Last time we spoke, I do believe I was moving to a new town for a new job so I could save lots of money. After the irritating chore of packing, we all said our farewells to the people staying behind. We’d been staying at a nice campsite which was located right next to the river, I was a bit gutted to leave actually. After months of pure backpacking accommodation (I.e. squalor), these cabins were a welcome change. But I need to work, so to move on was a must. Me and my merry men (and woman) hit the road for our next adventure.
The journey took over an hour. The journey was pleasant at first, but after the first 60,000 eucalyptus trees and eleventy nine paddocks, it gets quite mundane. It’s journeys like these you realise just how sparsely populated this country is. You can’t say you’ve been isolated until you’ve been in the rural areas of a country the size of Australia. My parents moved to a hamlet in Cornwall, which I considered to be in the arsehole of nowhere, but a supermarket is just ten minutes away. Coming to a country this size has changed my perspective A LOT on things like this.
The bus pulled up in a ‘town’ called Wood-Wood. Our boss has told us to get the bus here and then phone him. No drama. We tried to phone him, no answer. Loving it. Wood-Wood had about three houses and one shop. The clear blue sky was retreating from a ghastly horde of black clouds and hunger was starting to creep up on us all. Low on funds and travelling light, I didn’t exactly have a picnic basket with me. Even better still, the shop was closed. We sat outside the shop and pondered what the f*ck we could do. Finally we managed to get hold of Eddy, he was an hour and a half away. So we had to sit outdoors in the pissing rain with famished stomachs for two hours in the end.
The only food I had left was weet-a-bix (they call it weet-bix here) and a jar of jam. So using my backpacking wit, I proceeded to dip the weet-a-bix in the jam jar and eat them. The travelling life can be far from a luxurious life at times. The kind lady in the shop sympathised with us and opened up for us to grab some essentials. At first I was grateful, I grabbed a loaf of bread, a bottle of milk and a can of beans. This come to the sum of $15. That’s £10! I wish she had never of opened the shop now.
Our chauffer finally arrived and we all piled in. Luckily our new home wasn’t far away. Our new destination was a village called Toolybuc. Toolybuc has one pub, a shop and a school. The population is a whopping 275. There’s really not a lot to do here, as you can imagine. I thought there would be some decent hiking about, but the Murray River is impressive for about one-mile. Then you realise once you’ve seen one bit, you’ve seen it all. But this didn’t matter, as Eddy said we were going to be working seven days a week. We were going to be too busy with work and making money to get bored…weren’t we?
Since coming to the Murray River, it has brought me nothing but bad luck. Along with everyone else in my group. The Murray River is just one fast flowing artery of bad luck. Forever pumping her bad luck into the lands around here. Then in the lands, grow crops that contain bad luck. We then proceed to eat these crops and are now hosts to the bad luck of the Murray River. It turns out, the farmer we were supposed to be working for, has had to post-pone the work as his father died of cancer. A tragic event that’s completely out of anyone’s control.
So now we were in Toolybuc, with no work, no internet, no supermarket, no form of entertainment, not even a ball to kick around. We spent seven days at our caravan park, this sounds like a holiday to some. But I can assure you, it was far from a f*cking holiday. Ever heard of the term cabin fever? Our sanity danced with death. Here’s what I wrote for one of my diary entries (I have hidden the identity of one chap here for obvious reasons):
“I am going doolally. My sanity is merely a pile of, once glorious, rubble. The Cabin has weaved my helpless soul in a web of pessimism and doom. There is no way out. I am trapped here forever like a cannon ball riddled galleon on the ocean floor. Time stops for no man… except for those in The Cabin. Time has abandoned us altogether, for The Cabin does not permit us to die. To die would mean to leave, The Cabin would never allow this. The Cabin replaces light with darkness. Love with hate. Dreams with nightmares. Bravery with cowardice. The Cabin rots the fresh. Puts thirst in the water. Hunger in the food. Even the wickedest of sinners would sooner bathe in the fires of hell than rent a night in The Cabin.
Not only is it mental deterioration that’s scavenging away at the inhabitants of The Cabin. There are signs of physical mal too. ****** has fallen victim to a severe case of a burning urethra and an itchy bellend. He has not yet been to a doctor, as such facilities are scarce in this location. But through self-examination and past experiences of other inhabitants in this cabin; it has been concluded he has probably contracted an STD from unprotected sex with a Swedish girl. It is an itch only anti-biotics can scratch. The Cabin will never allow such provisions amidst her realms. God have mercy on his bell.
We are Truly Fucked in Toolybuc.”
Okay, so perhaps it’s a slight dramatisation. But, let’s just say, I can sympathise with Elizabeth Fritzl after this experience. The whole being locked up in a confined space thing that is, not the raising a family with my Dad part (I only moved to Cornwall, I’m not from there!). I tried to get outdoors and go for a walk, but there is only one straight road that leads to nowhere. There is just paddocks and eucalyptus trees here. Far from an ugly sight, but the problem in Oz is (trust a ‘whinging Pom’ to point a problem out), you can’t just wander off into the woods. It’s best to stick to the path, otherwise you may fall victim to a nice dose of snake poison. Also, I don’t want to be that mongoloid backpacker on the news who got lost because he can’t follow a path.
To make things better, my money was diminishing fast. I had f*cked up, once again. I was spending my money willy-nilly as I was relying on my tax return to come through, but thanks to my useless twat of an accountant, it hasn’t materialised. They asked me to fax or email my payslip through, I done this. Then they sent me another automated message asking for my payslip. With no internet or fax machine where I am, I’m pretty f*cked on that front for now. I managed to use my friends Blackberry to send them a pretty blunt message that my patience was wearing thin. As I write this, I have no idea what they have sent back, as my friends internet has run out.
Let me speak about the internet briefly, the world has become way too reliable on this bloody thing. Me included. We need it to get our news, to do our tax forms, to apply for jobs. I applied for a job at Marks and Sparks last Christmas, as they do great overtime at X-Mas, perfect travel saving work (a tip for those who want to travel). I go in there with my C.V. and my friendliest smile. They tell me that they do have jobs going, but to apply, I must go on there website and apply through there. So now we can’t even apply for a job face-to-face anymore. Long gone are the days that your confidence and wit can score you a job. Now you have to email facts and figures through and cross your fingers that they call you back. What a load of bollocks. I am a slave to the internet though. I can’t keep off it, I’m that annoying prick on Facebook who will tell you that I’m going to have cheese and pickle sandwiches for lunch today. It’s not healthy, so this time away from the internet, has done me some good really. The internet is the biggest gift and curse to this planet since the Industrial Revolution. The gift being free porn, the curse being slow buffering.
Moral was at an all-time low. Only one thing could restore it, goon. We invested in a box of goon and let the good times roll. Most of the jokes that night are too explicit to type on here, but a good time was had by all. Somewhere between the story of one of the group unintentionally having sex with a 16-year old and me giving the usual drunken rant about how I hate people who aren’t Irish and celebrate St Patrick’s Day. We all passed out. That’s the only way a night can end with goon.
Just a quick one on the St Paddy’s Day thing. Every time I query someone on this who isn’t Irish, they reply to me “Well it’s an excuse to get drunk isn‘t it?”. Since when did anyone in the Western world need an excuse? I went to the pub one morning to drop a DVD off to my friend, I ended up coming home two days later with no recollection of what the f*ck had happened in that time. As if we need St Paddy’s day to get lashed up. It’s an American marketing scheme that we’ve all fallen for once again. Just like Valentine’s Day and Mother and Father’s Day. Although saying that did you know that people in Kazakhstan celebrate Australia Day? Of course that isn’t true though is it, because that would be f*cking retarded…
ANYWAY (I tend to sidetrack myself a lot), a post-goon day is not a day at all. It’s a complete write-off, your so hungry you can’t move, yet you’re so hung-over you can’t be arsed to cook. Still no work and still no money. People were starting to leave for greener pastures, I decided I would do the same. I messaged my mates from Canberra who said I can see them at anytime. Canberra is meant to be boring, but these Aussie lads told me that because I know them, they can sort me out with work, booze and pretty females. Throw in a plate of ham, egg and chips and I’m pretty much in heaven. No need to follow a religion with offers like that.
The thought of going back to a city excited me so much. I was actually going to see REAL people. I can actually drink water out of a tap. This is insane! Then on a quiet Sunday, Eddy got us drunk and talked us into staying in Toolybuc. The drunken man is a fickle man. It’s actually paid off really well now though. We’re staying in a house for $50 a week and work has started to come through. Our first job was just pulling fence wires out of these wooden post thingys. Sound boring as f*ck. But with gorgeous 25 degrees weather last week, I wouldn’t want any other job. The farmers here have all been so sound. After my Mildura experience, I was expecting the metropolis of Toolybuc to be even more inbred and ignorant. But I have been pleasantly proven wrong, this place of full of what I see as, true Australians. The pleasant and down to earth ones. One farmer even apologised for the reception I received in Mildura, obviously that’s just ridiculous. As if I can hold this man responsible for the mongs in Mildura. When I told my contractor the story (he’s Cambodian), he showed me the knife wound scars he received in Mildura for being foreign. Turns out I got off lucky!
So now, I’m in a house with no toaster and no kettle. No tea or toast in the morning. It’s an absolute nightmare. But my eyes have been opened to a whole new cuisine. Noodles and eggs. When you cook noodles in the saucepan, drop a couple of eggs in and it poaches them. Absolute genius. I’m fully addicted to this now. I know a lot of people who would want to go back home after the shit and mundane weeks I’ve had. But this is the thing with travelling, amongst all the mind-numbing boredom and brain cells swiftly abandoning my brain. It’s still a great memory for me. In these weeks, I have made friends for life. Friendships move faster in travelling, you can make a best friend in a week. Easily. They will know all your dirty secrets and insecurities in this time. It’s one of the best things about travelling. You can be in a cabin for a week straight, eating noodles and eggs, maybe pasta and tuna to spice things up. But you’re still having the time of your life, thanks to the people around you.
I’m able to get on the internet now. We drove into the nearest town the other day and stocked up on essential supplies. I managed to get a mobile Wi-Fi thingy-majig. It’s amazing. I have full signal in the arsehole of nowhere. The kind girl in the shop sold it to me in four sentences. Either she’s good at her job or I’m easily manipulated. As I was buying it, she commented on how she loves my accent. I have heard this so much since travelling. Yet, I never get tired of hearing it. I don’t think I ever will. Every time I hear this it’s like hearing it for the first time. The swelling of my head knows no boundaries.
My plan from here is to work for another month or so. Hopefully I can get in shape for the summer, I’ve moved in with some Korean lads. These boys all do national service, so one of them is helping beast me into shape. He’s an ex-Special Forces machine. I have never ached so much in my life. Bring it on. I know it will all go out the window once I move somewhere with a Hungry Jacks. Obesity is worth it for Hungry Jacks though. I also have my mind set on what I will do when my visa expires in February. I won’t say just yet, but I can say, I won’t be back in England for a long time. I don’t have the travelling bug, the travelling bug has me.
