I had a David Lynch moment last night on the freeway, which made me realise that I’m spending a lot of time inside my helmet, and that I haven’t written in a while. The days are becoming blurs, while the minutes on a motorcycle last for hours, leaning forwards with head down over the tank and watching the white lines zip past like counters for some transient clock. Blip Blip Blip Blip.
On the other hand, some days have been like a tour to the heart of this country and it’s young culture, taking me far off from the main drag and down further into what makes me so happy about being on the road. Twisty one lane roads, leading through tropical rainforests and mountain ranges so steep that the early railway lines built to cross them make squirming spirals of insect-like fear at tackling anything so majestic head on. Then down into long sun-drenched paddocks with shaggy haired cattle making the road their home, only kept in by sporadic cattle grates across the tarmac. I had fun here – causing stampedes with my revving engine, and laughing mightily beneath my starry bandanna. Stopped outside a Palm tree petrol station called Liberty for lunch and wondered how long this happiness could ever last for. I think that transient beings have to be satisfied with transient happiness maybe, because the road always leads you to another destination, or at least for now…
“I—i—i-I, I feel most at home, when I’m on the road, when I’m on my own” Transient Being by Mojo Juju.
But! You didn’t expect a road surveyors account of the tour did you?! No, you want to hear adventure stories, tales of disaster and love fought for against the forces of law! Read on my friends!
Captain’s Log; Phase Two
Personnel:
Captain; RUIN, Skipper Rooney WAZZA, First Mate BEE and brand new, All Star CINDY FLOSS!
Day Three – Five
We hit Sydney like a whirlwind of obnoxious, screeching out our own names as we drive through these well dressed streets. Haven’t these bastards heard of the grid? Everything is wonky here. Very disorientating after days of camping and bushfires. I catch Wazza attempting to set alight a sofa, but explain that these are civilized people and that this will not be tolerated. We bed down in the Hutch, a big messy artist warehouse, staffed by radiant creatures who take us into their home. We scramble about in their kitchen cooking up several batches of super sticky Dooom patented wheat paste, Stick factor: real estate agent nightmare, and hit the evening streets of Newtown and Glebe. Our enthusiasm later causes us problems as I field several calls from the Sydney Fringe, who are dealing with complaints from unsuspecting targets of our poster rampage, including a funeral home, a private resident, and a Holy Sheet! Home wares outlet who had their mascot’s face covered with a poster. Honestly. You’d think these people would have better taste! However, the only other posters we see are Anarchist posters targeting the gentrification of Newtown/Redfern/Marrickville, so perhaps that explains the boring response to a bit of DIY advertising.
Not much else exciting happens, except that we have a car accident, take too many drugs and then crash hard lost in the streets of Darlinghurst carrying 4 phone books each, and get covered in wheat paste.
We do a snappy gig the next night at the Hutch for their fundraiser and leave them eyes boggling with our taste of what’s to come. Although in retrospect we spent more time doing our hair than rehearsing, it went rather well I thought.
Day Six and Seven and Eight and Nine
We ride out of Sydney early and head for Maitland to collect one Cat Scobie from her parents abode. Then we continue heading north. Going through Bulahdelah for supplies, one local expresses his amazement at our appearances in a timely fashion, as he catches sight of Wazzadeeno’s new reverse mullet style bright pink bob and splutters out “What the fuuuuuck?!”
We camp by the incredibly beautiful freshwater Myall Lake. It’s so clear that you can see the stars reflected in it. Well worth the 15 kms of dirt road to get there. In the morning we’re awoken first by Dez the local indigenous ranger, who is very friendly and asks us to ensure that the fire is out when we leave. Sorry Dez, your ticket box is broken, but we wanted to pay! Then, more absurdly, we’re next awoken by a horde (8? 10? They move so fast) of screaming children and their patriarch, a kindly grandfather with a Scottish lilt to his accent who enquires whether we are on YuuuTuuube and says that he’ll look us up. Things take a turn for the weird when the horde’s mother begins photographing the kids standing next to our camp. We indulge them in a few tricks, as Wazza slides a spoon up his nose and I juggle beer bottles. She promises to send me the photos, but to no avail.
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| It's 1969 baby, yeah! |
We continue heading north, stopping in Forster to get kicked out of the same dumpster three times by a worried security guard, and bureaucratically abused by the petrol station attendant, who insists that “it’s the law”. I know it’s the law to get off your motorcycle while filling up with petrol, and it doesn’t make sense you snivelling little corporate toady – it’s not to “keep me safe”, it’s to make sure I don’t run off without paying. I realise that we are heading into Abbot Country – white settlers gathered on deforested land in suburbs built around shopping malls and tourist traps. I feel better when I note that the local National Party member’s name is Joanna GASH. Hehehehe.
Each morning it’s a battle against the clock to overcome the collective inertia of 4 people, and on Day Seven disaster strikes! We don’t quite make it far enough before darkness falls, and we can’t get to our next chosen national park, forcing us to hunt through Coffs Harbour for a sneaky camping spot. We find nothing, and to make matters worse Cat (not displaying her L-plates, and has been drinking) get’s pulled over by the Police for making an illegal right hand turn. They pursue her down a 40km street going at least 80km, to give her a ticket and let her off with a warning. Phew. We stay in the nearest campground.
I awake the next morning to the very strange sight of fat children mysteriously floating up and down in the air. Upon further inspection, I see that this campground has what they call an “inflatable pillow” – like a jumping castle with rounded edges – a fat fluoro coloured slug for the entertainment of the idle white creatures currently camped on it’s edges. Though, it’s actually pretty fun. We clear the kids off and shoot a good 20 minutes of footage for our upcoming documentary. Then, again, we head north. This time I take the open face helmet for a spin and leave my jacket in the car – it’s ridiculously warm, which makes me so happy. At least 25 degrees I’d say. The wind stings my eyes as we fly through the country roads to Grafton to visit Cat’s cousin, and I’m again truly happy.
In Grafton we meet Cat’s cousin and her boyfriend – a member of the local bikie gang who refers to the trouble caused by the “Natives” in the area without even a hint of humour. Although we haven’t stayed anywhere very long yet, it is becoming more apparent that out here the racial divides are defined in a more absolute way that I have experienced in Melbourne.
(which yes is still racist – read Battle’s new post on Gooey on the Inside for more on this, or Pandie’s excellent post about racism and appropriation on Axximilation.
GOOEY ON THE INSIDE: to all whites.... by battle
http://axximilation.blogspot.com/2010/01/everyone-should-read-this-re.html)
GOOEY ON THE INSIDE: to all whites.... by battle
http://axximilation.blogspot.com/2010/01/everyone-should-read-this-re.html)
To begin with, although it may seem like a trite observation, people of Aboriginal or Torres Strait heritage are much more visible in towns like Grafton. This serves to correspondingly make their inequality far more pronounced, while the white residents saunter past in their Utes and Thongs, shopping and sipping coffee from Bamboo walled cafes. Also even as I fall further in love with the roads leading through this land, it serves to make me feel more alienated from this place which does not belong to me. Especially when tropical rainforest gives way to vast paddocks and cattle, where once there would have been native bush and fauna. My people don’t belong here, and we never will until there is a treaty and a real reconciliation.
Aside from this racist aside, they’re both good company. We laugh and tell rude ridiculous stories, and have a delicious lunch at the pub with a sneaky schooner. How fucking good are schooners?! Catch up Victoria – we’re missing out. They’re just the right size you see – a pot is obviously too small, and a Pint is just too large for the last bit to be cold. Overthrow the drinking measurement system! Rise Up with your glasses!
We head onto Lismore, except this time I drive the van, and leave Wazza with my bike. I’m sure it will be fine. Hell, he’s gonna be finer than I am – 15 minutes onto the freeway and I almost plow head on into an approaching Ute, after losing concentration and looking away. I spend the rest of the time to Lismore refusing to look at Bee in the passenger seat and with both hands firmly gripping the wheel.
Lismore, like Grafton is tropical and amazing. Built in “the wok” – the nickname of the locals for the mountain ranges which surrounds the low lying township. Apparently it floods once every 3-5 years, and the people row about on boats. It must have incredible soil though, because there seems to be things growing everywhere, or at least in the house that we are staying in. Rohan is an old friend of Cat’s from S11 days. When I speak to him on the phone, I insist that he will be tall, and I am proven correct. Apparently there is some seriously raw footage of him being dragged along by his dreadlocks by the Pigs at S11. Must find this and include it in documentary. He has generously agreed to donate us his shed, a long carpeted weatherboard building with a loft which we can turn into a bedroom/clubhouse.
We give ourselves the next day off in Lismore. I do some sewing in the sun drinking cider and listening to Frank Zappa thinking about Dad dancing strangely to “Baby Snakes” when I was a kid, and then go downtown for a Thai massage. After a week of sitting in the wind on my 250, my back and neck are aching. She starts slowly, smoothing down the muscles, but then by the end she has my hands behind my head and her knees in my back, pulling me over which produces a loud “crack” and a massive groan to escape from my lips. Damn that feels good!
The next day it’s off to Brisbane to meet the Festival, and inspect the venue, but this is a long enough post already, so I’ll leave that for next time. Remember – if you have friends in Lismore or Byron Bay, tell them that we’re performing there this weekend. Check out the itinerary in the menu of old posts for more information.
Mad love from a much warmer future!
Captain RUIN
