Around Australia by Schooner

On long road trips, it's important to have a travelling companion. Not so much to share the driving; more to avoid being labelled as that creepy bloke driving around the outback by himself in a Land Cruiser. Over the years, I've dragged along a series of female companions on my longer trips, with varying degrees of success. One of them concocted some story about a family emergency, and insisted I drive 450km out of the way, and drop her at Sydney Airport.  That was in  September, and I'm still waiting to hear from her.  September 2009, I should add. Others have different ways of coping with my personality.  Like drinking heavily early in the day (Heather, call me.  I've lost your number). Pic taken somewhere west of Arewethereyet Bay.  I'm not sure why it's smiling. This trip though, I had a male passenger.  Paddy, my son actually, a 20-year-old veteran of my strange habits and mood swings.  So you'd think he'd just roll his eyes, and thin

Every weekend, thousands of patriots pull on their singlets, and head out to reclaim Australia. Draped in the flag, and and chanting fuck knows what, they're out to stop the Islamic invasion. According to them, the sand niggers who call themselves Muslims (Reclaim Australia's words, not mine) are nothing more than pedophiles and suicide bombers. Strangely, most of the anger comes from people living in white suburbia.  Places where the only Muslims are are likely to be the local doctor, or kebab shop owner.  That's hardly an invasion.  An invasion is where you arrive uninvited, and commit genocide, but I'll get onto that. Ms Hanson, these people idolise you.  People can analyse the behaviour of angry white people all they like, whether they're from Bendigo or Alabama, the fact is this; they have growing political clout. And many other political leaders agree with all the anti-Islam rhetoric. pic courtesy of Oyna Magazine Where am I going with this?

I'm a robust sort of individual.  Not much troubles me. But there are certainly some things that make feel a little bit sick inside. Calls from unlisted telephone numbers.  Turf wars between mommy bloggers.  Anybody called Russ. And, of course, tourism experiences describing themselves as 'authentic'. That last one gives me images of gift shops stuffed full of imported trinkets, and museums staffed by sad-faced pensioners wearing period costume.  Not to mention ghost tours, run by sad-faced pensioners wearing period costume. The signs had begun about three hours south of Cairns - 'Visit Charters Towers, Australia's Most Authentic Country Town'.  So I'd been feeling a bit queasy ever since Mission Beach. But this never-ending drive was meant to be the search for the Real Australia.  Surely, I'd find something in Charters Towers? Charters Towers, circa 1904.  Not much has changed, except the road is now sealed.  And we didn't see any ho

We were about halfway between Alice Springs and Townsville when the temperature hit 42 degrees. The sky was masked by a storm of red dust.  Fences were clogged by tumbleweeds.  The road was rapidly becoming impassable, thanks to a never-ending cavalcade of tornados and road trains. Difficult conditions, yes.  But we weren't about to give up. We'd left the luxury of coastal resorts far behind, and were back in the outback, where men outnumber women five to one.  In short, we'd returned to the Real Australia. Our mission?  To find, and hopefully capture, a dinosaur. I'm not shitting you here. I read all about it in a brochure. 'Australia's Dinosaur Trail' links the outback towns of Winton, Hughenden and Richmond, according to the brochure. In just 800 kilometres, you can cover most of Australia's best-known dinosaur territory. Okay, I was a bit cynical.  You see, Winton, Hughenden and Richmond aren't  particularly interesting places

Queensland's not like it was in the good old days. That's right, I want you to stay with me for a while as I get all nostalgic. The glorious shark-infested waters of Mission Beach.  Yes, there are stingers too. Nearly 30 years ago I tried to hitchhike around Australia. All I had was time, a few dollars, and the sort of worldly experience you get from going to a private school in Sandy Bay. In other words, I probably wasn't equipped for this sort of adventure, back when backpacker (and driver murders) were standard news items. So after sticking my thumb out on the Bruce Highway, looking helpless and hopeless for two days, I threw in the towel. I trudged slowly back to Southport on the Gold Coast, and bought a car. It was a 1972 HQ Holden wagon (later fondly renamed the Wagon Queen Family Truckster), complete with rust holes and a three-speed manual transmission, but lacking niceties like a radio or air conditioning. A $30 mattress with a few dodgy stains

I got lost today. Those who know me will understand. Usually, it's just a matter of checking a map, apologising to whomever I've dragged along for the ride, and getting back on track. But today was getting lost on a heroic scale. I blame the chick in the Caltex servo. When I asked for directions to Roma, she clicked, grunted, barely looked up from her 'That's Life' magazine, and told me to take the Hughenden Road. Being an idiot, I did. It was hot, and getting hotter; perfect conditions for a breakfast beer. So  half an hour into the drive, I pulled into the carpark of the grandly named Balfe's Creek Hotel Motel. A sign on the door said 'closed'.  For those who miss it, there was another one, saying 'we are not open'. Then a third, in caps lock: 'WE HAVE NO BEER'. So it was back to the road. Around 3 hours later, I started to wonder about Plan A.  We were getting uncomfortably close to Mt Isa, where I didn'