Which is pretty goddamn inconsiderate if you ask me. You spend something like 30 hours travelling to this fabled city on the other side of the globe, with its high-falutin’ opera houses and what not and when you get there, it’s all you can do to dump your bags in the first grotty hostel that doesn’t look like a sociopath holds the master key. Then it’s almost too much effort just to sit down somewhere nice, sunny and replete with icons of modern architecture for a couple of beers. Which, incidentally, were tiny.
That’s pretty much day one, barring the bit where I fell asleep in the Botanic Gardens.
Woke up at about 5 am the next day, determined to get something done. We did too, we sorted out our itinerary. Won’t bore you with the exact deails, but it involves the Daintree Rainforest, the Barrier Reef, Fraser Island and the Whitsundays.
Byron is all booked up for Christmas, so it looks like a couple of bizarrely warm festive days in Brisbane for myself and Friends 1-thru-3 (who, it turns out, do have names… Stuart, Laura and Ady…)
We’ve decided to take the Oz Experience bus because, although we’ve got to cover a lot of ground in not very long, I didn’t fancy coming all this way not to experience a bit of the place. The direct bus services are definitely quicker and cheaper, but if it doesn’t have a bus station, or isn’t exactly on the shortest route between A and B, then you don’t get to see it. Plus, they promised I could lassoo goats. As a species, I’ve owed the goats some revenge since I spent my Year 11 work experience shovelling their fecal matter from place to place (within the confines of a farmyard I hasten to add, not as some sort of weird, rural travelling sideshow).
They’ll pay. Oh yes, they’ll pay.
Day 3 saw us getting laughed out of every hostel in Kings Cross when we went looking for somewhere to stay on the 29th & 30th. Smug, fully-booked b*stards. I swear even the unconvincing female impersonator outside the Sports Bar was sniggering.
So, with Sydnysider scorn still ringing in our ears, we headed swiftly Cairnsward.
Make the goats pay a little bit more for the irrational fear I’ve had of them for the last 20 or so years, thanks to having my ass butted back out of then pen I was climbing into at Easton Farm Park so I could stroke them. Make them pay for having rectangular pupils too, the malevolent b*stards.