We were stranded on a sand island off the eastern coast of Australia with a beat-up Land Cruiser, some camping gear, and 7 other people we did not know. This was gonna turn into Lord of The Flies really soon, and my name was Piggy.
In our eclectic menagerie were a couple from England, he an astrophysicist, she a medical student, a pair of nice Irish gals with a knack for peeling potatoes, Oliver and Dicken, two hardened travellers who just finished the Southeast Asian leg of their nine month journey. Then there was Lucy, a topless dancer also from England, and me and my buddy, the sole Yankees in our group.
Izad from Backpacker's World made off road driving sound so appealing. That adventure, along with scuba diving and Whitewater Rafting on the Tully River would round out our four-week trip up the east coast of Australia. Little did we know Izad just wanted our hard-earned American dollars.
So we boarded a car-carrying barge and endured a chilly one-hour boat ride from Hervey Bay to Fraser Island, the largest sand island in the world. We were supposed to be there for three days and two nights, but it wasn't quite clear what we were going to be doing once we got there. I mean, it's an island. With sand. Lots of sand.
The night before we departed, we all attended a rather lengthy orientation where we signed away our lives and bank accounts, should anything happen to the vehicle or us during the trip. The girl presenting this orientation covered the basics of off road driving, what to do in case you got stuck in the sand, and a quick guide to the many wonderful features on Fraser Island. Then she showed us newspaper clippings of travellers just like us who crashed and rolled their vehicles, killed their passengers and subsequently making the headlines in the prestigious Hervey Bay Times. Being a victim of someone's unique drinking and driving skills was not on my agenda.
Off road driving is not a new experience for me. I've driven on rock, dirt, and snow as deep as my knees, but nothing is quite like driving on rutted, hard-packed sand. It was like driving through an Iraqi mine field. Maybe US$150 we spent on this trip didn't include shock absorbers. Or seatbelts, for that matter. What the hell - seatbelts are highly overrated anyway. The windows and door locks kept us all safely inside the vehicle.
We were supposed to take turns driving, but that convention went out the window along with sobriety, common sense, and good judgment. The loudest and most vocal in our group decided where we were headed, and that usually meant taking the long route from point A to point B. The English couple monopolized the steering wheel, while Oliver and Dicken navigated. My buddy and I had only been travelling for about ten days so far, and the others in the group must have sensed it as a wolf can sense fear in another animal. We kept our mouths shut because we knew it wouldn't be any use. We were simply outnumbered. I wanted to say, "If it weren't for us Americans, you would all be speaking German," but I didn't. This was going to be the longest three days of my life.
Our first stop was a glacier blue lake surrounded by white sand. The beauty and serenity belied the hellish mode of transportation. Although the water was cold, it didn't stop people from going for a swim. Everybody was just relieved to be out of their vehicles. An hour later we were back in the truck going who knows where. The first day pretty much consisted of driving, driving, and then a little more driving. We drove over miles of pristine beaches, roads full of craters, and double logs that served as bridges over streams. This required some actual driving skill, because if you're off by just one or two inches you risk dumping the vehicle and becoming a newspaper article.
I witnessed a six-foot Tiger Shark come up on the beach in about a foot of water, probably chasing a fish or something. A mile down the beach fishermen were wading out up to their waist. I wondered if they knew about Tiger Sharks! At the end of the day we set up camp, cooked a very large and tasty dinner over the campfire, and spent the night freezing our arses off. (Note to future Fraser Island travellers - bring your own warm sleeping bag or rent two. It gets freakin' cold out there).
Day two was much like day one except we all seemed to get along much better. I actually got a chance to drive and discovered that the front seats were much more comfortable than the benches in the rear. While the group went for a hike, my buddy and I took the Land Cruiser to one of the shower facilities. Both of us needed a warm shower after that night, but the shower required a 20 cent coin for every 30 seconds of warm water. I had four of those coins, so I gave three to my buddy and saved one for myself. I think she needed the warm water more than me. (Mental note: 30 seconds of hot water is not enough - will bring lots of coins next time).
It was then that I realized that we had the truck and we could do whatever we wanted. Normally we're pretty nice people, but under those conditions, ditching the group and catching the afternoon barge back to Hervey Bay seemed like a damn good idea. We didn't however, but it was tempting. The rest of the day consisted of more drinking, more driving, and more drinking and driving. Half of the group was under the influence by noon. It reminded me of a Hemingway novel (The Sun Also Rises). That night we found an isolated spot near the beach and set-up camp.
Once we got to know our fellow travellers they didn't seem so bad. Oliver and Dicken, who reminded me of Rosenkrantz and Gildenstern, had just come from Vietnam. They had some fascinating stories of strippers who could do interesting things with a Pepsi can and, ahem, parts of their anatomy. When these clowns weren't beating the crap out of each other, they were actually quite interesting and provided much-needed comic relief. The other English couple spent some time in Africa and French Guyana, places that are on my wish list of destinations.
In some respects, I admire Europeans. Who cares if the Eurodollar is worthless? They sure know how to travel. The word "tourist" was designed for Americans. We're lucky if we get ten days of holiday a year. Who cares if our economy is strong if we never get a chance to enjoy the fruits of our labour? When we finally manage to take time off, we usually opt for the easy pre-packaged vacations. We stay in fancy hotels, eat at fancy restaurants, drive rental cars, and take lots of pictures. Real personal growth happens when we are challenged with new experiences - pushed beyond our comfort level and forced to adapt and overcome, whether it is the barrier of a foreign language, weird food, or a truck full of British travellers. That night our camp was raided by a pack of hungry dingoes, one of which I almost stepped on because I was too lazy to use my flashlight.
|
