On The Road

September 3rd

I've taken to heckling vehicles that pass Sharky. Or ones that act like they're cool. Because they've got nothin' on our beast.

Oh you go around. But don't even pretend 'cause you know this shark better than you. That's right. You're just jealous. MmHmm.

***

There's a big divide between the front and the back, with stuff packed up allowing for only a small opening behind our seats, which Tim occasionally pokes his head through. Otherwise, two separate worlds.

At one stop, I catch a snippet from Tim: "I've failed at lots of aspects of fatherhood, but damned if I'll lose this one..."
I'm curious about the context, but the car starts up and closes the portal between the two dimensions.

***

We stop for fuel, wee, and beer. I came across a jug in the back this morning labeled with a "P" in masking tape. Which explains the drop off in wee-stops. Tisi and I have taken to throwing small bursts of training in at each stop. The drinking in the back goes on and on.
As the level of inebriation rises, so does the amount of effort required to wrangle the guys back into the car. Neither has their license and don't seem to grasp how much driving we're doing. Or don't care.
We've more of less agreed that Tisi will be the stern one, the organizer, so they don't feel ganged up on.

***

Tim has been in contact with Mort, the artistic director of the project, the one who brought this motley bunch together. We're meeting Mort in Yulara.
The myth of Mort increases with every story. He's magic and we're off to see The Wizard.
Yes. The Wizard of Oz.

I hope I'm Toto.

***

At some point, the ECON light has come on. We figure "econ" can only be a good thing.
We're taking the back roads through country towns for Tisi. Her grandfather ran the church in Balaklava; this is the route of her childhood.

Sharky climbs up a steep hill and at the top, we see it: a mini-ferry to cross the river. Never has one group of people been so giddy over a little punt. The ferryman indulges us in our photo shoot.
I wonder how his fares typically react to this transportation novelty.
***

That night in Port Augusta, our last taste of civilization for at least a month. A final stock-up: 2 new bras for Tisi, yoga mats, acidophillus, contact solution, dark chocolate, organic peanut butter, and lavender oil.

So Much Circus

September 2nd

Two stops are timed perfect on today's route: we'll have tea with Stardust Circus in Robinvale, then roll into Mildura just in time for the Circus Oz show.

Stardust is a traditional (or Trad) circus, unlike Circus Oz, which is considered contemporary circus, like Cirque du Soleil. [Contemporary circus is huge in Australia.] We're going to see Pixie Robinson, Tim's sister-in-law and Grande Dame of Circus, who's trained scores of performers over the years. This is my Trad Circus Crash Course.

We pull onto the grounds and head over to Pixie's trailer. She's just finished giving one of the circus kids school lessons. The young girl scoops her books off the desk and leaves with a big hunk of meat Pixie has pulled out of the oven. She lays out a spread of food for us, which she apologizes for (it's delicious, if slightly haphazard -- after all, she wasn't expecting us).

Tim introduces me.
"So, you're the dancer..."
"It's been a while."
Tim asserts that in a few weeks, I'll be unrecognizable.
"Contemporary or classical?"
"Contemporary, mostly. But I'm trained in classical."

I mention that Tisi and I are thinking up an act for The Tilt Festival in Canberra mid-October. Tim looks to Pixie, then leans forward slightly. "Um, we have a show this Sunday."

It's Wednesday evening and the first I've heard of this. I sit dumbstruck and slightly slack-jawed as Pixie and Tim launch into circus gossip.

***

A little past 7pm, we're waiting outside a motel in Mildura. Tim is working on a room. Cal squints at the situation inside, "He has milk: we must have a room."

Sure enough, Tim returns carrying a couple of containers.
"Milk?"
"It's a motel; that's what they do," says Tim, confident that statement explains everything.

At The Arts Centre five minutes after the curtain went up, we're in the audience for Circus Oz courtesy of some sweet string-pulling by Tisi. I'm the only one of the group who hasn't seen the show at all -- the other 3 have seen it several times. Tisi gets a kick out of my reactions.

***

Jump back to earlier in the day while driving, two seemingly inconsequential events:
1. Silver and The Doc are put forth as potential names for our act [my initials, AG, are the elemental symbol for silver; "The Doc" is inspired by a childhood name Tisi's brother had for her]
2. While belting out tunes in Sharky's front seat, I comment that we've never done karaoke together and we should remedy that.

It's Wednesday night and Mildura would not be mistaken for a bumpin' town at the best of times. Tim and Cal are quite happy to drink at the first place we pass (a nice Italian restaurant), but Tisi and I are hoping for something a little more relaxed. We find it: the only Irish pub in town.
And tonight is karaoke.

Silver and The Doc sign up for Kung Fu Fighting. Our performance garners us drink tickets (awarded by audience applause).
We follow it up with a spectacular version of Shoop, the glory of which is lost on a large fragment due to their relative youth.
But we're still a hit.

I have a Texta. We tag a chair. Chat it up. Dance like silly people. Text Sally and Carlie about our performances, that we wish they were here, except that it's Mildura and no one should be here.



We're at the bar, waiting for drinks. A girl comes up and asks if either of us would like her rum and Coke. She promises there's nothing wrong with it: "I'm Catholic and studying medicine." Her boyfriend got it for her; she hasn't seen him in a while and really wants some action -- she has this drink and she'll be in no fit state.

***

My alarm goes off at 6:53am.

"Wait or roll out?"
"Let's go."
"I like your style."
"Who's idea was it for me to eat Doritos last night?"
"Yours. Well, the guys incited it. Or at least facilitated."
"I brushed my teeth twice and I can still taste them."
"I offered to make you a sandwich..."

A few blocks later, after I've loudly cursed Mildura and its founding:
"Who's idea was it to go for a run this morning?!"
"Yours."
"Right. From now on, my ideas get immediately vetoed."

Analogue Texting

I jot down notes while driving. Safely, mind you. Of course, people who text & drive also claim it's completely safe.

I wouldn't text and drive. But analogue texting? Where's the harm in that?

***

Bumper sticker on a campervan
Adventure Before Dementia

[Note: This statement rhymes when read in an Aussie accent. Adven-cha.]

On a semi-trailer
Caution: Fertile Eggs Aboard

Sign outside the Auburn Bowling Club
Upcoming Events: dinner

The Border Ate My Produce

September 2nd

We wake up under a blanket of frost in the parking lot. A sign identifies the area/site/region/whatever as Beckom. Dreams of Le Groupe, and I wake up with a sore hip.

We pile into Sharky for another long day; luckily, both Tisi and I like driving. There's some nattering about us having taken the wrong turn.
Why were you listening to my directions? I was drunk.
You had the map. And said you knew where we were going.
So?

We stop in the next town to fill up. We're about to enter the Fruitfly Zone and are loathe to jettison our apple supply. Tisi has 5, I have 4, and Cal chokes back 1. Sure, chucking them out would have neatly avoided apple-induced stomach aches, but where's the challenge in that?

As we're set to head off, the passenger door refuses to close. Pull over in front of a motorcycle dealership, tools out, the guys have the inside panel of the door dismantled and repaired, while the girls practice handstands. It's now better than before as the previously not-so-functional window is now fully operational.

***

Through Griffith, the former Drug Capital of Australia.
Tisi: "I love cities with palm tree lined entrances that don't warrant them."

That's right, folk: don't let the palms fool you -- Griffith is not Beverly Hills.

***

Our garlic is confiscated at the South Australia border. We had it hanging from the roof in the back, my contribution to the nesting. The guard is very nice about it, and informs us that our celery is not contraband, but only after we've rabidly munched down a fair portion of it, clearly learning nothing from the morning's apple incident.

I love celery. We bought an impressive stalk and have vowed to consume it while it's fresh. The favorite flavoring options are a light dusting of salt & pepper or spread with a mixture of peanut butter and sweet chili sauce.

I like the leaves, Tisi doesn't; aren't we just a match made in heaven?

Wagga Wagga, Grong Grong

September 1st

Sharky gets some stares, let me tell you. From time to time on the inside, we forget what our little caravan looks like and the gawks are perplexing.

Tisi is all done up in a style she call roadtrip op-shop chic. "Did I tell you that I figured out what I have? Heart of a gypsy, soul of a housewife."

Looking at the fine homey set-up out back, I think that neatly sums up both of us.

Girls in the front -- we're sharing the driving* -- and boys in the back, drinking beer. We take a few Thelma and Louise shots, for good measure.

Through Wagga Wagga, we sleep under the stars at a rest stop. Some drunken backseat navigation resulted in a wrong turn at Narrangara.

On the upside, it brought it through Grong Grong.

Wagga Wagga, Grong Grong!


[*Although the guys purchased the vehicle, neither can drive. We assumed they were kidding when they waxed on about the bender they would be undertaking en route. Assumptions are never wise.]

The Packing

August 31st

"Dahling, it's our honeymoon!"
We've been referring to each other as 'wife' (or 'wifey' for more endearing occasions) and have decided that this adventure -- at least the drive out -- will be our official honeymoon.

We've popped into downtown Dapto for a little pre-desert op-shopping; Tisi feels the trip calls for a summer dress.

"We're so cute," she says, catching the reflection of us side-by-side in a passing bus.
She's absolutely right.

***

I've lost track of how many separate trips we've taken to The Big W, Coles, Safeway -- back and forth, again and again. We keeping thinking of forgotten necessities, misjudging how many tubs are required, suddenly deciding a pair of Volleys are essential, and so on.

That evening, on our final round, Tisi and I are in quite a state. Tisi's brain is pressing against her skull; I'm all foggy and bitten nails.

At my suggestion of eggs: "No eggs. We can get them in Port Augusta."
I can't argue: my thoughts refuse to focus into anything more detailed than no more, I can't do anymore.

In the grocery check-out line, one of us remembers headlamps. We push the heavily laden cart up to Big W, but it's now closed. Damn.

Out we go to the parking lot and Sharky. Tim and Cal pop out, fancy new headlamps switched on. Tisi and I lament our oversight. Tim tells us to look on our seats, there's a surprise: headlamps of our very own.

***

Tuesday morning.

The final pack is underway. Departure has been delayed until the mail arrives [Sharky's registration papers -- or reggos -- are, well, in the mail. Or somewhere. Uh... yeah]. While the boys lash things to the vehicle, Tisi and I play music in the lounge, she on ukelele, me on a mini-accordion that was tucked among the stacks (oh! if only I could bring it with me!).

We are by no means packing light: juggling gear, hula hoops, teeter board, stilts, a lyra, 3 unicycles, rigging, $200 of unroasted coffee beans (Sosi -- who's meeting us in Warburton -- is from Ethiopia and will be doing a traditional coffee ceremony), a knock-about table, scatter mats, handstand posts, hats, slack-wire, tight-rope, bamboo and skis for building "stuff," tools, plus camping gear, food, and clothes.

Sharky the Hectic-Mobile looks gorgeous in all its circus glory.

Dapto

August 30th

Tisi is waiting for me on the platform.
Reunited at last! It feels like months.

***

Tim had been right about the train ride: the final leg of the 2hr journey -- beyond the northern beaches and after Sydney's center, south on the country lines -- is beautiful. Snaking around mountains, steep tumbling ravines, past tiny hamlets through groves of immense gum trees, rounding a bend to have the coastline and teal-blue ocean burst into view.

Still no kangaroos, though.

***

After an urgent bathroom dash (couldn't get my pack into the cubicles on the train -- and by "couldn't" I mean, couldn't be bothered), we're sitting on the bench, getting up to speed. Tisi is looking a touch shell-shocked. All she'll let on is that Sharky the Hectic-Mobile needs some "feminine sensibility for organization."

Tim and Callan barrel around the corner. "Hey! Hey! We were wondering what had happened to you!" I looked at Tisi, having assumed she came on her own. A sigh and a strained smile, she looked tired. Fair enough, having come straight from life in Melbourne only yesterday.

***

Sharky the Hectic-Mobile is waiting in front of the house, gleaming orange glory in the afternoon light. A full tour is given: Tim installed the bench seat and seat-belts in the back; things have been tuned up, repainted, and thoroughly cleaned. Much focus is placed on the orange hubcaps. These, I'm told, have made all the difference. All the difference.

Mort painted a beautiful mini-mural of a shark on the side before he left. The boys are so proud of Sharky (with good reason) and are ultra-excited to show it off. I'm slightly apprehensive about driving the beast; it's massive, tall and clunky, no visibility out the back, and -- my favorite -- there hadn't been enough time to install a proper bull bar. 3000km? I'm skeptical, but the repeated assurance is that this -Mobile is all on the up and up.

***

Tim suggests a quick beach excursion. As we jump into Sharky, he hands me and Tisi each a colorful towel his mother had found us for our journey.
"Great. Always pack your towel: covered. Now all that's left: Don't Panic."
Tisi approves of the reference. Yet another reason why it's love.

Upon returning to the house post-swim, Tim can't find his phone. Sharky is searched, but Tim is quite certain he left it at the beach. It's OK, he tells us, because he wants to get a new one. But Tisi and I determine it's a mission and head back to the beach while Tim makes dinner.

We retrace our steps along the sand to where we dropped our stuff, with me repeatedly ringing Tim's number.
"Did you hear that?" asks Tisi, "I'm pretty sure I head something."
I'm considerably more skeptical, barely able to hear her over the wind and the surf.

But then, I do hear something! I start digging and, sure enough, Tim's phone! Tisi turns around in time to catch my victory pose: on knees, head back, phone held high, silhouetted against the sunset (there's a photo of this somewhere -- yes, we recreated the event for documentation purposes).

Who could ask for a better omen?! We haven't even left yet and already, we're scoring a 100% success rate on all projects undertaken.

***

The house is packed with bodies and things. Tim, his wife, and two sons, me and Tisi in the lounge, Tim's parents in the semi-attached bungalow, Zelda the Dog.
But it's the piles and piles of stuff, floor to ceiling, that's mind-boggling. I have never seen so many items jammed into so little space. My brain is having fantasies of organizational possibilities. The junk! The treasures! The bowl of tadpoles outside the backdoor!

I spend the evening on a stool at the end of the kitchen counter, sitting very, very still.
The light in the lounge in on a timer that can't be switched off.
We leave in a day.

***

That night, I dream of the Social Research Center and wake up with the ear plugs in my hand.

Something Big

August 30th

Speaking to Kate, "It's kind of like being at a health resort. Right now, I'm drinking this killer green smoothie. Lucas is gonna have me all fixed up for the desert."
"Fixed up? Ali, are you a bike?"

If anyone could help insure top superhero pre-desert-adventure health in 5 days, it's Lucas. He refers to the state as "ninja" ("Jedi" being the next and near-supreme level). Seaweed, coconut oil, energized water, nuts, seeds, and mystery teas. So much fresh fruit and veggies, I AM Captain Vegetable. Plenty of sleep, lots of sunshine, and a good dose of alone time (which will be a rare commodity in the coming weeks).

***

There's no doubt that I'm an outrageously blessed individual, but in the past few weeks, I've been supported to such an extent, I barely touch the ground. Half a lifetime could be spent trying to return these angelic favors, and I could still fall short. The only hope is to express gratitude and love at every turn: thank you, thank you.

I'm going into Something Big; the sense of this builds each day. Maybe that's why the seen and unseen help and guidance has been flooding in at an enhanced rate. It's not exactly excitement, anxiety, or even anticipation (though I'm feeling some of those, too); it's more like the quiet electricity before a storm. A change in air pressure. (Kate asked if it was ear wax). Meeting an angel or Odin. Something Big. I just don't know what yet.

The Sunshine Coast: Departure

August 23rd

My last day on The Sunshine Coast. I go swimming four times and do my laundry so it will smell like the beach, specifically Peregian, which smells bright and sunny and perfectly content.

I get a big kick out of other people's excitement when I talk about going to Warburton, this shared energy. While saying 'bye, Tom is near giddy when he asks if I'm excited about the adventure.

***

Sometimes, typically after a short amount of sleep, I'll experience that feeling of Instant Awake -- no foggy brain, no body grogginess.

It's around 3:40am, and I am awake. I scurry around, getting my things organized and into the car. Kellie drives to where we're meeting her parents. Hellos, goodbyes, and I'm in the back with Rod the Dog on the 11-hr drive South.
It's 4:16am

Kellie's parents are very nice. Her mom is sweet and her dad, well.... her dad is a lot. He is The Aussie Dad, worthy of The Castle. He gives us regular temperature updates -- "10 o'clock and 32.5 degrees" -- and when Mom tells Kellie's sister on the phone that we left at quarter past 4, Dad quickly and loudly corrects her: 4:16. He's not trying to be funny; precision and accuracy are dead important.

But all that really matters is that I got into a car, was deposited 11hrs later at Hornsby station, picked up 20 minutes after that outside Roseville station, and was on the couch in Beacon Hill drinking one of Lucas's magical green smoothies in no time.

Ah yes, I am the luckiest person you know.

The Sunshine Coast: The Party

August 22nd

Peter -- Tom's neighbor -- is having one of the full day shindigs he's known for, kicking off with his famous pancakes (I think the secret's in the sesame seeds). The main room is set up with a huge assortment of instruments, amps, and mics. People rotate between playing and socializing on the deck.

The general consensus on my neck is that the pain has emotional roots. Tears that spring up when Malika, a former massage therapist, tries her hand at it, seem to also point in that direction.
And here I am, on a sunny Saturday, surrounded by a group of beautiful women of all ages I've only just met. The men are inside playing music. Bobbie has her arm around my shoulder and Sue leans over to tell me she has chocolate.

***

After the sun goes down, the party continues and I head over to Tom's place for dinner, wine and Internet. I watch as he makes a what-do-I-have-in-the-cupboard on-pot tuna pasta; we have rather similar cooking styles. He starts serving it up and pauses mid-spoonful, "You do eat fish, right?"

I grill him about growing up in East Germany, about what it was like being a teenager when the wall came down. I head off before 10am: an early night as Tom has to be up for the farmers' market by 4am. Tom, it's not a far walk, I'll be fine. No, it's a nice night, I want to walk.

En route, I call my folks and, slightly intoxicated, rave on and on to my dad about how big the sky is here. I mean, BIG! And speculate on the constellations I'm looking at. And whether Venus is still considered the Morning Star in the Southern Hemisphere. And how can people navigate without Polaris. How?!

Meanwhile, Kellie has arrived home from work to find me not there. And has learned, upon speaking to Tom, that I'm on my way ("You let her walk?!"). She calls once. No answer (I'm talking to my parents). She leaves a message. She calls again: no answer (I'm likely mid-rant about how The Southern Cross has nothing on The Big Dipper) and leaves another message. By the time I get to the apartment, she's getting her keys so she can drive around to find me.

I feel bad that my insistence on walking caused her undue worry. And try to make up for it by telling her how big the sky is here.
I mean, Really Big!

The Sunshine Coast: Stars and Neighbors

August 21st

Kellie's neighbor stops to share a few pleasantries: the weather, the water, no whales.
"I lived in Canada. In a shit-town in Ontario."
"What one?"
"London."
"No! Why?! I know people from London. I've even been there. Once."
"Only love brings you to live in London, Ontario."

When Kellie moved in, she asked her neighbor to let her know whether there was anything she could do. Being neighborly and whatnot. Her neighbor informed her that she's highly sensitive to sound, and the metal toilet roll holder attached to the shared cement-block wall was an extreme irritant and to "just, you know, be aware of it, I suppose...."
Kellie took it off and gave it to her neighbor as an offering of goodwill.

***

Tom picks me up so I can take in some sights. We head to the National Park and I see a goanna (it's like a mini-dinosaur!). Tom's bag is stolen out of the truck and we run around for a bit, dealing with that "shmozzle" (as Tom refers to it).

At sunset, I go for a long walk on the beach and, after dark, see the most perfect shooting star.

That night, my dreams have a large cast of characters -- friends, family, familiar faces -- all coming by to say hello and wish me well.

The Sunshine Coast: Lazy Days

August 20th

After a walk on the beach, Gil heads back to Brisbane shortly after noon; his band has a show tonight and there's business to attend to. He does not want to go: how could he? This place is Paradise! I can't understand why the whole world isn't desperate to live on the Sunshine Coast. Maybe I haven't travelled enough yet.

Kellie is disappointed she has to work most of the time I'm here (she took time off to spend with Tom post-Ekka); she calls or messages every couple hours to make sure I'm OK, not too hungry or bored.

My neck is still angry, so I spend the heat of the afternoon lying on the floor reading, looking out to the water from time to time hoping to see whales, which are currently in the area.

No whales.
For that matter, no kangaroos. Over 6 months in this country, I have not seen a single kangaroo. People (Australians) are shocked when they hear this. I, however, am beginning to suspect the roos are in line with the drop bears.

***
Kellie is going to stay at Tom's, but is concerned I'll be scared. I try to explain what an amazing gift it is to have a place to myself; the last time was mid-February.
Secretly, I love her doting over me.

And this is how I spend my time on The Sunshine Coast: swim, read, run, swim, walk, read, bike, swim, swim, read.

The weather is mind-boggling beautiful, and the hours drip by.

The Sunshine Coast: Travellers' Karma

August 19th
I am the luckiest person you know.

"Tom! You'll never guess: I mentioned to Gil last night about heading to Noosa -- he has Wednesday/Thursday off and offered to drive!"

"I gotta say, Little Sister, you're very good at manifesting stuff."

The dilemma had been whether to catch a lift up the Sunshine Coast on Sunday with the guys or try to find a ride mid-week. The latter was ideal, since Tom was already "knackered" (which cracks me up in his German accent) a few 16-hr days into The Ekka and was hoping for a little quiet time before hosting an occasionally rambunctious Canadian.

And so here I am, Wednesday morning, bag packed and slung on my back, distinctly more compact since a few items were jettisoned. While talking to Sally and Carlie, I have a moment of hesitation: the plan is to be back in Brisbane by Sunday, then head south, arriving in Sydney the following weekend. It would therefore make sense to take Carlie's book -- which I had nearly finished -- and not lug all my belongings with me.
But when is logic fun?
[Answer: When it's propositional logic, and only if you're a nerd.]

***

"Do you have any CDs?"
"I have Bon Iver..."
Raised eyebrow. Indie rock is not Gil's thing.
"... and a mix of gangsta rap."
Sidelong quizzical look.

I hand him the burned CD labelled That Gangsta Shit. Gil opens his mouth to say something, thinks better of it, and puts in the CD. "Born Killer" starts, the van's stereo just able to handle the bass.

My friend Sam sent the CD from Thailand; it ranks high on the list of Best Things I've Received in the Mail.

We pull into Tom's mid-afternoon and head to the beach for a quick swim.
I love the way the sand squeaks. Gil tells me that for the longest time, he thought all sand squeaked; that was just how it was.

Sitting on the beach, I'm talking through possible action plans. I hadn't taken into account how far Sydney is from Byron Bay, where I had been hoping to hang-out for a few days. The amount of bus travel isn't appealing. Kellie, Tom's girlfriend, catches part of the story: turns out her parents are up visiting her sister. Her dad drove so he could bring the dog and they're heading back Monday.

"They drive right past Sydney; I know they'll take you."

Seems as though I don't even have to try anymore.

They say nobody likes a show-off, Universe, but if You wanna to keep this pace up, I've got zero complaints.

***

Tom and Kellie are amazing and abundantly generous, the type of people I aspire to be. While Kellie makes dinner, Tom does acupuncture on my neck, the left side of which decided to throw a fit yesterday morning.

When I met Tom in Melbourne early April, he had only recently become involved with Kellie; every time he spoke about her, it was with the fluttering excitement that comes with the first blush of a new relationship. So I was a little nervous to meet her a week ago at the Ekka. But only momentarily, because in an instant we're sitting at the back of Divine Donuts swapping tales over wine and cheese. And it's shortly decided that I will definitely come to Peregian (near Noosa) and stay at her place. After all, she has a spare room.

After dinner, Gil and I head to Kellie's place, while she stays at Tom's. Her apartment is a sweet little place, not even a five minute walk from the beach. It's insisted that I make myself at home: Kellie has travelled extensively, only recently becoming more settled, and is very happy for the chance to be on the flip side of Travellers' Karma.

And How

August 16th

"Every time I go around, it's like a new world!"
This from the drunk ocker as he makes the rounds chatting up all the tables, circulating like the host of a party.

Gil and his friend Mohammed came to pick me up this afternoon and with Sipola, have been showing me the Brisbane sights. [Note: This does not take particularly long.] At Kangaroo Point, I cause Mohammed to squeal and hop backwards over the railing: he's terrified of heights and I'm standing too close to the edge.

The boys drop me back at the house later that evening and invite themselves in for tea.

"I think it's very cute that you've been adopted by two large black men in a matter of days," says Sally upon my return.

The boys also like this.
Me?
Everything is just great.

Stephan's Skyneedle

The Brisbane night sky is lit up by the lights of Stephan's looming Skyneedle. People either love it or hate it. And the only reason they love it is purely for kitsch value [which is, admittedly, through the roof].

Built for Expo '88, it was later purchsed by Stephan, a reknown Brisbane hairdresser. Sally and I have been tossing around ideas for a screenplay (a trilogy is the present thinking) featuring Stephan as a meglomaniacal villain.
We're fairly certain we'll be keen to portray himself.

Stefan's Skyneedle has a "Needless Love and Appreciation Society" on Facebook -- I'm one of the 50 members -- and, of course, a Wikipedia page.

The Ekka: The Wrap Up

My last day at The Ekka is relatively uneventful. Although still as aggressive as ever, Terry is horrific at a marginally slower rate. She must be tired. I encourage her to take breaks. Regularly.

Peter is helping out for a bit. I'm watching with curiosity as the owner of the coffee stall opposite us is scribbling madly on a piece of paper. I wonder aloud what he's writing.
"He's probably bipolar," says Peter the Devotee without batting an eye.

***

Tonight, I'm going to an Aboriginal & Islander Queer Night with Carlie and Sally. The Ekka folk repeatedly inquire about my post-work plans. Taking my audience into consideration, I answer a party with friends and leave it at that.

The Ekka: Day/Night

August 14th

Terry is thoroughly enjoying making up the nachos for the eating contest.
She’s telling me for the 6th time that she simply cannot eat spicy food, while drowning the chips in chillies and Tabasco sauce.
The glee with which she yearns to see the contestants suffer at her hands is moderately disturbing.

This is the second time I watch her go through this procedure, repeating yesterday’s speech verbatim. “Wait until tomorrow. They won’t know what hit them! Ooo, I want to see their faces. Maybe I should pick up some extras peppers after work...”

She laughs. I shudder.

***

Terry has known Peter and Leslie for over 20 years. She makes a reference to them as Devotees.
“Devotees of what?”
“I dunno, some sort of Indian thing. The way you can tell is if they’re wearing beads.”

Terry would rather I join in with her as she criticizes and bitches about every person within our view; she’s told me as much.
And also how much fun it was working with one of the Devotees last weekend because that’s all the two of them did.
“She teaches yoga and is really into natural healing, but she just loves being nasty about people.”

I make a weak excuse of it being un-Canadian behavior, but Terry’s passed her judgement on me: Canadian or not, I am no fun.

***

Terry’s approach to customer service: everyone who asks for anything has the IQ of a Dagwood dog and should be spoken to with unparalleled levels of condescension.

[Her prowess is astounding, and that’s coming from someone who worked in an organic fair-trade café, where hipster blasé superiority is du rigeur. Just ask Questionable Content.]

I start counting down the hours shortly after 1:30pm. Not a good sign.

***

Gil comes to rescue me at 5pm; I rustled him up a free pass. I am a carny, after all.

We ride the chairlift that crosses the Show grounds. Gil’s all excited at first, swinging his legs and such, but then quickly gets very still and quiet. He tells me in a hushed tone that he’s a little bit afraid of heights.

We check out all the animals – I hug a llama around it’s neck – finishing in the animal nursery. I start off playing with a sweet kid (of the goat variety) who’s quite taken with chewing my hair. I sort of cradle her in my arms and she loves it.
And then, a while later, I figure, “Well, I'll just carry her around with me...”

“You have to put the goat down,” says one of the nursery workers brusquely.
“Oh, of course.”
I turn to Gil, “But she really likes me.”

As we're walking out, Gil asks if I was thinking of taking my goat with me.
“You were, weren't you?”
“Maybe.”

***

We're in the main arena, watching the events leading up to the fireworks. [There are fireworks every night. Have I mentioned that I love the Ekka?]

New South Wales vs Queensland in the wood chopping contest. It's a serious nail-bitter: NSW gets a knot early on, giving QLD a serious lead, but then NSW flies up from behind to take the win.
I've never been so excited about anything lumber-related in my entire life, with fairly good reason.

Next, the horse-jumping/stock car relay race. I know! Each team member goes through the jump course, leaps off the horse, runs to the car, which does a lap, then jumps out and runs back to tag the next person. Queensland is victorious.

Then: a car-drifting race, synchronized ute [pick-up truck] driving (enough to make Busby Berkeley weep!), mad motocross jumps, astounding horse tricks, a tent pegging contest (tent-peg-removal-on-horseback-via-jousting-lance, which is a real sport here), and an ancient fire truck from I believe 1911 outfitted with a jet engine.

By the time the fireworks start, my voice is nearly gone.
And as is always the case with me and fireworks, each one is my absolute favorite.

“That’s a Good Lesson for Everyone.”

I’m out for a drink with Gil, Tisi’s big brother. He’s the last piece of The Hatcher Family puzzle. I’d met Sipola, Tisi’s younger sister, earlier in the week and her parents stayed with us in Melbourne.

And it’s official: they’re all fantastic, without exception.

***

An older man comes over selling chocolate for some fundraiser or other. Gil buys a macadamia nut bar. After the man leaves, Gil ponders aloud whether the charity was legit, then concedes he’s not too fussed if it isn’t, since he got something in the exchange.

He goes on to tell me about a time he and a friend were approached by a guy who wanted $5 for drugs.

“So I said I’d give him $5 for his shoes.”

The friend, who until this point has been enraptured as Gil waxed on about his personal philosophy, was disgusted that Gil actually took the shoes.

He was disenchanted with the religion. I told him he could still be my disciple, but he ran away.
I wasn’t going to just give the guy 5 dollars; there needs to be some kind of exchange. That’s a good lesson for everyone. The shoes are 1½ sizes too small. I still wear them. I get blisters.

The Ekka: Mexicantina

August 13th

Thursday. I turn up at the Show grounds early. After three days, my body is objecting less to both the hilly terrain and separation from The Silver Steed (and here I’d thought it was only my heart and soul that loved that glorious bike so dearly).
Plenty of time for a morning visit to the Poultry Pavilion.

Did I mention that I love the Ekka?

Things at The Mexicantina are slow; it’ll be just me and Terry for the next three days. Peter, his wife Leslie, and Abby are split between the two other stands.

Terry is a brassy broad in her mid-40’s. She’s loud, all fake-nails & frosted-lipstick, running a steady commentary on nearly every being that saunters by: about all the bogans (funny, as I somewhat considered her eligible for bogan-status); the scantily clad teens dressed like “thur givin’ it away;” how obese people repulse her -- “I don’t know what it is, but they make me feel physically ill… oh! There’s another one! No, I can’t look.”

None of this is said quietly.
I’m smiling and nodding to be polite, trying my very hardest not to pass judgement on her. And I’m doing surprisingly well.
Until around midday, when Terry – speaking to a customer – says, “Well, I’m not racist, but…”

At this moment, I’m making a bean burrito, my back to her, and I freeze. I remember a comedian’s bit – maybe Chapelle or Chris Rock – about how the words I’m-not-a-racist-but are without exception followed by a horrifically racist statement.

Terry does not disappoint.

From this point on, it is increasingly difficult not to judge Terry for all her outrageously judgemental comments. She decides I can’t take a proper break, despite the relatively easy pace of the day. (Later, Peter and Leslie separately ask whether I had a break. They each knowingly roll their eyes and say to make sure I do the next two days.)

I crack at 5:20, enveloped by a grumbly rain cloud of surliness. At 6pm on the dot, I take off my apron and say 'bye without offering the standard polite “is there anything you need me to do?” – secretly hoping that yes, yes there are helpful things I could do before leaving.

I trudge through the evening crowds to Divine Donuts.
“Hey Sunshine!”
“I need a hug.”
“Oooh. Do you also need wine?”
“Yes.”
In an instant, I’m seated on a crate, glass of locally-made wine in one hand, telling Tom and D’Jean about my day in the International Food area while they start to close up.

“I think I also need a chocolate donut without the donut.”
Tom smiles and comes over to my crate, carrying the pump they use to inject organic Belgian chocolate into the donuts.
“Open up.”

My chore in the clean-up is to lick the chocolate spoon and spatula. A dough ball is lobbed over and makes the most delightful thwack as it hits my leg.

The Ekka: Trades-ies

August 12th

Tom’s concerned: it’s his first time at The Ekka and business is much slower than he was expecting. Attendance is generally down (Swine flu? Hiked admission rates? Theories abound) and all the vendors are feeling pinched. Tom had assumed The Show would at very least be on par with other festivals Divine Donuts has been at and staffed it accordingly.
No matter how much I try to reassure him that I don't need buckets of hours, he still feels responsible for me, that I came all the way to Brisbane for work that may not be available (I repeat several times it was an excuse to get to Queensland and be a carny).
Then, luck of luck, word comes by Tom’s friend Nemo that a neighboring stall is desperately short staffed for tomorrow.
And Wednesday is Show Day!

All the states in Australia are allotted the same number of statutory holidays. So where Victoria has a day for the races (for The Melbourne Cup, the city has the day off work, gets dressed up, the girls put on beautiful hats, and everyone goes to the races), all the towns and cities in Queensland have a Show Day. No school, businesses close, and everyone hits the Show grounds. But unlike The Races, no one gets dressed up and the girls do not wear beautiful hats.

Show Day passes in a blur of people and vegetarian Mexican food. Never have 9 hours disappeared quite so quickly. There are four of us dishin’ up tucker nearly non-stop. When Peter, the owner, says they could definitely use my help for the rest of the week, it’s good news all around.

***

I arrive back at Sally and Carlie’s properly beat, the bike ride home the final nudge. Brisbane has some bastard hills, including a long gradual one on the last stretch. The house is at the bottom of the most ridiculous slope imaginable; I can barely walk up it in the mornings (no exaggeration). But on the way home, it’s bliss. The thought of it makes the slow climb possible. At the top of Jones street, deep breath and down, so fast it makes me giggle every time. I coast far beyond the house, chuck a u-ey [as they say here], and head back.

***

The ladies are also tuckered. We’re playing on youtube, relishing the video for “Love is a Battlefield,” deeply mesmerized by Pat Benetar’s ‘angry shimmies’ [check it out: you will not be disappointed!].
The Internet trail leads to another Australian mystery: The Rock Eisteddfod. This has been introduced to me before and, much like The Show Bag, I don’t get it. We watch clips, I have the girls explain it a couple times, we Wikipedia it, but The Rock Eisteddfod is beyond me. My Canadian brain can’t make sense of it and all the excitement it carries. And while it’s no angry shimmy, The Rock Eisteddfod is pretty damn good.