjected, swearing none of us looked. “You looked away?” he asked surprised. “Hell, I might have to question your straightness!” I rolled my eyes. Did he want us to look at his wife’s vag?
Freshly fed, freshly wet, and freshly changed, we started back to Darwin. Just for kicks, I decided to keep my eyes open for a Frilled Lizard in the trees boxing in the road. Spending an hour with your head out the window, wind blasting your eyes at 100 kilometers an hour, could very well be the impetus for the creation of Visine. But no dice.
I thought we were headed for home, but we were in for one last surprise.
Kaka-Doh! (Part 5: Live For The Hunt)
That evening, Simon cooked us up a shockingly good dinner. Who says camping food has to be crap? We had steaks, for God’s sake! Sitting around the campfire, we really learned more about each other, even the mysterious Martin. Beck revealed to us that endless tours really start to wear her thin, which didn’t shock us since the constant humidity and flies nearly drove me suicidal. However, the three of us and our genuine enthusiasm for nature breathed new life into her. She decided she was going to break all kinds of rules and take the three of us midnight croc spotting in the billabong. Though, make that two. Even though we were all collapsing of sleep deprivation, John and I managed to fight it off. After all, how often are you going to be in Kakadu? But David crapped out, so the Three Musketeers was now me, John, and Beck.
When I chose Lamington over Fraser Island, I lost two things: Dingo spotting and bumpy 4WD driving. I got a second chance at both that night. The road was wonderfully rough, and we were getting thrown all over the place as we went. Which was fun, but awfully hard to focus a spotlight in the woods under those conditions. However, I still spotted eyeshine and a flash of tawny fur. Beck slammed on the breaks, and we jumped out of the car. A quick search revealed it to be a false alarm; what I’d actually found was a ridiculously huge dingo-colored feral cat. Cool in its own right, I suppose, but no dingo. The previous night, we had heard what was either a dingo or wallaby trample around the campsite, but to this day I have yet to see a wild dingo.
We also spotted what John thought was a funnelweb spider. After my experiences in Lamington, I considered myself an “expert”, something in retrospect I was stupid to think. I confirmed it was not a Sydney Funnelweb (true), but that it was in the same family (false), and was no dangerous (also false). However, just to see if it was the same “type”, I wanted to coax it into an aggressive defensive position, with its front legs reared up and its fangs primed to strike. I grabbed a small dry leaf, and using my flashlight to block its escape, attempted to provoke it by poking it with the leaf. Instead of getting angry, it just crawled over the leaf and scurried away. Multiple attempts failed to get any different reaction, so I eventually gave up and let it go on its merry way. Later, Beck IDed it as a Mouse Spider, which I theorized was because it ate mice (wrong again). And only now, thanks to Wikipedia, have I learned that this spider I was trying to piss off and strike at me is almost as dangerous as the Sydney Funnelweb. Oops. If I never get a fun snake story to take home with me, atleast I have plenty of fun spider stories. Arachnids and I just have a colorful history (See: Israel).
I wish we’d found a Toad Spider or something, because the toads were out of control. We’d seen littered toad carcasses during the day, but it paled in comparison to the insanity at night. Toads were literally strewn everywhere on the road. We crushed them by the dozens under our wheels, and they were still hopping everywhere. It was even worse at the billabong, with over half a dozen toads per square meter. We’d heard rumors of Death Adders, Taipans, and King Browns around, but now all we see is poisonous Cane Toads.
Croc spotting was no better. Plenty of fish and bats to marvel over, but only one or two confirmed Freshwater Crocodiles, pairs of shining red orbs staring back at our spotlights. Beck had seen dozens in months past. Could the Cane Toad be causing that must decimation so fast? While I’d killed two toads that I found earlier in the day (the one I trapped, and one in a boulder crevice that I dropped a comically large stone on), I didn’t bother going after a single one that night. It would’ve just been wasted effort. When you cant take 3 steps without a toad jumping out of your way, what’s the point?
Despite the poisonous buffet all around us, we held out hope of finding a snake, peering down on the ground and up in the trees. Beck stopped us, and pointed towards a hollow in a tree. “See that?” she said. “That’s an excellent place to find pythons.”
She took two steps, and stopped. At the base of the tree right next to her demonstration trunk, a good-sized Carpet Python was squirming its way out of a root hollow. Stunned by the coincidence, she was too late in reaching for it before it slid back into its hiding space. All she could do is shrug, and say, “Told you so.”
Worried about the future of the Park, but still satisfied at our finds, we turned off all our lights and just looked up. In the clear moonless night, innumerable stars rained their light down on us. It was a foreign sky, all my familiar constellations resting happily in the northern hemisphere, but it still put me at ease. A shooting star passed before our eyes. “Make a wish!” Beck exclaimed in a hushed but youthfully excited tone. I’ll never know what the two of them wished for, but I wished we’d see more cool animals. I didn’t expect my wish to come true in the unexpected manner it did.
We got back at 2am, knowing full well we’d get 4 hours of sleep at best. But, we’d heard Death Adders were near the campgrounds, and how often are we going to be in Kakadu? As Beck prepared to sleep, the two of us went up the hill to scour nature. However, it didn’t take long to realize the futility of the situation: With endless tracts of land to cover, chancing upon a snake would just be dumb luck. We resigned to give up for the night, returning at sunrise to restrict our search to rocks they’d be doing their morning bask on. A solid plan which meant 2 hours of sleep, my magic number.
On the upside, there were actually showers at this second campground. Having not expected any, I didn’t bring any soap, but John was glad to share. There must be something Freudian at play; despite being more or less homosexual, I felt highly uncomfortable sharing soap with another man. Go figure.
John had set his phone alarm for 5am, but when I woke up an hour late, he was still passed out with a smile on his face. I began to silently curse him, when I realized the sun hadn’t really risen yet. In the dark, I couldn’t see that we were camping in a valley, and at 6:15, the sun still hadn’t crested its high walls.
Clearly, I was not the first one up; the flies beat me to it. From the minute I picked my head off my pillow to the second we escaped Kakadu that day, there were no less than 5 flies on my face. Every morning and every meal, I say the flies cant get worse, but this time it was true. The third day was without question the worst fly experience I ever had. I left the Northern Territory feeling a deep-seated hatred for all dipterans (that includes flies, gnats, midges, and those motherfucking mosquitoes).
After a quick breakfast of cereal, toast, and a number of flies that had gotten in my cereal and toast (hey, not the first insects I’ve eaten on this trip), I donned my hood and burning cross and made for the hills. Every time we’d gone exploring for animals, we’d had members drop off. This time, even John stayed behind. It was my solo, and I intended to make it count.
That morning was simply nightmarish. Even at this early hour, it was hot and humid, and the flies wouldn’t give me a moment of peace. I looked in every log and rock crevice I could find, turning up plenty of Three-Lined, Rainbow, and Firetail Skinks, but not a single snake. Nearly every second that ticked by brought me to the brink of giving up, but I simply repeated the mantra of “How many times am I going to be in Kakadu?”, until 45 minutes in, I honestly had to throw in the towel. Everyone else was already packed and sitting in the truck, waiting for me. I had failed.
When I chose Lamington over Fraser Island, I lost two things: Dingo spotting and bumpy 4WD driving. I got a second chance at both that night. The road was wonderfully rough, and we were getting thrown all over the place as we went. Which was fun, but awfully hard to focus a spotlight in the woods under those conditions. However, I still spotted eyeshine and a flash of tawny fur. Beck slammed on the breaks, and we jumped out of the car. A quick search revealed it to be a false alarm; what I’d actually found was a ridiculously huge dingo-colored feral cat. Cool in its own right, I suppose, but no dingo. The previous night, we had heard what was either a dingo or wallaby trample around the campsite, but to this day I have yet to see a wild dingo.
We also spotted what John thought was a funnelweb spider. After my experiences in Lamington, I considered myself an “expert”, something in retrospect I was stupid to think. I confirmed it was not a Sydney Funnelweb (true), but that it was in the same family (false), and was no dangerous (also false). However, just to see if it was the same “type”, I wanted to coax it into an aggressive defensive position, with its front legs reared up and its fangs primed to strike. I grabbed a small dry leaf, and using my flashlight to block its escape, attempted to provoke it by poking it with the leaf. Instead of getting angry, it just crawled over the leaf and scurried away. Multiple attempts failed to get any different reaction, so I eventually gave up and let it go on its merry way. Later, Beck IDed it as a Mouse Spider, which I theorized was because it ate mice (wrong again). And only now, thanks to Wikipedia, have I learned that this spider I was trying to piss off and strike at me is almost as dangerous as the Sydney Funnelweb. Oops. If I never get a fun snake story to take home with me, atleast I have plenty of fun spider stories. Arachnids and I just have a colorful history (See: Israel).
I wish we’d found a Toad Spider or something, because the toads were out of control. We’d seen littered toad carcasses during the day, but it paled in comparison to the insanity at night. Toads were literally strewn everywhere on the road. We crushed them by the dozens under our wheels, and they were still hopping everywhere. It was even worse at the billabong, with over half a dozen toads per square meter. We’d heard rumors of Death Adders, Taipans, and King Browns around, but now all we see is poisonous Cane Toads.
Croc spotting was no better. Plenty of fish and bats to marvel over, but only one or two confirmed Freshwater Crocodiles, pairs of shining red orbs staring back at our spotlights. Beck had seen dozens in months past. Could the Cane Toad be causing that must decimation so fast? While I’d killed two toads that I found earlier in the day (the one I trapped, and one in a boulder crevice that I dropped a comically large stone on), I didn’t bother going after a single one that night. It would’ve just been wasted effort. When you cant take 3 steps without a toad jumping out of your way, what’s the point?
Despite the poisonous buffet all around us, we held out hope of finding a snake, peering down on the ground and up in the trees. Beck stopped us, and pointed towards a hollow in a tree. “See that?” she said. “That’s an excellent place to find pythons.”
She took two steps, and stopped. At the base of the tree right next to her demonstration trunk, a good-sized Carpet Python was squirming its way out of a root hollow. Stunned by the coincidence, she was too late in reaching for it before it slid back into its hiding space. All she could do is shrug, and say, “Told you so.”
Worried about the future of the Park, but still satisfied at our finds, we turned off all our lights and just looked up. In the clear moonless night, innumerable stars rained their light down on us. It was a foreign sky, all my familiar constellations resting happily in the northern hemisphere, but it still put me at ease. A shooting star passed before our eyes. “Make a wish!” Beck exclaimed in a hushed but youthfully excited tone. I’ll never know what the two of them wished for, but I wished we’d see more cool animals. I didn’t expect my wish to come true in the unexpected manner it did.
We got back at 2am, knowing full well we’d get 4 hours of sleep at best. But, we’d heard Death Adders were near the campgrounds, and how often are we going to be in Kakadu? As Beck prepared to sleep, the two of us went up the hill to scour nature. However, it didn’t take long to realize the futility of the situation: With endless tracts of land to cover, chancing upon a snake would just be dumb luck. We resigned to give up for the night, returning at sunrise to restrict our search to rocks they’d be doing their morning bask on. A solid plan which meant 2 hours of sleep, my magic number.
On the upside, there were actually showers at this second campground. Having not expected any, I didn’t bring any soap, but John was glad to share. There must be something Freudian at play; despite being more or less homosexual, I felt highly uncomfortable sharing soap with another man. Go figure.
John had set his phone alarm for 5am, but when I woke up an hour late, he was still passed out with a smile on his face. I began to silently curse him, when I realized the sun hadn’t really risen yet. In the dark, I couldn’t see that we were camping in a valley, and at 6:15, the sun still hadn’t crested its high walls.
Clearly, I was not the first one up; the flies beat me to it. From the minute I picked my head off my pillow to the second we escaped Kakadu that day, there were no less than 5 flies on my face. Every morning and every meal, I say the flies cant get worse, but this time it was true. The third day was without question the worst fly experience I ever had. I left the Northern Territory feeling a deep-seated hatred for all dipterans (that includes flies, gnats, midges, and those motherfucking mosquitoes).
After a quick breakfast of cereal, toast, and a number of flies that had gotten in my cereal and toast (hey, not the first insects I’ve eaten on this trip), I donned my hood and burning cross and made for the hills. Every time we’d gone exploring for animals, we’d had members drop off. This time, even John stayed behind. It was my solo, and I intended to make it count.
That morning was simply nightmarish. Even at this early hour, it was hot and humid, and the flies wouldn’t give me a moment of peace. I looked in every log and rock crevice I could find, turning up plenty of Three-Lined, Rainbow, and Firetail Skinks, but not a single snake. Nearly every second that ticked by brought me to the brink of giving up, but I simply repeated the mantra of “How many times am I going to be in Kakadu?”, until 45 minutes in, I honestly had to throw in the towel. Everyone else was already packed and sitting in the truck, waiting for me. I had failed.
Kaka-Doh! (Part 4: Troubled Waters)
After lunch, we boarded a barge and set off to check out the base of Twin Falls, of which we’d just been at the top. However, our leisurely cruise was short; halfway there, we got off and had to walk on a narrow rocky ledge to get to the base of the water. Upon arrival, we discovered the Twin Falls was actually a single trickle down the rock face. Oh, and we couldn’t go swimming in the croc-infested water. I felt a little used. Instead of bumming around on the beach, as lunch left me a bit queasy, I decided to go exploring, where upon I found my own Cane Toad.
Did I have it in me to be a ruthless killing machine? Of course. However, this toad was a little harder to reach, being down in a narrow and spider-filled crack. I picked up a large rock and tried to drop it on the toad, which it had the same effect as last time. But I set the toad off-balance, and it fell into an even narrower crevice. I jammed a narrow rock in after it, trying to squish it, but it just didn’t have the mass. I was hoping to give the toad a quick and merciful death, as it was not purposefully killing the wildlife. However, tough choices need to be made. I slid the narrow rock into place, and placed a larger boulder over the top of the crevice, capping it. The toad, forever trapped, will slowly die of hunger. Even now, I’m still sorry.
My murder did not make my queasiness feel better. In fact, it grew into a deep nausea, and my sweating grew even worse. My head felt foggy. Fearing heat stroke, I was gripped by a sudden desperate need to leave. Immediately. Without telling anyone, I raced back along the narrow ledge, made it back to our drop-off, and collapsed under a tree. In a fetal position, I lay completely still for a few minutes before I regained enough energy to drink, downing my entire liter of water in a minute. I resigned myself to sit in the shade, with my head between my knees, waiting for my friends to get done playing on the beach. This wasn’t fun anymore.
3 nights of no sleep, I was ready to throw in the towel. Unfortunately, the itinerary was not. One more swim. Simon summed it up pretty accurately: “Its only about 500 meters, but it’ll be the longest 500 meters you’ve ever walked.” Though, walk wouldn’t be right; really it was just more bouldering; I could’ve taken it speedy like Masada, but being half asleep, I’d rather not risk a broken ankle when the closest town is fucking Jabiru. But I wont regale you with more boring stories about walking.
By the time we arrived, I’d returned to my earlier feeling of desperation. I needed to drop my body temp, immediately, if I didn’t want to pass out. I ripped my shoes off, tossed my hat into the water, and jumped in. Mustering my limited strength, I swam to a shaded cove in the pool, and found two rocks at the perfect height and distance apart. Put my legs up on one rock, rest my neck on the other, dip my head in the water and let it fill all the way to my cochlea. Floating on my back with my eyes closed and my ears full was true sensory deprivation. With only my nose and mouth above the water, my core temp finally started to drop, and I drifted in the gentle waves into a light sleep.
20 minutes later, Lindsey tapped me on the shoulder. I opened one eye, and sleepily asked her whats up. She didn’t answer; instead she turned back to the shore and yelled, “He’s still breathing!” with audible relief in her voice. Apparently, this fact had been called into question by Simon, who sent our resident nurse to investigate. Not caring that I just scared the shit out of our tour guide, I went back for another 20 minutes.
Finally, feeling refreshed, and God help me, chilly, I felt right to join the group. Good timing. John just came back elated, sharing the news of his new discovery. David was swimming one-handedly shortly behind, towing a thin dead snake. We later IDed it as a Slaty-Black Treesnake. Why ‘slaty’ is a question beyond me. However, John wanted to show off the still-living snake on a ledge on the other side of the pool he almost got bitten by.
I took off for the other side with renewed steam and vigor, and promptly petered out within 20 meters. As relaxing as it was, I was still dead tired. Still, I soldiered on, doing the breaststroke at a snail’s pass as John easily lapped me from behind. Greeting me at the finish line was a 10 foot high wet rock wall, with John already at the top. When I tried and failed to ascend, John tried to teach me how he got up. However, even knowing exactly where to put my hands and feet, I still didn’t have the upper body strength to pull myself up; I had to rely on John reaching down and pulling me up. Instead of being appreciative for the help, I just added resentment on top of my jealously.
As much as John is a friend, I still see him as a rival. Its just my nature to make things competitive. It just makes me mad that he’s always the one who finds things and catches things. And apparently, he can swim faster and climb better. He knows this, but I don’t think he knows it’s giving me a complex. If you think about it, this state of things shouldn’t be surprising; He’s a country boy and experienced zookeeper at the St Louis Zoo, and I’m a city boy who never sees anything more wild than mating squirrels. The fact that I can even begin to keep up in ID and capture should make me proud, but it’s just not enough.
Anyway, the snake. It was long, thin, and bright yellow. Like, Crayola yellow. It was backed into a rock crevice, reared up like a cobra, and staring right at us. We figured bright colors means poisonous, so we left it alone. We later IDed it as a particularly colorful morph of the Common Treesnake, but better safe than sorry I suppose.
Swimming back was an embarrassment. I eventually switched to the backstroke and claimed scenery-watching to explain my slowness. I was burning with shame on top of my jealousy and resentment. Yet, I still managed to make peace with myself before leaving the pool as the three of us enjoyed sliding down the natural wet rock slides. I taught them how to do that.
On the way back, we chatted about famous herpetologist deaths by venom. Charming.
Did I have it in me to be a ruthless killing machine? Of course. However, this toad was a little harder to reach, being down in a narrow and spider-filled crack. I picked up a large rock and tried to drop it on the toad, which it had the same effect as last time. But I set the toad off-balance, and it fell into an even narrower crevice. I jammed a narrow rock in after it, trying to squish it, but it just didn’t have the mass. I was hoping to give the toad a quick and merciful death, as it was not purposefully killing the wildlife. However, tough choices need to be made. I slid the narrow rock into place, and placed a larger boulder over the top of the crevice, capping it. The toad, forever trapped, will slowly die of hunger. Even now, I’m still sorry.
My murder did not make my queasiness feel better. In fact, it grew into a deep nausea, and my sweating grew even worse. My head felt foggy. Fearing heat stroke, I was gripped by a sudden desperate need to leave. Immediately. Without telling anyone, I raced back along the narrow ledge, made it back to our drop-off, and collapsed under a tree. In a fetal position, I lay completely still for a few minutes before I regained enough energy to drink, downing my entire liter of water in a minute. I resigned myself to sit in the shade, with my head between my knees, waiting for my friends to get done playing on the beach. This wasn’t fun anymore.
3 nights of no sleep, I was ready to throw in the towel. Unfortunately, the itinerary was not. One more swim. Simon summed it up pretty accurately: “Its only about 500 meters, but it’ll be the longest 500 meters you’ve ever walked.” Though, walk wouldn’t be right; really it was just more bouldering; I could’ve taken it speedy like Masada, but being half asleep, I’d rather not risk a broken ankle when the closest town is fucking Jabiru. But I wont regale you with more boring stories about walking.
By the time we arrived, I’d returned to my earlier feeling of desperation. I needed to drop my body temp, immediately, if I didn’t want to pass out. I ripped my shoes off, tossed my hat into the water, and jumped in. Mustering my limited strength, I swam to a shaded cove in the pool, and found two rocks at the perfect height and distance apart. Put my legs up on one rock, rest my neck on the other, dip my head in the water and let it fill all the way to my cochlea. Floating on my back with my eyes closed and my ears full was true sensory deprivation. With only my nose and mouth above the water, my core temp finally started to drop, and I drifted in the gentle waves into a light sleep.
20 minutes later, Lindsey tapped me on the shoulder. I opened one eye, and sleepily asked her whats up. She didn’t answer; instead she turned back to the shore and yelled, “He’s still breathing!” with audible relief in her voice. Apparently, this fact had been called into question by Simon, who sent our resident nurse to investigate. Not caring that I just scared the shit out of our tour guide, I went back for another 20 minutes.
Finally, feeling refreshed, and God help me, chilly, I felt right to join the group. Good timing. John just came back elated, sharing the news of his new discovery. David was swimming one-handedly shortly behind, towing a thin dead snake. We later IDed it as a Slaty-Black Treesnake. Why ‘slaty’ is a question beyond me. However, John wanted to show off the still-living snake on a ledge on the other side of the pool he almost got bitten by.
I took off for the other side with renewed steam and vigor, and promptly petered out within 20 meters. As relaxing as it was, I was still dead tired. Still, I soldiered on, doing the breaststroke at a snail’s pass as John easily lapped me from behind. Greeting me at the finish line was a 10 foot high wet rock wall, with John already at the top. When I tried and failed to ascend, John tried to teach me how he got up. However, even knowing exactly where to put my hands and feet, I still didn’t have the upper body strength to pull myself up; I had to rely on John reaching down and pulling me up. Instead of being appreciative for the help, I just added resentment on top of my jealously.
As much as John is a friend, I still see him as a rival. Its just my nature to make things competitive. It just makes me mad that he’s always the one who finds things and catches things. And apparently, he can swim faster and climb better. He knows this, but I don’t think he knows it’s giving me a complex. If you think about it, this state of things shouldn’t be surprising; He’s a country boy and experienced zookeeper at the St Louis Zoo, and I’m a city boy who never sees anything more wild than mating squirrels. The fact that I can even begin to keep up in ID and capture should make me proud, but it’s just not enough.
Anyway, the snake. It was long, thin, and bright yellow. Like, Crayola yellow. It was backed into a rock crevice, reared up like a cobra, and staring right at us. We figured bright colors means poisonous, so we left it alone. We later IDed it as a particularly colorful morph of the Common Treesnake, but better safe than sorry I suppose.
Swimming back was an embarrassment. I eventually switched to the backstroke and claimed scenery-watching to explain my slowness. I was burning with shame on top of my jealousy and resentment. Yet, I still managed to make peace with myself before leaving the pool as the three of us enjoyed sliding down the natural wet rock slides. I taught them how to do that.
On the way back, we chatted about famous herpetologist deaths by venom. Charming.
Kaka-Doh! (Part 3: Hands-On Experience)
I’d thought the flies were brutal at lunch the day before, but I was wrong. In fact, throughout the trip I continued thinking the flies could not get worse, and was continually proven wrong. However, George mastered the art of putting a t-shirt on his head and securing it with a hat. Looked like a cross between Lawrence of Arabia and the KKK, but it was a look I’d be rocking many times before the end of the trip. And don’t tell Jess, but it was the Voice campaign shirt was I was using. Considering how badly they were trounced in the elections, that shirt might as well go to some good use.
It’s a little-known fact that when it’s hot out, you sweat. Ok, maybe that’s a small fib, but I had no idea one could sweat to the insane pool-filling amounts I could. I started our big hike carrying 2 liters of water (that recurring number), and sculled before we were half done. Mind you, our big hike was only 2 hours round trip, but clamoring over boulders in the full mid-day sun, half an hour will sweat you 2 liters. The trip was grueling, but as we’ve seen, it’s always about the destination.
The vista was gorgeous. We stood in the path of a waterfall, now down to a trickle in the wet season. Below us lay the green-tinged billabong, and beyond that, the sprawling forests of Kakadu. Of course, the real reward was the still-wet source pool just a hundred meters further, but one final obstacle lay in our path:
The Cane Toad (Bufo marinus) was introduced to Australia in 1935 by the most moronic bogan fuckhead this side of the equator. This poisonous delicacy has spread all over northern Australia and multiplied in ways that would make rabbits blush, slaughtering native wildlife in the process. The toads are a relatively recent arrival to Kakadu, and we used to think we could actually slow their progress. Each toad killed is thousands of eggs not laid, and now the charge to save the national park lay in David’s capable hands.
Somewhere along the line, John had challenged David to kill a Cane Toad. However, the usual methods of poisoning and freezing were not available to us in the middle of the wilderness. David would need more primitive methods. Grimacing in anticipation, he picked up a decent sized rock, and dropped it on the unflinching toad. It bounced right off. Shocked at the toad’s resilience, David tried again, to the same result. We realized if we wanted this toad dead, we would need true commitment. David once more wielded his rock, and brought it down with immense force on the toad’s head. Then again. Over and over, with surprising rage, David bludgeoned the toad’s face into the bedrock until its blood and brains began to flow. The toad was dead, and David had fulfilled whatever bizarre ritual of manhood he had set out for himself.
By the time we arrived at our third watering hole of the trip, I had ceased wearing my watch. Time was irrelevant; divisions of time were based on trips to waterfall plunge pools. Still sweating bullets, I looked forward with heated anticipation at jumping in (albeit at no deeper than 6 feet, there were no dramatic cliffdives), but before I could even take my shoes off, John exclaimed, “A snake just swam across the pool!” I was off in the direction he was pointing, crashing through the undergrowth, before he could even finish his sentence.
Panting from the dash, I looked around frantically to find his snake. Finding nothing, I resigned that it must’ve hid under the rocks, and prepared to enter the water… at which point I nearly stumbled over the Water Monitor. A diminutive relative of the Komodo Dragon at only 3 feet long, it still had nasty claws, a whip tail, and a bacteria-laden bite. It locked eyes with me and simply stared.
“Can you keep it occupied until I swim over?!” John called across the pool, already donning his goggles and slipping in. We continued our Mexican standoff, peering into reptilian eyes, as John and David approached. They crept up stealthily, almost making contact, and John reached out. The monitor bolted before it even touched, and I sprinted after it, crashing through undergrowth, among other things, determined not to lose it.
Escaping the tripping stumps and tangling vines, I found nothing. The monitor had escaped. I sighed, and felt a stab behind my ear. Confused, I looked behind me, and found nobody. Then another behind my other ear. A strangle prickly sensation was breaking out all over my body, and it was starting to hurt. I lifted my shirt, to reveal a dozen ants attempting to rip my flesh. I must’ve run right through a Green Ant nest, and now the soldiers were swarming my entire body, taking their aggression out on me.
Stripping down almost naked, I began madly brushing myself off, garnering quizzical looks from John and David. Luckily, none of them went for the scrotum. Finally clean of ants, I turned my shirt inside out, and began picking off the stragglers, angrily biting them in half and spitting out their heads. Who’s on top of the food chain now, bitches?! However, my victory feast was short lived; David found the monitor again and the chase resumed.
The monitor was a slick opponent; every time John and David approached it resting, it would slip off again and hide, not to be found until it came up for air again. I stayed on the shore to track its escapes. I desperately wanted to be part of the chase, but I knew my role was vital. Eventually, the two of them coaxed the lizard into a mini cove, where I was waiting on top to catch it. Cornered and unable to swim away, it made a break for the land, and I was ready. However, before I got my big debut, John grabbed it by the tail, swung around, and grabbed it behind the head, making the big catch. David cheered our success, but I felt an immediate burning jealousy, greener than my nemesis ants.
In fact, I’ll admit it: When John took it out of the water to show off his catch to the rest of the group, and it took a big wet fragrant shit on his bathing suit, I laughed.
While John and David took turns holding it and posing for the camera, I stripped and prepared for my consolation prize. I took my spot in the water near our mini cove, and waited for the group to finish fawning over our catch. Satisfied, they released it at the water’s edge, and it dove in.
To the average observer, it won’t seem like a big deal. However, as I swam beside it, watching its graceful moves, its deft acrobatics, its blistering speed, and its ultimate return to freedom, all with gentle flicks of its tail, I wondered what got me here. How was I on the other side of the world, in the land of reptiles, underwater and out of my element, sharing this moment with a miniature crocodile? Still watching and awestruck, I could only attribute it to magic.
Even after a recharging swim, the return trip was no less grueling. And really, Simon stopping us in the middle of the sun-baked savannah to talk about fire was both ironic and cruel.
It’s a little-known fact that when it’s hot out, you sweat. Ok, maybe that’s a small fib, but I had no idea one could sweat to the insane pool-filling amounts I could. I started our big hike carrying 2 liters of water (that recurring number), and sculled before we were half done. Mind you, our big hike was only 2 hours round trip, but clamoring over boulders in the full mid-day sun, half an hour will sweat you 2 liters. The trip was grueling, but as we’ve seen, it’s always about the destination.
The vista was gorgeous. We stood in the path of a waterfall, now down to a trickle in the wet season. Below us lay the green-tinged billabong, and beyond that, the sprawling forests of Kakadu. Of course, the real reward was the still-wet source pool just a hundred meters further, but one final obstacle lay in our path:
The Cane Toad (Bufo marinus) was introduced to Australia in 1935 by the most moronic bogan fuckhead this side of the equator. This poisonous delicacy has spread all over northern Australia and multiplied in ways that would make rabbits blush, slaughtering native wildlife in the process. The toads are a relatively recent arrival to Kakadu, and we used to think we could actually slow their progress. Each toad killed is thousands of eggs not laid, and now the charge to save the national park lay in David’s capable hands.
Somewhere along the line, John had challenged David to kill a Cane Toad. However, the usual methods of poisoning and freezing were not available to us in the middle of the wilderness. David would need more primitive methods. Grimacing in anticipation, he picked up a decent sized rock, and dropped it on the unflinching toad. It bounced right off. Shocked at the toad’s resilience, David tried again, to the same result. We realized if we wanted this toad dead, we would need true commitment. David once more wielded his rock, and brought it down with immense force on the toad’s head. Then again. Over and over, with surprising rage, David bludgeoned the toad’s face into the bedrock until its blood and brains began to flow. The toad was dead, and David had fulfilled whatever bizarre ritual of manhood he had set out for himself.
By the time we arrived at our third watering hole of the trip, I had ceased wearing my watch. Time was irrelevant; divisions of time were based on trips to waterfall plunge pools. Still sweating bullets, I looked forward with heated anticipation at jumping in (albeit at no deeper than 6 feet, there were no dramatic cliffdives), but before I could even take my shoes off, John exclaimed, “A snake just swam across the pool!” I was off in the direction he was pointing, crashing through the undergrowth, before he could even finish his sentence.
Panting from the dash, I looked around frantically to find his snake. Finding nothing, I resigned that it must’ve hid under the rocks, and prepared to enter the water… at which point I nearly stumbled over the Water Monitor. A diminutive relative of the Komodo Dragon at only 3 feet long, it still had nasty claws, a whip tail, and a bacteria-laden bite. It locked eyes with me and simply stared.
“Can you keep it occupied until I swim over?!” John called across the pool, already donning his goggles and slipping in. We continued our Mexican standoff, peering into reptilian eyes, as John and David approached. They crept up stealthily, almost making contact, and John reached out. The monitor bolted before it even touched, and I sprinted after it, crashing through undergrowth, among other things, determined not to lose it.
Escaping the tripping stumps and tangling vines, I found nothing. The monitor had escaped. I sighed, and felt a stab behind my ear. Confused, I looked behind me, and found nobody. Then another behind my other ear. A strangle prickly sensation was breaking out all over my body, and it was starting to hurt. I lifted my shirt, to reveal a dozen ants attempting to rip my flesh. I must’ve run right through a Green Ant nest, and now the soldiers were swarming my entire body, taking their aggression out on me.
Stripping down almost naked, I began madly brushing myself off, garnering quizzical looks from John and David. Luckily, none of them went for the scrotum. Finally clean of ants, I turned my shirt inside out, and began picking off the stragglers, angrily biting them in half and spitting out their heads. Who’s on top of the food chain now, bitches?! However, my victory feast was short lived; David found the monitor again and the chase resumed.
The monitor was a slick opponent; every time John and David approached it resting, it would slip off again and hide, not to be found until it came up for air again. I stayed on the shore to track its escapes. I desperately wanted to be part of the chase, but I knew my role was vital. Eventually, the two of them coaxed the lizard into a mini cove, where I was waiting on top to catch it. Cornered and unable to swim away, it made a break for the land, and I was ready. However, before I got my big debut, John grabbed it by the tail, swung around, and grabbed it behind the head, making the big catch. David cheered our success, but I felt an immediate burning jealousy, greener than my nemesis ants.
In fact, I’ll admit it: When John took it out of the water to show off his catch to the rest of the group, and it took a big wet fragrant shit on his bathing suit, I laughed.
While John and David took turns holding it and posing for the camera, I stripped and prepared for my consolation prize. I took my spot in the water near our mini cove, and waited for the group to finish fawning over our catch. Satisfied, they released it at the water’s edge, and it dove in.
To the average observer, it won’t seem like a big deal. However, as I swam beside it, watching its graceful moves, its deft acrobatics, its blistering speed, and its ultimate return to freedom, all with gentle flicks of its tail, I wondered what got me here. How was I on the other side of the world, in the land of reptiles, underwater and out of my element, sharing this moment with a miniature crocodile? Still watching and awestruck, I could only attribute it to magic.
Even after a recharging swim, the return trip was no less grueling. And really, Simon stopping us in the middle of the sun-baked savannah to talk about fire was both ironic and cruel.
Kaka-Doh! (Part 2: The First Day)
This might be a good point to introduce the cast of characters. Firstly, there’s John, another American from St. Louis who I actually met in Los Angeles. I have an innate ability to read John’s mind, but only because we habitually have the same thought about wildlife: “Lets catch it!” I’ve never known how comfortable he is with me, being strict Roman Catholic, but I’ve never brought it up, and neither has he. Instead, we’ve founded a friendship on a foundation of catching wild shit. I hope to continue when we return to America.
His friend is David. He is an interesting character. Very artsy, very into the aesthetic. He would stop us regularly to drool over Darwin’s booming pearl industry. He loves jewelry, art, and fashion, and has definite feminine speech patterns and mannerisms. He’s also completely heterosexual, and the two of us jointly defy every misconception about gay people. However, he never seemed to like me, and we never really hit it off. My obligatory Facebook friend invite being left in perpetual limbo probably attests to that. But hey, we’re just highly different people I suppose.
Our dynamic of basically only having John in common thrust a somewhat unwilling John into a leadership role to compromise between the two us, but I enjoyed being the devil on the shoulder during the trip, always encouraging more exploring, later hours, and more adventure.
Accompanying us was a colorful cast of characters. There was a married couple in their 30’s; the wife was named Lindsey, and the man, whose name escapes me, will be called George. Despite their advanced age, they could hike with the best of us, and they would be the source of the most amusement to me on the last night.
Also coming along were the three European boys: Jakob (24) looked stereotypically Nordic blond, and always had a goofy smile on his face. He was also probably the most athletic among us, being the only one able of climbing up the slippery slope of the rock pool. He stuck to the most part with Jasper (26), another stereotypical Nordic blond, except with a lazy eye. They were traveling the world together, and I half wondered if Jakob kept Jasper around as his wingman in bars. I was eventually proven wrong, as only Jasper picked up in the bar on the last night. Finally, there was Martin (29), a quiet German who rarely spoke. He made for a decent tentmate and seemed rather friendly, though I still avoided disclosing my jewish heritage.
Finally, there were our tour guides, Simon and Beck. Simon was new at the game, but was rather knowledgeable, especially about Aboriginal culture. However, he was always scared because he was being judged by Beck. She was the outgoing tour guide, and was giving him his final review. They were both fairly heavily and creatively tattooed and pierced, and their attitude was snarky and quick to mock. I loved them immediately.
Our first stop was a crocodile cruise. While other companies make their crocs jump out of the water, our guide was au naturale. The old man also made a point of deriding the late great Steve Irwin. I was amused watching John grimace, and avoided announcing to the guide that 3 of us were wearing Wildlife Warriors wristbands from Steve’s charity.
The crocs themselves were pretty neat, cruising past the boat lazily, eying us with hunger and contempt. Oddly, I wondered if the experience was akin to being in a gay bathhouse. We also had the pleasure of seeing a big Salty nearly take down a Freshy. Overall, a relaxing leisurely cruise that lulled us into a false sense of security.
Upon arrival in Kakadu, we had a picnic, and I became fully acquainted with the spawn of Satan: Flies. Buzzing in my ears, walking on the surface of my eyeballs, slurping white blood cells from the gaping hole in my eyebrow… I was almost ready to call it quits right there, and might’ve if I’d known it would only get worse. But eventually we finished lunch and soldiered on to our first hike.
Our first hike was more like walking on the sandy boardwalk at Jones Beach. I was actually a little disappointed. We did see Golden Orb Spiders and the somewhat rare Rainbow Pitta (one of only 4 suboscines in Australia. Trust me, I got tested on that). We even saw Ant Lions in action. However, the hike was irrelevant to what we were hiking to.
It was described in the itinerary as a dip in a waterfall plunge pool. What I was not aware of was the fact that we’d be the ones doing the plunging. From about 30 feet up. We clamored up sharp hot rocks to what was essentially a miniature cliff. The lower jump was easy enough, and the water was actually quite warm, but I knew I wasn’t going to be satisfied unless I took the high dive.
Now, you should know I have a mild fear of heights. That’s why I do things like rock climb, roller coaster, and bungee jump. I do it to strike back at my fear. But this time, there were no support ropes, safety systems, or brakes. Just the water. At maybe 30 feet, it was the smallest of any of my height challenges, but it petrified me more than all the others combined. And you know jumps always look higher from the top.
I climbed up to the top, and planted my feet on the edge, just as Beck coached. But I sat down. My legs felt like jelly. She called up, asking me if I had any trouble standing, but I just lied and said ‘no’. Thoughts whirled in my head. What if I broke a leg? Or my spine? What if I had my eyebrow piercing ripped out of my face upon impact with the water? If I pass out on hitting the water, or even from fear during the fall, I could drown… Then I stood up and jumped.
My head cleared of all thoughts in the jump. I was a blank entity, just falling through space. Until I hit the water, of course. Accidentally flipped over underwater, and got the substance lodged in my ears, nose, and every sinus. Don’t you hate that feeling when warm water oozes out of your ears? As do I, but it took me a good 5 hours to experience it. In the meanwhile, I swam over to a mini waterfall, where hot water from above washed over me. Tiny rocket frogs scampered all over the sheer vertical wet walls, and fled my arrival like Godzilla. I settled into the warm falls, laid back my head, and waited for the gentle frogs’ return. I’d found Australia.
The return trip was pretty nondescript, except for the fact that I ate ants. Apparently, according to Beck, my fears of the Green Ants are unfounded, and they’re actually quite delicious. I picked one off a branch, and it stung my tongue. Surprisingly, it was delicious. I didn’t even mind the sting, as I was going to eat it anyway; instead of take-out, delivery. They kinda taste like lemon sorbet. I got my daily vitamin C intake from a few more ants before leaving to make camp. I didn’t know then that they’d get their revenge.
That night over dinner and tea (it’s a Commonwealth thing), I asked Beck where I could find snakes. She told me, half-jokingly, that I could find them in the bathroom, which was really just a permanent porta-potty, an oxymoron in its own right. Maybe she was making lewd commentary on the wily and dangerous Trouser Snake.
Despite our sleepiness, there was no rest for the wicked. The three musketeers were going spotlighting for animals at night. The night’s catch was a real freakshow; Huntsman Spiders missing legs, Geckos missing tails, and the creepiest Kookaburra just staring at us. David crapped out relatively early, but John and I soldiered on in the other direction. As I crept quietly in the bush trying to trace a sound, I was rudely interrupted by John racing back. “Hurry up, I’ve a snake!”
I followed and ended up at… the bathroom. Was Beck right, or was this just the skuzziest crack-on ever? But to my amazement, he was right. There on the ground right outside the permanent porta-potty was a small snake. We took turns trying to pick it up and ID it without getting fatally envenomed. In the back of my mind, I could hear my friends cashing in on their bets. The way to tell is by finding the heat pits under the jaw characteristic of pythons. Not easy when it’s snapping at you and you might die. I’m sorry to say I dropped it twice during two close calls. But finally we IDed it properly as a (ironically enough) juvenile Children’s Python.
We took pictures, which I regretted since days of not showering left my face splotchier than a Jackson Pollack painting, but we wanted to document our success. We even had the decency of bringing it back to the sleeping David to pose with. However, we didn’t wake anyone else. This was our thing, our success. We let it go, and tried to sleep.
Keyword of course is tried. 2 nights of no sleep and 2 Tylenol PM could not knock me out. It was just too fucking humid. Instead, I stayed up to watch the distant lightning, and glower angrily at my blissfully sleeping German tentmate. At least he didn’t snore.
With about 2 hours of sleep under my belt (recurring number, apparently), I was woken with a rousing start by Simon. “Hey, where are those boys that love snakes? I found something!” Didn’t take much guessing what it was. Apparently when he got up to make breakfast, a snake crept into his tent and took up his former warm spot. But I was still drowsy as fuck, and could barely care. I busted out John’s ID book and found it: Orange-Naped Moonsnake. This front-fanged elapid is a close relative of the Cobra, and its bite is about as deadly as a bee sting. Minus the potential anaphylactic shock. As tempting as it was, we did not add it to our breakfast roster, and we let it go on its merry way. Why exactly did we do all that painstaking hunting late last night when snakes would just come to us?
His friend is David. He is an interesting character. Very artsy, very into the aesthetic. He would stop us regularly to drool over Darwin’s booming pearl industry. He loves jewelry, art, and fashion, and has definite feminine speech patterns and mannerisms. He’s also completely heterosexual, and the two of us jointly defy every misconception about gay people. However, he never seemed to like me, and we never really hit it off. My obligatory Facebook friend invite being left in perpetual limbo probably attests to that. But hey, we’re just highly different people I suppose.
Our dynamic of basically only having John in common thrust a somewhat unwilling John into a leadership role to compromise between the two us, but I enjoyed being the devil on the shoulder during the trip, always encouraging more exploring, later hours, and more adventure.
Accompanying us was a colorful cast of characters. There was a married couple in their 30’s; the wife was named Lindsey, and the man, whose name escapes me, will be called George. Despite their advanced age, they could hike with the best of us, and they would be the source of the most amusement to me on the last night.
Also coming along were the three European boys: Jakob (24) looked stereotypically Nordic blond, and always had a goofy smile on his face. He was also probably the most athletic among us, being the only one able of climbing up the slippery slope of the rock pool. He stuck to the most part with Jasper (26), another stereotypical Nordic blond, except with a lazy eye. They were traveling the world together, and I half wondered if Jakob kept Jasper around as his wingman in bars. I was eventually proven wrong, as only Jasper picked up in the bar on the last night. Finally, there was Martin (29), a quiet German who rarely spoke. He made for a decent tentmate and seemed rather friendly, though I still avoided disclosing my jewish heritage.
Finally, there were our tour guides, Simon and Beck. Simon was new at the game, but was rather knowledgeable, especially about Aboriginal culture. However, he was always scared because he was being judged by Beck. She was the outgoing tour guide, and was giving him his final review. They were both fairly heavily and creatively tattooed and pierced, and their attitude was snarky and quick to mock. I loved them immediately.
Our first stop was a crocodile cruise. While other companies make their crocs jump out of the water, our guide was au naturale. The old man also made a point of deriding the late great Steve Irwin. I was amused watching John grimace, and avoided announcing to the guide that 3 of us were wearing Wildlife Warriors wristbands from Steve’s charity.
The crocs themselves were pretty neat, cruising past the boat lazily, eying us with hunger and contempt. Oddly, I wondered if the experience was akin to being in a gay bathhouse. We also had the pleasure of seeing a big Salty nearly take down a Freshy. Overall, a relaxing leisurely cruise that lulled us into a false sense of security.
Upon arrival in Kakadu, we had a picnic, and I became fully acquainted with the spawn of Satan: Flies. Buzzing in my ears, walking on the surface of my eyeballs, slurping white blood cells from the gaping hole in my eyebrow… I was almost ready to call it quits right there, and might’ve if I’d known it would only get worse. But eventually we finished lunch and soldiered on to our first hike.
Our first hike was more like walking on the sandy boardwalk at Jones Beach. I was actually a little disappointed. We did see Golden Orb Spiders and the somewhat rare Rainbow Pitta (one of only 4 suboscines in Australia. Trust me, I got tested on that). We even saw Ant Lions in action. However, the hike was irrelevant to what we were hiking to.
It was described in the itinerary as a dip in a waterfall plunge pool. What I was not aware of was the fact that we’d be the ones doing the plunging. From about 30 feet up. We clamored up sharp hot rocks to what was essentially a miniature cliff. The lower jump was easy enough, and the water was actually quite warm, but I knew I wasn’t going to be satisfied unless I took the high dive.
Now, you should know I have a mild fear of heights. That’s why I do things like rock climb, roller coaster, and bungee jump. I do it to strike back at my fear. But this time, there were no support ropes, safety systems, or brakes. Just the water. At maybe 30 feet, it was the smallest of any of my height challenges, but it petrified me more than all the others combined. And you know jumps always look higher from the top.
I climbed up to the top, and planted my feet on the edge, just as Beck coached. But I sat down. My legs felt like jelly. She called up, asking me if I had any trouble standing, but I just lied and said ‘no’. Thoughts whirled in my head. What if I broke a leg? Or my spine? What if I had my eyebrow piercing ripped out of my face upon impact with the water? If I pass out on hitting the water, or even from fear during the fall, I could drown… Then I stood up and jumped.
My head cleared of all thoughts in the jump. I was a blank entity, just falling through space. Until I hit the water, of course. Accidentally flipped over underwater, and got the substance lodged in my ears, nose, and every sinus. Don’t you hate that feeling when warm water oozes out of your ears? As do I, but it took me a good 5 hours to experience it. In the meanwhile, I swam over to a mini waterfall, where hot water from above washed over me. Tiny rocket frogs scampered all over the sheer vertical wet walls, and fled my arrival like Godzilla. I settled into the warm falls, laid back my head, and waited for the gentle frogs’ return. I’d found Australia.
The return trip was pretty nondescript, except for the fact that I ate ants. Apparently, according to Beck, my fears of the Green Ants are unfounded, and they’re actually quite delicious. I picked one off a branch, and it stung my tongue. Surprisingly, it was delicious. I didn’t even mind the sting, as I was going to eat it anyway; instead of take-out, delivery. They kinda taste like lemon sorbet. I got my daily vitamin C intake from a few more ants before leaving to make camp. I didn’t know then that they’d get their revenge.
That night over dinner and tea (it’s a Commonwealth thing), I asked Beck where I could find snakes. She told me, half-jokingly, that I could find them in the bathroom, which was really just a permanent porta-potty, an oxymoron in its own right. Maybe she was making lewd commentary on the wily and dangerous Trouser Snake.
Despite our sleepiness, there was no rest for the wicked. The three musketeers were going spotlighting for animals at night. The night’s catch was a real freakshow; Huntsman Spiders missing legs, Geckos missing tails, and the creepiest Kookaburra just staring at us. David crapped out relatively early, but John and I soldiered on in the other direction. As I crept quietly in the bush trying to trace a sound, I was rudely interrupted by John racing back. “Hurry up, I’ve a snake!”
I followed and ended up at… the bathroom. Was Beck right, or was this just the skuzziest crack-on ever? But to my amazement, he was right. There on the ground right outside the permanent porta-potty was a small snake. We took turns trying to pick it up and ID it without getting fatally envenomed. In the back of my mind, I could hear my friends cashing in on their bets. The way to tell is by finding the heat pits under the jaw characteristic of pythons. Not easy when it’s snapping at you and you might die. I’m sorry to say I dropped it twice during two close calls. But finally we IDed it properly as a (ironically enough) juvenile Children’s Python.
We took pictures, which I regretted since days of not showering left my face splotchier than a Jackson Pollack painting, but we wanted to document our success. We even had the decency of bringing it back to the sleeping David to pose with. However, we didn’t wake anyone else. This was our thing, our success. We let it go, and tried to sleep.
Keyword of course is tried. 2 nights of no sleep and 2 Tylenol PM could not knock me out. It was just too fucking humid. Instead, I stayed up to watch the distant lightning, and glower angrily at my blissfully sleeping German tentmate. At least he didn’t snore.
With about 2 hours of sleep under my belt (recurring number, apparently), I was woken with a rousing start by Simon. “Hey, where are those boys that love snakes? I found something!” Didn’t take much guessing what it was. Apparently when he got up to make breakfast, a snake crept into his tent and took up his former warm spot. But I was still drowsy as fuck, and could barely care. I busted out John’s ID book and found it: Orange-Naped Moonsnake. This front-fanged elapid is a close relative of the Cobra, and its bite is about as deadly as a bee sting. Minus the potential anaphylactic shock. As tempting as it was, we did not add it to our breakfast roster, and we let it go on its merry way. Why exactly did we do all that painstaking hunting late last night when snakes would just come to us?
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