In the cow country to the northeast of town, we ran across Kim on her way to work. Smiling broadly, she bounded out of her truck and quizzed us on our plans. She even gave us a bit of her life story, how she moved up from The Entrance near Sydney, and came up north in search of an agricultural job. Being a noxious weeds inspector can't be beat, she explained: \"I can wake up and go to work when I like, and drive around in my government-paid truck wherever I please. I get to hassle anyone I want to about clearing weeds off their land, and when I don't feel like seeing anyone I can go way into the national parks and write up the rangers.
I love it.\" In mentioning her husband, she answered a couple of questions we'd been musing upon since yesterday. When we told her we'd most likely head for trendy Byron Bay over extra-crunchy Nimbin, she maintained we'd still get to see plenty of hippies. \"Lots of ferals in Byron Bay, too. Just keep an eye on your bicycles.\" Fred and I could have spent hours by the side of the road with this wonderfully enthusiastic creature, but at 8:30am, the sun was already baking down on us. Puffing up the three nasty hills that lie between Casino and Lismore, I felt like a stick of butter in a hot skillet.
Lismore struck both of us as surprisingly vibrant and bustling, yet we didn't stop to tarry in this agricultural and educational center, anxious to get our butts on the beach in Byron Bay. To reach our destination, we followed an amazingly quiet series of narrow country lanes, with nary a car in sight for nearly fifty kilometers. As we approached the sea, the terrain became progressively hillier, but the steep climbs were shaded for the most part, and the views from the top over the rolling fields, orchards and woods were spectacular. Butterflies danced under a perfect partly cloudy sky; birds of every color flew and squawked everywhere, and the breeze blew deliciously through the leaves of exotic trees.
In cycling nirvana, I kept hearing the first strains of Beethoven's sixth symphony swell inside my head. Eventually our path led us back to civilization, which materialized in the form of a crossroads general store just steps away from the too-familiar drone of the Pacific Highway. We stopped for our first-ever taste of jaffles, an Australian snack food consisting of stuffed toast pockets. Not exactly gourmet dining, but better than your average gas station fare, and filling. The friendly, slightly hippiesque woman behind the counter counseled us on the best route to Byron Bay, which avoided New South Wales' Pacific Coast Highway entirely, but contained yet more evil hills.
The narrow strip of bitumen went straight up to the top of a hill, then plunged 150 meters to a broad, flat marsh, only to climb steeply into the forest again. After repeating this process several times, we found ourselves panting on the outskirts of Byron Bay. We stopped at a B&B sporting a queer flag and checked out the premises. An obviously stoned young lad called Paul explained he was running the place while the owner was out of town. He showed us a pretty basic room and told us we'd be the only guests. Tempting as the swimming pool in the yard looked to us, the rest of the place smelled like a broken in bong, and had a lugubrious air to it.
We wisely decided to investigate our options in town and were soon checked into the first glamorous digs we've indulged in since arriving in the Antipodes almost a month ago. After a seemingly endless string of basic motel rooms, our huge and elegantly appointed room at the Beach Hotel feels like heaven. And since Byron Bay most likely marks the end of our tour in this part of the world (the road from here to Brisbane through Surfers Paradise sounds like Cyclists Hell), we feel like we deserve it. After a couple of hours of indulging in our hotel's amenities, Fred and I felt fresh enough for a walk around this extra-groovy little beachside resort.
Kim was right: the \"ferals\" are out in full force. Smells of patchouli, incense and dope waft through the main street, whereupon an endless stream of barefoot, dreadlocked, surfboard-toting, tattooed, body-pierced humanity parades back and forth along its two-block length. Filth-encrusted didgery-do players compete with acid house music blaring out of Sri Lankan noodle houses, taco stands and cappuccino houses; and all the dogs here sport bandanas. Though perhaps a bit too poser-y for my tastes, I find it all to be tremendously refreshing after ten days in the totalitarian ethos of the Australian hinterland, which tends to feel like a giant frat party.
Waking before the alarm I spent the first moments of the day on the balcony staring out at the steel blue and pink sea reflecting the morning sky. As amusing and comfortable as it was, I was ready to leave Byron Bay this morning. Andy was just a little bit harder to rouse for we'd both slept fitfully in the oppressive humidity and stillness complicated by slight sunburns and the noisy revelry of the bongo banging wanderers on the beach. I was a little embarrassed over misreading the opening time of the breakfast room. We arrived there a half-hour before they began to serve but used the time to pack up for our trip to Brisbane.
We ate while reading the increasingly alarming reports over the political and economic situation at our next country of destination. Suharto and his regime are coming under increasing criticism for their governance, alleged corruption and handling of the recent and perilous fall of the rupiah in Indonesia. The Australian press detailed the plans for their ex-pats to escape if the need became real and we began to question the logic of our itinerary. At the same time I find myself longing to shrug the comfort of traveling in the former colonies of the British and have a real adventure. Today, our trip to Brisbane has nothing to do with adventure or intrigue.
The closest we come to excitement is our debate as to whether we'll have to disassemble the bikes to load them on the bus to the capital of Queensland. We arrive at the bus station before nine and the sun is already so hot and the air humid I must change into a tank top to avoid drowning in my sweat. Though the town is seemingly dominated by tattooed, pierced, dope smoking and patchouli drenched hippies the bus station is populated only by squeaky-clean tourists. Perhaps there is a \"hippy only\" service later, maybe that is why the ticket clerk wouldn't sell Andy a ticket on the eleven a.m.
The bus ride is unremarkable save for the huge tracks of tall apartment blocks in Surfers Paradise and the perilously narrow un-shouldered highway we avoided riding by and on. The suburbs of Brisbane begin far from the city and it is obvious that we are entering a city of consequence. I remembered having a fun time the last time I was in town with Mike, now nearly a decade ago. We'd arrived at night, had dinner and stayed out until dawn carousing with newfound friends. We piled into the van and made our way south that day, barely able to keep our eyes open.
Fatigue and heat both troubled us today as we rode into town. Our path took us through a street bazaar where Irish folk singers crooned in celebration of St. Patties' day. We stopped for sushi in honor of the event, neither being fans of the holiday or its revelers. Soon we arrived at our digs in Brisbane in a quiet little neighborhood called New Farm. At the Edward Lodge Gary, our host Gary treated us to a most comprehensive orientation to the city and pointed us in the direction of where Andrew could finally see a koala bear. To our grave disappointment our trek to the old Brisbane World Expo Grounds was fruitless.
Though the bears were still present at the mini-zoo, the place was closed indefinitely due to unprofitability. The animal keeper outside didn't respond well to either of my suggestions -- selling us a koala or sneaking us in to see them. Instead we walked the massive Victoria Street Mall, fighting the US Navy for tacky souvenirs. A massive aircraft carrier had docked and the boys (and I suppose girls, although they are not as obvious) were out in force. It had been a long time since we'd had a \"night out on the town,\" so we made our way back to the guesthouse for a disco-nap in preparation.
All in all Brisbane is far more to my taste than Sydney. The folks here are as charming and approachable as in the countryside and there is none of the pretense I find so boring in Sydney. We've become accustomed to Australian hyperbole. I am almost to the point of not noticing that every town, restaurant, street, house, tree, dog, cat or anything else always has an adjective with \"est\" attached to it. Tonight we went to the Wickham Hotel (Hotel = drinking bar) the, of course, oldest gay drinking hotel in Brisbane. The crowd spilled into the street and the music could be heard blocks away.
As we arrived three really beefy security guards were expelling a drunkard. I became a little alarmed when the biggest and butchest of the three, a platinum blond bull-dyke with a flat-top, accosted me upon my approach. \"Have you been here before?\" she asked. Wasn't sure how to answer this but her posture dictated that it should be sincere, deferring and respectful if I wanted to live through the experience. \"Yes\", turned out to be a good answer and she stepped aside. I wanted to ask her why she stopped me. Did I look that straight, dangerous or drunk? I couldn't find her to ask her but it kept me on guard throughout the evening.
Later we met several Brisbanians who all approached us for some reason or another. The second, a straight girl, Rebecca, out dancing with her brother Jason. She and his friends gave us a Brisbane nightlife primer. Their friend John took a liking to Andy, who was able to see past some really nasty facial bruises and cuts to his charms. Seems John had a bad night drinking and fell down a flight of stairs a few days before, thus our nickname for him \"escalier boy\". Walking home I found myself, for the first time in days, not moist with sweat. The evening air cooled me as I walked the empty streets leaving me to wonder about our days ahead in Asia.