Das Ist Walter!

A Renault drove by, and its driver made frantic and complex signals to the trudging figure to indicate that normally he would have been delighted to give the figure a lift, only he couldn't this time because he wasn't going in the direction that the figure wanted to go, whatever direction that might be, and he was sure the figure would understand. He concluded the signalling  with a cheery thumbs-up sign, as if to say he hoped the figure felt really fine about being cold and almost terminally wet, and he would catch him next time around.

So Long, And Thanks For All The Fish (D. Adams)

The day of my flight to New Zealand is close - 6 more days - so this will be probably my last post from Down Under. For the time, at least
And it's gonna be mostly about hitchhiking, this time without drugs or beers, just about ordinary weirdos.
My scariest ride was from I-Don't-Knoe-Where to Port Macquire, 3 months ago. It was almost dark and I said to myself I'm gonna hitch just another car and call it a day, no matter if it stops or not. It stopped. A lovely granny in her eighties was simply delighted that she can give a helping hand to someone in need. The fact that the exhaust of her Mini Morris was making ominous sounds didn't reach my brain, I was too happy. Off we went, in first gear with the engine screaming and the tyres squealing, one two three she was in second with the engine roaring and she allowed it a bit of relax only when she was over 60 km/h switching to third.The fourth was kept for speeds close to 100. It started to rain. Her face turned in a big grin when she said "Gee, I sure love wet roads!" I didn't dare to say a word but she read my face and told me that in the 1960's she was a racer, a rally driver, one of the rare if not the only girl slightly successful. "I still love the smell of gasoline, I think it's the most suitable perfume for a woman!" She went quite of her way to find me a spot where I could sleep close to the highway, but under a roof. I was grateful she did it, even more grateful the nightmare was over.
From Moranbah to Emerald it was the opposite, but not less scary. I got a ride from a guy in a huge Toyota with a trailer fully loaded with tools and equipment, a builder going home. He was slow, but I have no complaint about that. I started to have a doubt when I noticed the Toyota logo on the steering wheel. It was upside down. And we were on a road straight as an arrow. "Em.. err... what does that mean?" "Oh, the wheel? I had an accident yesterday, a crazy punk came full speed from a side road and hit me, you should have seen the trailer, it swinged as if wanting to overtake me!" "Huh, I hardly find it funny." "No worries, The Lord is always with us Mormons!" "Yeah, sure, but the steering?" "The guys at the garage made a quick fix and I prayed all night to be safely reunited with my family!" I had a thought that maybe I should start praying, too. But he did it enough for both us and he was safely reunited with his family, me with a cold beer. I needed it, really. Another one. And another.

I stayed in Emerald for two days and went forward another disaster. It's honestly a crappy spot for hitchhiking. Considering the other Australian hitchhiking it was the longest wait. Wait for... Michael, the born again christian trucker. Who is thinking to quit trucking and becoming a preacher. He used me as a rehearsal when I told him that I'm an atheist. Quotes from the Scriptures from Emerald to Roma (NOT Italy, Queensland), 400 km, 6 hours. All the things that the Lord told him (they are close buddies, talk to each other regularly, but somewhat spoiled by the fact that the first time he heard His voice was in a psychiatric ward). At the end of the ride I still wasn't ready for baptism so he gave me a pile of pamphlets and magazines for the christian trucker. Quality paper, I had something to wipe my arse with. Which is probably why I was cursed.

After sleeping in a Roma park I finally encountered my defeat. Nine (9) hours of standing by the road... not much traffic, no religious fanatics willing to give me a ride just to convert me.

I gave up. Went to Brisbane with the night Greyhound, stayed there for two days in a crappy hostel full of Italians (Nothing wrong with the Italians, the hostel was crappy itself. A really pretty girl actually told me that she wishes to have a father like me... shit, I really am getting old!) and took another bus back to Toowoomba. From there on was a breeze. Warwick, Stanthorpe. The usual rides for Australia where the driver apologizes for taking you ONLY 50 km far or so.

Without prayers along came Bruce and took me all the way to Tamworth, to a pub of course.

In Tamworth I had a funny experience, something I completely forgot that exists. The perfect assholes. Me by the side of the road on the outskirts of Tamworth, a car pulls over. Yay, me happy, grabs big backpack and small backpack, runs towards the car when the driver flips the bird out of the window and speeds away. It took me seconds to realize what happened. Five years ago it was a common occurrence that drove me mad while hitching in England and France, but in Australia... Look, I made almost 10 000 km riding the thumb here and yes, I met religious wackos, drug dealers and drug users, senile seniors... but not idiots. The worst was those signaling me like Adams well described in the intro to this post. I prefer those who plain ignore me. It's their choice to pass by, like it's my choice to be standing there. Well. In a way I'm glad I met an idiot like that. Otherwise I would sound like a walking praise to Australians - this way I will be much more credible.
One hour or so later Chen, a 43 years old Chinese teacher on holidays gave me a ride. He too was going to the Hunter Valley, to Pokolbin, barely 20 km from my destination - Broke. I was smiling all the way, thinking about the idiot and where he could stick his middle finger. Chen was quick on geography and told me that when he was a kid they watched tons of movies from Yugoslavia. And he specially liked that one, you know, II world war, a secret organisation is fighting the Nazis, it's about this guy you know, what was his name... "Walter?" "YES! Walter Defends Sarajevo!" He decided to make those extra 20 km and dropped me at the door of Jill and Ben's home.
Here I upgraded the woktenna,

went to the Jazz in the Catherine Vale Vineyards,...

Ben (with the hat) at the vineyard jazz.

And Jill, without hat.

The jazzers and a grumpy John (extremely grumpy these days even if he doesn't look like in the pic).

(continued from a few pictures above) ....drink too much beer and help as much as I can.

How I Became A Tree Huger

If I remember well it all started in 2008 and... and somehow I ended in Australia, hitchiking back and forth, for thousands of kilometres and yet I've seen only the tiniest part of it. After Ingham I spent some time on the achacha (an interesting fruit from South America) farm near of Townsville, made little (very little) money there but met a great man, Graeme, and his mate Gary. I quickly moved to Graeme's place for he needed help with fencing his paddock and while the accomodation was more frugal (but clean, nice and comfy) compared to the achacha, three fridges were always full of beer.

The work was hard and a bloody mess - even with gloves, pliers and caution the barbed wire will always win. I mean cut. No, it doesn't cut, it just tears the flesh. Graeme didn't even care about it, working in shorts and pulling the barbed wire with bare hands, at the end of the day he was usually covered in blood. Me, the pussy, with thick gloves, handling the wire with pliers and being cautious at every step of the work, at the end of the day was usually covered in blood and in torn clothes. The last day I did like him, in shorts, no gloves, no pliers - lots of blood but I spared a pair of pants.
But it was worth. Not for the money, for the evenings with Graeme.

We had the compulsory beer at the end of the working day with everyone who passed by - and then we would go on drinking and talking just the two of us, until dinner, during dinner and after dinner. He would tell me stories about the time he spent in South Africa or how frustrating was for him to travel across Europe, border after border after border in a distance less than Townsville to Brisbane... and I told him about Korea and Japan and funny stories about Ozzies.
After a few hundred beers it was time to go. Graeme gave me a lift to Ayr, from there  managed to hitch a ride to Home Hill and there waited for few hours in the sun. Well, I got some money in my pocket so, what the hell, I go by bus. The next bus south? It should be here in four hours, maybe five. To waste the time I wasted my money in the pub, got wasted and finally got on the bus, arrived to Mackay in the middle of the night and slept on the banks of the Pioneer river. Spent the next night at the Gecko's hostel and on Monday I met with Colin and Geraldine to go to the Eungella National Park. To the border of the park, at least, because there's where they live. On their plantation of hoop pines, thousands of them. And the pines need pruning.

That was my job for the past week. The young ones were easy. The old ones... not so. They were high between 10 and 15 meters and they need to be pruned to the height of 8. And 8 meters doesn't sound really high. Or scary high. It isn't. The scary part is the wind. You always get the feeling that the ladder will just slide from under your feet - even if it's secured to the tree with a chain. And the squealing noise made by the metal rubbing the bark. And the cracking noise made by the branch that you cut just above your head that is to fall. You hug the tree - it's a survival instinct, I guess. I survived.

My accommodation there reminded me of various places from this world. Istria, for example. No joke - pictures of Motovun were hanging from all over the wall of my room, Colin had been there two years ago.

And of Japan - the back door of my room was leading in the tractor shed!

And yesterday I started my hitch again, going slowly south, but this time by the Great Inland Way.

Made it to Emerald the first day, next stop will most probably be tha Carnarvon Gorge. But nothing is sure.

Achacha

The winter in New Zealand was not pleasant. Similarly in Sydney. Not so cold, but was pouring down like crazy (but I did have a long hot shower at the airport). Without enough money I had to walk all the way from the airport to the Central Station in the rain - I had barely enough $ to buy a train ticket to Singleton. Ben and Jill from Broke were so kind as to invite me to stop there on my way north for a decent bath, meal and sleep. Cursed as I was I missed the connection in Hamilton (the second and last train for Singleton of the day) and could get only to Maitland - but Ben, dear Ben, had no troubles to make a few tens of kilometers more to pick me up. Not dear Ben - golden Ben, I should write. He sure does know how to make me happy - after the hugs I found myself in the car, with a cold beer in hand. It was his way of welcoming me. I stayed there for two days to wash all my clothes, eat, drink and smoke a lot.

I hit the road with a few sandwiches, some tobacco and 60 $, Ben's loan. I managed a ride of maybe 20 km when I was soaked again. Not really good weather for hitchhiking. During the night, still wet, I froze my ass sleeping under the roof of a roadside toilet. In the evening of the second day I arrived to the outskirts of Brisbane with a dealer and I was so stoned that I wasn't able to stand by the road so I just lied down and slept till 4AM or so, when it started raining again. After escaping the gravity of Brisbane by train I got aride from a musician who likes smoking pot a bit too much. I passed another stoned night in Childers. No rain this time. From Childers to Rockhampton, where the cops told me to bugger off of the road, for my safety. Otherwise I'll be fined with 120 $, for my safety. I buggered off of the road and slept near the Capricorn Correctional Center. With my bad luck the camera wouldn't work - I really wanted to take a picture of a sign on the prison fence. It says: PRISON - KEEP OUT!

In the morning of the first ride I got was from a kind gramps. First thing he inquired where I'm from. I told him and he fell silent, so I gave him a more detailed description of the geographical location of Slovenia. He only nodded. After a few minutes of silence, he asked "So, where are you from, mate?" Probably he didn't hear me well the first time, so I repeated the geography lesson, this time a bit louder. He nodded. After some five minutes, he turned to me with abig smile, asking "So, where are you from, mate?" I guess he didn't have a hearing problem. In the next 50 km I told him 4 times where I'm from. I got the next ride from a guy who was maybe two weeks younger, but was rolling joints faster than I can do. The only problem was that he was also a bit senile and after smoking a joint he quickly forgot he did so he had to have another one. I went to sleep stoned on the northern outskirts of Mackay. The fifth car passing by the next morning stopped and at noon I was in Townsville, barely 100 km from my destination. I had to walk in the scorching heat for two hours to find a decent spot for the hitch and even so I had to boil my brains for quite some time before I hit the jackpot. Really.A young guy pulled over, Jona the name as I found out later, and asked me where was I going. "Just take somewhere north, out of here!"
"No, seriously, where are you going?"
 "Ingham."
"OK, I will take you to Ingham, I have nothing better to do."
Wut? Just like he said. He was supposed to go on a camping trip with a friend, when he got a call from said friend who was badly hangovered and too sick to move anywhere. So Jona was aimlessly cruising when he saw me and decided to go my way, wherever that would be. But instead of going directly to Ingham we did part of the trip he planned with his friend, first on the beach, then in the mountains and for the end an ice-cream at the Frozen Mango.

 

I was sure that Maja and Matthias, my wwoofing hosts in Ingham (where I left most of my luggage for my Kiwi trip) wouldn't mind having Jona for a coffee, so I invited him over. I was wrong again - not that they minded him for the coffee, he had to stay there for dinner. I think that the happiest was Alysha, their daughter entering adolescence - you have to know that Jona is a really handsome young man.

I spent a week more in Ingham and then moved a bit south, half way between Townsville and Ayr, on the Achacha farm. You don't know what an achacha is? Neither did I, before coming here.

 

The last three pics are from Mission Beach, I was there a month ago or so.

Kiwi Squatter

Came to New Zealand without a penny. A four day squat in the earthquake damaged Art & Design College of New Zealand, Christchurch. No power, tap water in some parts, 7 floors of fun to explore!

Oh, facebook actually deleted my account. I moved to the still alpha version of minds.com as BakaOtosan.

The Curse of "Ame Otoko" And The Oecophylla Smaragdina

I came to northern Queensland three weeks ago and, as usual, I have to consider myself lucky. I'm lucky to be here in the dry season. It means it started raining the morning after I arrived to Alligator Creek (near Townsville) and I had at least 15 rainy days out of 21. If this is the dry season I really have no wish to experience the wet one.
I'm staying with Russell, a geologist turned to marine biologist and writer, author of the Indo Pacific Coral Finder,  "...  a unique, easy-to-use underwater book that brings reliable genus level coral identification within the reach of the motivated individual. a unique, easy-to-use underwater book that brings reliable genus level coral identification within the reach of the motivated individual."

He and Rachel also feed the wallabies on their property. I do it, too.
Besides some small repair works around and in the house, my main occupation was Gemma.

Not for fun sailing. Not yet.

We did a short sail, from the Townsville Charter Marina to the slip yard of the Rosshaven Marina.

Waterblasting, sandpapering, antifouling, countless coats of different protections and paints, changing all anodes, fix the water pump, clean the heat exchangers, change the engine oil, replace the piping for the salt water cooling... if I ever knew that at the age of 50 I would be a grease monkey I would NEVER even go to school. Definitely.
All the crap done in three days (no rain), Gemma was back in the water and tied at the home wharf. Hull done, engine mostly fixed.. the deck. Chip the rust, brush, apply the primer, next day fill the spots with an epoxy fill, wait one day, one layer of primer on top of the epi fill - each time wait one day to dry (was raining every afternoon) - and finally paint her. Job done. Tomorrow we are supposed to go for a joy sail with lots of cold beer. But I have a strong suspicion that it will rain cats and dogs. Dry season, you know....
Do you know which is the mos dangerous animal on the world, if we don't count humans? Sharks? Alligators? Big cats? Nope. Hippos or elephants kill more humans than the beforementioned. Snakes and scorpions even more. And the top killers are mosquitos.  It has been estimated that mosquitos transmit diseases to almost 700 million people annually resulting in 2 to 3 million deaths every year (sharks kill from 15 to 25 people a year).
Today I went for a hike along the Alligator Creek and wasn't at all wary of the alligators. Not that I'm that brave, I just happen to know that the chance of meeting one is less than slim. I was careful when I noticed something like this.

It's an ant nest. The weaver ants (Oecophylla smaragdina), in Queensland commonly called green tree ants, form chains with their bodies to bring leaves together and use silk from their larvae to create their large leaf nests. When disturbed, the nest will look like this.

You can imagine what it means to stand too long under such a tree. Because these little green fuckers grab your flesh with the mandibles,bend their abdomen over and squirt formic acid into the wound. A helluva HCOOH. I got covered with them a few times when I was working around the house and it always ended with me swearing, running and stripping at the same time. The worst is that they inevitably end in my pants, too. And that HURTS.
Today I managed to avoid them, I was mostly rock hopping along the creek, then ended rock crawling. Yes, it was raining and the rocks were too slippery for my taste.