Tag: transportation

She got married and I shared a roadtrip.

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I watched one of my best friends marry a guy is a smart vest on the weekend. Tessa and I grew up together, fighting over putt putt golf sticks, fishing and pulling each other’s hair.

She never looked so beautiful as when she walked towards the bloke she’s spent the last 5.5 years with. I cried like an old man on the gin to see her happiness and excitement. My school pals and I giggled over shed party tales.We’ve come a long way from the luscious hills around Kyogle.

Then, her brother, another mate and a guy who moves around a guitar with more smoothness than a prestige car salesgirl, sang this to them.

Honey you are a rock
Upon which I stand
And I come here to talk
I hope you understand

That Green Eyes
Yeah the spotlight
Shines upon you

And how could
Anybody
Deny you

I came here with a load
And it feels so much lighter
Now I’ve met you

Honey you should know
That I could never go on
Without you

Green Eyes

Honey you are the sea
Upon which I float
And I came here to talk
I think you should know

That Green Eyes
You’re the one that I wanted to find
And anyone who tried to deny you,
Must be out of their minds

‘Cause I came here with a load
And it feels so much lighter since I met you

Honey you should know,
That I could never go on
Without you

Green Eyes.. Green Eyes..
Ohohoh…

Honey you are a rock
Upon which I stand.

It was pretty beautiful. Groomie told his new wife that he’d found what he was looking for. I even managed to hog the limelight for a few moments with a speech that kindly refrained from mentioning the more embarrassing moments of Tessa’s youth. Then they cut the cake. The bride did not throw the bouquet, leaving the guests with at least one less injury to contend with. And we danced, and drank red wine. It was marvellous.

The experience got me thinking about love and why we choose to share our lives with others. I’ve been a love cynic for a few years now, riding solo, desperately clinging to my independence and swatting men away like an opal miner does a fly. That’s not completely true, but we’ll go with the black and white version of events of the past few years. Bottom line, I’ve spent a fair few hours alone on many different buses.

The single life treats me well. Friends are more accessible and weekend stories deliciously juicy (please note this does not refer to promiscuity, but rather a liberated view of sleeping arrangements). I figured out a way to lie with pillows surrounding my body so it feels exactly like someone is cuddling me. Exactly the same. No that’s a lie, too, but I stopped worrying about being alone. The freedom is intoxicating and the lifestyle can be more fun than hosing someone who just donned their best dress for the races.

And the single life makes great blog fodder. But I feel changes are afoot.

Last weekend when I checked the Greyhound website I imagined myself nestled up with my iPod gnawing through a bag of carrots and sipping a Corona. I knew I would sleep well and arrive refreshed in Brisbane. Undoubtedly a story about drunk passengers would come up in the wedding banter later on in the weekend. Ultimately it would be an adventure.

Or would it?

Suddenly, an 11-hour bus trip didn’t seem much of an adventure or a risk anymore. I’m more at home on a public transport than on my couch, which can be awkward for other passengers.

I decided the real adventure would be to ask someone to come along, to push an entirely different comfort zone.

My co-pilot on the 20-hour return trip was someone I’d met just a few weeks ago. I hoped he would be good company, that he wouldn’t mind driving so long in the senseless heat without air conditioning in my banged up old car. And I really prayed that he’d do some of the driving.

We stopped for a dip in the Condamine river, fully clothed in an attempt to stave off the heat. We held hands in the car. I was happy. The trip passed far too quickly.

The road trip made my bus ride look like a day watching the campdraft compared to a night of barefoot dancing with friends.

Let’s see where this new adventure goes. I hope it will be cheeky and that my broad grin continues to look so foolish.

Doing the time warp, for real.

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We all nostalgically talk of the good old days. More emotion is lavished on the thought of a paddle pop costing 20 cents than is put towards the fundraising efforts of the chocolate-selling scouts. I reckon people are more excited about remembering a time when excess sun exposure was good for you, rather than being less socially acceptable than smoking than they are about the next beer-swilling session at the pub, unless they are planning to balance their wine glass while they talk about days gone by. Living in the past is rampant.

Fear not, living in the 90s is still possible. In fact, I am doing it. All it required was an intrepid long-haul, kangaroo-killing roadtrip to the edges of the Aussie red centre.

At the end of the long stretches of nothingness a paradise of melancholy opens up. In the shops you can still put purchases on an account and pay at leisure. Most things are more relaxed here in the 90s. If you happen to be caught in a traffic jam – please note having four cars in front of you is akin to a 30km Sydney snarl – and  find yourself tardy by about 20 minutes, there is a good chance that you will still be early.

Meat is not bought from the supermarket. Instead you can grab half a sheep from your friendly butcher for $60. And on your way out the door of the shop the butcher will pull on a home-made genius rope and pulley contraption that opens your door. From behind the counter! It’s the Harry Potter of twenty years ago.

If you want to go to boot camp here, it’s not going to be the hit on your back pocket that it is in the city. All of the I’ve-paid-90-bucks-this-week-on-an-arsehole-trainer-that-hurts-me-so-badly-I-can’t-pick-up-a-coffee-cup incentive is removed when you pay just $10 a month. Sausage sangers are still just a buck.

If you choose to take the faster route to the 90s, a twin-engine 36-seater dash eight that feels as if it is gliding along with the assistance of an air current will drop you down. Getting on the plane you’ll be given a hand-written boarding pass. The airline hostess takes your tea order on a piece of paper. It feels so personal!

If you choose to take the slow road, the clanking train that is less smooth than the beast you would find in Bolivia, then a farewell crew that includes a few local lads at band practice will send you off at the station. I almost imagined myself in a long dress with a corset setting off on a stately journey to the east. At 17 hours it felt like a bloody stately journey too.

We shouldn’t get too excited about the time warp. The coppers have kept up and their speeding-catching technology is far too savvy for my liking. And the town even has a website to tell all and sundry about their rodeo dates.

But the dating service is far-removed from the modern less-spontaneous-than-a-splinter internet-based offering that you get in 2012 in the cities. Out here the lovely lady at the classy boutique will put a good word in for you with the cockies. The publican will also watch out for any lads that aren’t consuming their ute-weight in XXXX. These ladies have not yet found me a cute bedfellow, but it’s still acceptable to wolf-whistle at a lady as she scrambles down the street eager to get out of a thunderstorm. And a wolf whistle does wonders for the ego.

People still send letters in the post and, importantly for me, they read the local rag. I’ve even started borrowing books from the library again, which, alongside the money I’m saving on boot camp, is very handy for my bank balance. My inherited issues with getting books back on time is still an issue, even though I live within strolling distance to the book depository, but I’m sure the barcode-zapping ladies will show some old-time compassion with late fines.

In Charleville you will still find chickens roaming the streets, parading their pink flesh and it’s perfectly reasonable to find brains on the menu. Sometimes we go back further than 20 years to find horses trotting down the street. Vegetarian and gluten-free fussiness is barely heard of and, I assume, not really tolerated.

But it’s none of these things that make the town special. The time warp is completed by the lengthy phone conversations where a request for the spelling of a name turns into a family history lesson or an in-depth discussion on the footie. Those conversations usually end with an invite to dinner.

The broad brimmed hats that bob across the wide streets always carry a wave and a smile below them.

If you need a ride to a place three-hours away it is very likely you’ll find someone that will share their ute with you. The woman at the petrol station will help you figure out what sort of fuel your mower needs. And when you need to get the newspaper down to Cunnamulla – a two-hour drive along well-patrolled roads – then people will help you find someone to take the rag south.

The friendliness is further down the scale than even the Nepalese. The all-encompassing genuine, no-bullshit nature of the people in this place make me feel engaged, interested. My constant quest for that community feel is satiated.

At times I struggle to remember that there is a world out there that’s bigger than the Warrego Watchman, my town and my blissful time warp.

Mechanical problems make my day.

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Sometimes I wish my ute would break down so that I can watch the reactions of the folk in my town. Today, the run-around-like-an-emu-on-heat deadline day, was not a time when I thought about indulging in whimsical anthropological experiments.

But my Nissan fancied some fun.

It happened as I approached the busiest intersection in town. I stopped obediently at the give way sign and was mid-glance, needlessly checking for traffic, when the engine shuddered, coughed, spat and died. It was an all-over sensation for my truck, which rocked from side to side like spring-loaded pretend sheep in a children’s playground. I know Alfred street, Charleville is no Champs Elysees, but it’s still the busiest intersection in town and there were plenty of folk kicking around to stare at my cranky car.

It was a fine moment, people everywhere, a useless ute and a deadline hanging over me as a badly cut fringe would.

Luckily I have been in this situation many times before. I have a deep-seated history with mechanically inept cars.

I should have known better, frankly. The same incident happened last Tuesday, in the same car, but on the second-biggest intersection in town. Last week I had called my mechanic brother in a fluster when the ute conked out. It was a Tuesday last week too, as I struggled with the same deadline that causes the bags under my eyes to sag like the bottom of an old cossie. My brother Rob works miracles with cars. Just being on the phone to him last week cured the issue with the choke and the car rose from the dead.

I believe in miracle fixes. It’s part of my mechanical knowledge – problems go away if you give them time. And never go to the mechanic before you have to, that’s another of my favourite car adages.

But despite the fact that I was sitting in a defunct car in the middle of an intersection, this situation really shines. I flicked on the hazards, alerting the handful of other motorists that I was in trouble and watched them cruise past me at a snails pace, checking out all the gory details as they passed. I could tell my ute’s mechanical failures would be laughed at over a bottle of Pinot for many afternoons. I adopted a maniacal laugh and desperately tried to start the car again.

There was no aggression from the cars I was inconveniencing. No one honked their horns and most cars waited behind me for at least two minutes before they even bothered to lazily reverse and move past. As they were checking me out a few said ‘are you oh-kay’ with wide mouths. It was quite touching.

I reckon a gang of scooters would have mowed me down if the same thing happened in the city.

Someone even opened my passenger door and asked me if I needed a push around the corner. Of course I don’t want a bloody push, I want this thing to drive around the corner, I would have taken the bike if I wanted to push something, I quietly ranted in my head.

In fact I had been within a whisper of taking the bike when I realised it has an over-inflated front tyre and that was all the excuse I needed to avoid saddle soreness. If I had of tried harder to recaptur the love of riding I possessed when exploring the karst mountains in southern China I would not have ended up at the corner of Alred and Wills streets with a crowd of onlookers thanking their lucky stars that they weren’t me.

The idea of calling my Jesus-like brother occurred to me again, but I defied the thought in a moment of determined independence, recalling how I had fixed the issue with the battery the week before last without consulting either of my brothers.

Although my oldest brother is fairly useless mechanically so he would have only been good for telling me it’s ok to break a detox in times like these.

I worked the key again, flogging the starter motor while I provided a little comedy show for the crew gathered in the main street. Finally, after a 15 minute interval that passed slower than an ice-cap melt I spluttered around the corner and moved down the street with the ute’s revs bouncing about like a camel being chased by a kangaroo.

As I shuddered up the street the blokes outside the barber’s shop clapped and cheered as if I was approaching the finish line after a gruelling triathlon. I mentally bowed to them, feeling as if I’d contributed a street-theatre vibe to the quiet Tuesday streetscape. I honked the horn for good measure, in case any of the local businesses were unaware of the local journo’s mechanical issues.

Next time I’ll take the bike and I’ll let you know how the town reacts when I fall off and graze my elbow.

Welcome to the wild wild west.

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The drive to Cunnamulla began innocently enough.

I waved goodbye to my mate Sophie as the first tinges of the sunrise kissed the sky. There have been too many goodbyes recently, I thought, just resisting the urge to beep my horn before 6am on a Sunday.

As I headed west, the sunrise made up for my cold toes. Clouds were illuminated to a shade of pink most 5-year-old girls can only dream of painting their bedrooms. The red orb gradually arced across the horizon, the changing colours mirroring the shift in the landscape. Soon enough I left behind the lush coastal fields, trading the greenery for red soils and vertically-challenged shrubs.

As I lost radio transmissions and, of course, mobile phone reception, things headed south, steadily.

I abandoned the radio static in favour of my own soulful tunes. “Ammmmaaayyyzzzziiiinnngggg ggrrrrraaacccceeee,” I began, loving that no one was around to point out my lack of tone. “How sweet the ….”

BOOM …

“Arrrrgggghhhhh.”

I wish someone had been there to hear my kick-ass scream as I ploughed down a kamikaze kangaroo. Some company to still my racing heart or commiserate seeing the poor animal fly in the air as I flicked it out from my tyres would also have been nice.

But, there I was, alone on a road where you can go half an hour without seeing another car. In that time you will probably see hundreds of roo carcasses littering the road, but they’re not really hopping company. Ha ha – I had plenty of time to become desensitised to the involuntary slaughter and pen some horrible dad jokes. I even began to have bull-bar envy.

Just days before, as Friday night was kicking into gear my mate Tracey had warned me about the foolish habits of Australia’s famous national emblem. “If you see a kangaroo don’t swerve that mother f**ker,” she advised me, sagely. “Just take it down.”

At the time I had laughed along with her. I recall taking a sip of my Pinot, loving the dramatic way she packaged her drive-safely-and-give-us-a-call-when-you-get-there advice.

Her astute words echoed in my ears for the half an hour it took to calm my pulse, memories of my laughter mocking me.

My concern about the dearth of radio stations was replaced with a simmering anxiety about kangaroos. I was lucky it did not destroy my radiator, leaving me marooned in a sea of long, straight roads. Instead it just dislodged my bumper, reshaped my number plate and generally gave my car just a little more character.

I rolled into St George at midday, six hours of driving down and just four to go. I was excited and exhilarated, noticing the isolation and feeling the slightly heightened sense of danger that I always associate with the Aussie outback.

My brother instructed me to pump up my spare tyre, just in case (and I had plenty of time to indulge in awful just-in-case fantasies). I obliged and decided that I’d made such good time that I should probably lock my keys in the car. What a fun little trick!

The solo nature of my trip hit home as I stood at the petrol station knowing that I had no mates or brothers or Scandinavians that could pull out two sticks and fix my car. Surprisingly, I was buoyed by this thought, relishing the thought that I was on an intense adventure.

I waltzed into the shop with nothing to lose and introduced myself to Tony, the helpful petrol-station attendant.

“Any chance you’ve got experience breaking into cars,” I asked, mustering an I-know-I’m-useless-but-please-help-me smile. Obviously, I have a wealth of experience with this particular grin.

“Aww, whaddya done,” Tony asked, playing me.

I confessed my idiot-city-slicker status and my crime, but won him over with the news that I was moving to Charleville to work for the local rag.

He was delighted at first, but then gave me a strange look, clearly wondering why anyone would move to Charleville. “I’m looking for an adventure,” I told him, shrugging my shoulders.

“Nar, you’ll be all right,” he relented, slightly, then added “you got a fella with you?”

I gave him a look that said I clearly do not need a man to accompany me to the country. “No, it’s just me,” I said, trying not to sound like too much of a loser.

He scratched his head, a bit bamboozled. “Ah well, do you like a bit of the right arm then,” he asked, miming bringing a beer glass to the lips with his right arm and simultaneously tipping his neck back. I returned the gesture and nodded, “sure, I like to drink.”

“Well, you’ll be fine then.”

Half an hour later Tony had cracked open the passenger door, given a strange look to the lettuce plants I was transporting across the state, and waved me off.

Optimism was on my side. I was thrilled that I’d managed to lock my keys in the car, get them back out and make a new friend.

Soon enough, I passed my first 53-metre road train, which provided a neat little adrenalin rush.

The roads were relentlessly straight, stretching to a blur on the horizon. I began to think I was seeing mirages, a town perhaps, or a petrol station, but they were just dead roos, taunting me.

Petrol became an issue about 100 kilometres from Cunnamulla. The gauge was reaching toward the big E with an enthusiasm my car usually saves for harbouring mandarin peels. With 50 kilometres to go I began to see a slight malevolence in the stark landscape. I had enough food to last the night out here, but what about water? Or would I try to walk to Cunnamulla? Would the person that stopped to help me be an Ivan Milat enthusiast? Would there even be a petrol station open on a Sunday afternoon in a town with a population of 1300 people?

The questions haunted me as the petrol light beamed at me. With 35 kilometres to go I started counting every movement the odometer made.

My kangaroo anxiety was replaced with petrol panic.

Of course, I made it to town, buzzing with nerves and delighting in the spontaneous and candid excitement I had found on the journey. One less-remarkable hour later I arrived at my lodgings, a sheep and cattle farm in the middle of splendid nothingness.

A crisp sunset and a friendly face welcomed me to the west, to the adventurous lifestyle I had hoped for.

What would happen tomorrow? I had no idea. It was the perfect moment.

Let the adventure begin.

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Driving out of BrisVegas this morning after saying a final farewell to an era, a seven-hour abyss stretched before me. I was a mixed bag of emotions, but I had plenty of time to sort the Wizz Fizz from the snakes on the way to my folks’ place at Tamworth.

Herein lies the brilliance of a road trip. Time is your friend. I could indulgently ponder saying goodbye to Brisbane, the great mates I had there and other important issues, such as whether tequila shots would be ok with limes or if it definitely has to be lemons. Of course, due to the driving I could not test out the limes versus lemons issue, but I could certainly think about it at length.

I’m a big fan of car trips. It’s a product of my childhood. Every school holidays Ma and Pa would lug my brothers and me to Sydney or Cowra or Bundaberg or Pindari Dam. They would go anywhere, as long as it meant at least eight hours a day in the Commodore.

Cricket season was the best, at least according to my Dad. We would start the driving about 20 minutes before the first ball and stop for sangers when the cricketers were called in for lunch. The cricket commentators were great company.

Sometimes we’d arrive at a location, park a few streets away and listen to a nail-gripping finish, all packed in the car like prisoners being transported to a new facility. At least it felt like prison to a young girl keen to play with her dolls and get away from her stinky brothers after eight hours of noogies.

Today, there was no cricket. But I managed to get through with help from Triple J and a bit of ABC Radio National. There was one rather interesting radio documentary about why humans have hair and why women get it waxed. It was incredibly interesting. And the best part was I could dedicate the entire stretch between Tenterfield and Gen Innes, which takes about an hour, to thinking about why a woman should or should not get a Brazilian wax. Fascinating stuff.

I had time to think about the mammoth clean we did at the house yesterday. Ten hours of wall scrubbing wore Shorn, Amber and I to thin shadows of our former selves. Today I marvelled at the sense of achievement you get from cleaning and Lowry’s ability to turn anything into a game.

Cleaning the fridge, for example, involved seeing how far away you could be from the Westinghouse and still stick a magnet on it through Frisbee-like throws.

A pile of rubbish on its way to the tip becomes Junk-enga.

Reflecting on those sorts of shenanigans and the underlying optimism took up a good 20 minutes.

The scenery and sunset also impressed me. Of course, it’s no Tasmania but the area around Warwick is stunning as it looks out to the ocean. The shadow of Bluff Rock near Tenterfield was eerie. Luscious pastures turned to burnt brown grass like a game of Wheel of Fortune as I meandered south. Further into the New England hinterland the lanky poplar trees in a stunning autumn-yellow reminded me of my time at university Armidale. Recalling the goon-fuelled shenanigans took up at least an hour.

I even drove past an entire field of sunflowers. That was like staring at a sea of smiles.

Stopping in for a few cuppa at the Driver Reviver, that really put a smile on my face. I mean, it’s tea and it’s free. Wow!

And my car, a 22-year vintage Holden Apollo, she purred down the highway, pleased to be unleashed from the shackles of city driving.

The whole trip was lovely really; exciting, thought-provoking and relaxing. It was all of those good things until I was about 50 kilometres from Tamworth. That’s when time stood still.

I busted open my second bag of carrots (emergency rations) and called my Mum. She was getting dinner ready. “Anything you’d like,” she asked me, excitedly. “Yeah, maybe some tuna and steamed vegetables,” I replied.

“Well you’ll just get what you’re given, Pen,” she says. Looks like it’s oven-roasted spuds.

So after saying goodbye to my mates and a few hours behind the wheel, I drove into Ma and Pa’s. Dad came out in his boxer shorts and directed me into the yard as if my car was a Jumbo Jet. “Penny! Welcome home,” he yelled. I was so pleased to see him.

I know in this adventure, indeed in our life, it’s all about the journey, not the destination. I know that, but seeing my folks tonight put the field of sunflowers to shame.

A hoon? Me? Maybe.

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Guys with turbo-charged cars. They’re tossers, right? Well, actually I’m going to jump off my pedestal and side with the hoons on this one.

A great friend of mine, let’s call him Nick, because that’s his name, was on a hunt for some new wheels recently. I was horrified when he started gushing over a Subaru WRX he was thinking about forking out for. It even had one of those grates on the bonnet. So uncool.

“Think of the environment,” I pleaded. He did look sheepish, but admitted his fascination with the car had deep-seated roots. It must be one of those boyhood things the guys cultivate while the girls are learning to cook and sew.

I was not convinced. “C’mon you’d be much better suited to a van.”

“Think of the camping trips.”

Still not swayed, I launched the full offensive on the spectacle he’d make of himself. “You’ll look like a tosser,” I reminded him. His best interests, of course, were at the heart of my tirade.

“A complete tool.”

It was a bit mean, but I thought my cause was worthy. I was fighting the good fight against these offensive cars. They’re so noisy. So bloody bad for the environment. And, comparing muffler sizes, really, it’s not cool.

I see the merit in my slightly older-style car which offers a more sedate driving style. Hills are a challenge, I admit, but it’s just so lovely to get a close view of things as I dawdle past. How nice to be able to count the sections of sidewalk, instead of the colours of cars. It’s the little things.

Still, Nick got his dream car.

And he has been a happy man with those keys in his hot little palm.

At first take I had to temper my hard-nosed opinion, just slightly. It looked more like a Beamer than one of those horrid white sedans with an utterly unnecessary blow-off value. Surprisingly, it was not even that loud.

Still, it was fun to have a dig at Nick’s car. “You’re such a yuppie,” I would tell him, hypocritcially, as I luxuriated in the passenger seat, pleased to be in a car that was made this side of the Sydney Olympics.

Today, however, all of my reservations about the WRX, except it’s enviro score – which still shocks me, were blown away with one nippy burst of the turbo.

Within seconds of placing my hands on the steering wheel, my inner hoon started agitating toward the accelerator.

Oh, the power! What a thrill. Whipping around a corner was almost like bungee jumping. My pulse quickened and an involunatry grin spread across my face. The rush. The speed. The pick-up. The grip. Oh dear, I had become what I had loathed.

Or perhaps I was just broadening my perspective, I bargained with myself.

I must add here that Nick even complimented me on my driving: “you go allright in a manual, Penny,” he said, slightly shocked by my enthusiasm for his demonic car. That was all the encouragement I needed! He even called me a hoon. The two-older-brothers-and-no-sisters dynamic emerges yet again.

So, I’ve fallen in love with a sports car. I anticipate I will probably dream about rally driving tonight. And yet my old 1990 model beast is showing no signs of spluttering her last splutter anytime soon.

Until she does, I’ll continue to call WRX drivers douchebags and I’ll speak at length about their exorbidant fuel usage. It’s the only way.

On the inside, however, my inner hoon will continue to lust after the gutsy car with its fancy volume knobs on the steering wheel.

Photo by Josh Miller/CNET.