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‘The Tablelands Tour?’ I asked aloud, reading a
brochure, as Ana and I sat in a Cairns guesthouse one morning
wondering what to do with ourselves for the next couple of days.
‘It says there’s a good chance of spotting platypus since one of
the days involves a canoe trip around a dammed lake,’ I said.
‘Don’t start swearing so early in the morning,’
she replied.
Decision taken, we signed up with the lady at
reception, an American woman named Michelin who seemed to have an
endless reserve of physical energy, especially when used for
talking. She told us to be ready at 7:30 the following morning
for pickup.
It’s now 7:28 the next morning and I’m preparing my
first cup of the hot black stuff consciousness is made of. ‘Are
you sure you have time for that?’ my dear wife asked me.
‘For sure. These tour companies are never on
time,’ I replied confidently. Exactly two minutes later a bus
screeches to a halt in front of the guesthouse with ‘Tablelands
Tour’ painted across it. With a slight tear in my eye and the
beginnings of a nice caffeine withdrawal headache that only a true
coffee addict can appreciate, I poured the morning magic down the
drain and we walked out to the bus.
‘Helllllooo!! You must be Kris and Ana!’ the
enthusiastic or perhaps slightly overeager tour guide hollered.
‘That’s us,’ Ana replied. I stuck my index finger
up to confirm that I was indeed one of ‘us’ and mostly awake.
‘Great, my name is Emma and I’m the guide. Jump
aboard and find yourselves some seats, we have to be at the next
hostel in three minutes!’ Emma said. Our bums hit the vinyl,
Emma’s foot hit the accelerator, the rubber hit the road, and the
pedestrian ahead of the bus hit the dirt. Three minutes and
several two wheeled corners later we were in front of the Pirate’s
Cove backpacker hostel. I felt pity in my empathetic heart as I
looked through the hostel kitchen window to see some poor sod
pouring his coffee down the drain and heading out to the bus.
This was the start of the first day of the two day
tour. By the end of the first day I was convinced that we had
made a big mistake. Our guide, while extremely friendly,
knowledgeable and likable, had the remarkable ability to talk
non-stop. That in itself, I can normally overcome just by
switching off mentally and enjoying the scenery. But she was also
able to remember every person’s name and ensured that we were all
included in the conversation. ‘So, Kris, what did you and Ana do
last night?’ she asked. ‘Bill, what do you think of Australia?’
was another one, as well as ‘Eva, what other countries have you
been to?’ By the end of the day I knew more about these people
than I know about some members of my family. This system of
indiscriminant inclusion also applied to the short forest walks we
undertook.
‘Ooohhh, there’s a rare bush lizard!’ Emma hissed
with maximum effect and minimum volume so as not to disturb the
little beast. This was the second of the bush walks and, though
trying my best to enjoy the trip, was having minimum success. We
had all been huddled into a group and instructed to direct our
gaze down Emma’s arm, over her fingers, through twenty feet of
rain forest shrubberies, and onto this beautiful reptilian
specimen. I summoned all my optical strength to see the creature
but I just couldn’t. ‘What colour is it?’ I asked Ana.
‘Green and brown,’ she replied.
‘The whole bush is green and brown, how can you see
it??’ I said, annoyed.
‘It just moved, did you see that?’ she said
excitedly.
‘No’
‘Well, don’t worry, it’s not that exciting.’
‘Can everybody see the lizard?’ Emma asked. A few
bored responses. ‘Well, can you all see it? Mark, can you see
it?’ she asked.
‘Yah, I see it,’ said Mark.
‘How about you John, can you see it?’ she probed.
‘Yep, there it is,’ he said confidently.
I knew somebody was lying. These two guys were
looking in completely different directions. Emma went down the
line asking each individual if they could see the lizard, all
nodding enthusiastically, until she got to me, hiding behind Ross
the American trying not to be seen, obviously not as successful as
the invisible lizard.
‘Kris, can you see the lizard?’ she asked, ensuring
I didn’t feel left out.
‘No, not really,’ I replied, shamefacedly.
Everybody looked at me, the only kid in class busted for not doing
his homework. The kid that couldn’t throw the medicine ball,
climb the rope ladder, or conjugate the bloody French verb “ser”.
The poor bugger the other kids look at and make that ‘tch, tch’
sound when he displays yet again his inability to keep up with the
rest of the class.
‘It’s just over there, about twenty feet, sort of
brownish and green,’ she encouraged.
‘That’s all right, I trust you,’ I said,
desperately trying to get her off my case.
‘Aw, c’mon, it’s just over there. Look harder,’
she persisted.
‘Yeah, c’mon Kris it’s just over there, can’t you
see it?’ somebody asked. All of a sudden, they were all on me,
encouraging me and my poor vision, pointing their fingers (in
slightly different directions) trying their best to help the poor
little blind kid. ‘Kris! Kris! Kris! Kris!’ I imagined them
chanting as I squinted my lids closer and closer together until I
felt my contact lens dangerously close to launching out of my eye
and sticking on someone’s cheek. I was Superman with X-ray
vision. I was wearing clothes cheating super spy glasses. I was
a great bald eagle spotting a field mouse three miles away.
‘There it is!!’ I lied, ‘I see it now!’ Everybody
cheered and congratulated me. Emma smiled and looked skyward
thinking, ‘Another happy customer.’ I wanted out of there.
The remainder of the day included ogling a few
waterfalls, a swim in a freshwater pond, and a drive by a sugar
factory, where we were entertained with the story of the
disastrous introduction of the South African cane toad to
Australia. I made sure to nod my head enthusiastically whenever
anybody asked me anything, and I was able to make it to the end of
the day more or less anonymously.
That evening turned out quite nice, as Emma left us
alone to mingle with each other at our home for the night, a comfy
wood-built lodge called, “On The Wallaby”. I had a nice chat with
Ross the American, who I initially mistook for a shell shocked
Vietnam vet judging by his camouflage clothing, wiry frame and
inky black tattoo on his arm which was a perfect replication of an
inky black splotch. But after hearing his outrageously loud
giggly laugh and noticing his effeminate mannerisms I decided I
was probably wrong – he was likely a university professor. I also
met Shayne the Welshman who had stringy red hair and buggy
marijuana eyes which seemed to move independently at times. He
also reeked of fried bacon, constantly. Additionally, there were
a few Germans, a few English, and a Scottish fellow who sold
insurance for a living and thought Australia was the best country
in the world. At one point in the evening I was sitting at the
long wooden table beside a young Canadian guy named Mark and
across from a Swedish couple.
‘What’s your last name?’ I asked Mark, striking up
a conversation.
‘Gustafson,’ he replied.
‘You’re kidding! My mom’s maiden name is Gustafson
too!” I replied, amazed
‘Yes, that’s our last name,’ said the Swede across
the table.
‘Sorry?’ I said to him.
‘You just said Gustafson, that’s our name,” he
explained.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me! Mark just told me
his name is Gustafson, and that’s my mom’s maiden name as well,’ I
answered.
So there we were. Four Gustafsons at one table,
and the first non-family Gustafsons I have met in my life. We
celebrated this ancestral bond by drinking a few beers after which
I excused myself and left for bed, determined to avoid a hangover
which would make the next day’s task of defending myself against
the tour guide’s friendly onslaught much more difficult.
The morning began with a hearty feed of fresh
fruit, eggs and bacon, which I saw Shayne the Welshman eyeing
ravenously. Once finished Emma announced the morning activity
would be a mountain bike ride to a nearby lake where we could
either go swimming or do a short hike. Thank God, I thought, a
nice solitary bike ride with no guided commentary. We picked up
our bike outside and off we went. The day began a little rainy
but that soon cleared up and we were able to enjoy a lovely ride
on a paved road through thick green forest. We soon arrived at
the lake, jumped off the bikes, and Ana and I set out for a hike
around the lake. Along the way, we joined up with Mark, the
Canadian fellow from Vancouver and we got onto the topic of
Anglo-French relations in Canada.
‘I’ve been to Montreal,’ he began, ‘and I met a lot
of nice Quebeccers. But I also met a few jerks. One night I
was in the city centre looking for a particular restaurant I heard
was good. I was having trouble finding it so I asked a fellow on
the street if he knew where it was. “It where it ahs always bin,
dey aven’t moved it,” he replied, annoyed, in his thick Quebeccer
accent. So I asked a lady who was walking nearby. “Why should I
tell, eef you do not already know?” she answered. Such lovely
people. I eventually just gave up and went to Burger King.”
We moved on to discussing some of our traveling
stories as we walked together around the lake. “I’ve learned
some new slang words for Canadians,” he said, “I was in a bar one
night talking to some English people and when they asked where I
was from I said, “Canada”. “Oh,” one of them replied, “you’re a
frozen Yank!” Another night, same scene, but this time I was
talking with a group of redneck Americans. When they asked what
part of the States I was from I said, “Canada”. “Oh,” one of them
replied, “you’re an American Pom!” After that I decided to stop
talking to people in bars.’
At the end of our walk we went for a quick swim in
the crystal clear freshwater lake then hopped back on our bikes
and rode back to the lodge. We had lunch together then were back
in the bus with Emma barreling down the highway towards the lake
where we would be embarking on our canoeing adventure. The lake
was created for the purpose of an irrigation reservoir, as the
area was very prone to drought, as it was in currently and as a
result the water level was quite low. There were a few cabins
around the shoreline and a large number of standing deadwood
growing out of the lake, creating a rather eerie horizon.
‘Has everyone here canoed before?’ Emma asked. As
usual, there was a flurry of enthusiastic nodding and Emma issued
paddles to each of us and directed us to pair up, grab a canoe,
and get onto the water. Ana and I picked up one of the canoes and
launched it and ourselves without too much trouble. We paddled
out fifty metres and turned to watch the rest launching their
canoes. Among the several reluctant pairings were the tall German
girl and Shayne the Welshman. They somehow managed to launch the
canoe without capsizing and were soon afloat and paddling madly.
‘Paddle on the left! No, no, paddle on the right,
we’re going the wrong way!’ he shouted from the back of the
canoe. I looked back to see the frenzy underway and knew that
this guy had never been in a canoe in his life. The laws of
physics dictate that the motions of the paddler in the back of the
canoe, the Welshman in this case, will determine which direction
the canoe travels. His experiences in motor vehicles obviously
led him to believe that he provided the power while the front
paddler chose direction.
‘You goddamn idiot, you don’t know what the hell
you’re doing!’ she screamed back at him, ‘Look at how the other
people are paddling you dummy!’
‘Left! Left!’ he screamed at her hysterically,
‘Paddle harder on the left!’
‘Shut up! Shut up!’ she grunted as she paddled
wildly.
Left to right, right to left, splashing and
shouting, they progressed across the lake unceremoniously.
Eventually they caught up to our canoe congregation and the German
girl said something in German to one of the German fellows in a
different canoe. Then she said in English, ‘Get me away from this
guy!’ She transferred canoes with the German fellow and he was
left to struggle with the Welshman.
We paddled ahead of the rest across the lake and
into a channel and slalomed around the standing deadwood. We saw
and heard many colourful birds but unfortunately no platypus. The
channel eventually ended in a bank of muddy flats. Emma the guide
instructed the group to paddle to shore, get out and pull the
canoes up onto the mud so they wouldn’t float away when we went
for our short hike. As Ana was at the front of our canoe she was
the first to get out – and sink up to her knees in smelly mud.
‘Can you pull the canoe up a bit?’ I asked. I was then able to
get out of the canoe and sink merely up to my ankles, what a
lovely wife I have.
Most of the people decided to go barefoot so we all
lined up behind Emma and she led the way. We walked across the
muddy flats, over a mostly dried up creek, and up a hill into a
thin forest. Emma stooped and picked something off the ground
then laid it on a large flat rock and instructed us all to gather
around. ‘This,’ she began, ‘is a dried up cane toad.’ It was
certainly toad shaped and definitely dried. She went on to tell
us a story about this ninety year old couple she had seen on
television whose favourite hobby was to sit on the balcony and
watch the toads mating. We then continued along the forest path.
After a few minutes of marching along the path like
kiddies on a potty parade, we heard a voice scream, ‘Emmmmmaaaaaaaa!!
Heeelp!!’. We thought somebody had been attacked by a snake or
wild boar or, judging by the horrific scream, perhaps a
rhinoceros. It turned out it was the American Ross, who had
wandered about ten feet off the path and thought he was lost.
Somebody said, ‘Jesus Ross, we’re right over here, take it easy!’
Ross stepped back on the path, emit a huge sigh of relief, and
continued on the trail walking directly in the footsteps of the
person in front of him.
A short time later, we reached a small stream
where Emma showed us that the creek bed was littered with special
oxidized rocks the Aborigines used for painting their faces. She
said, “It’s not just kiddies that get their faces painted, give it
a go!” The assembly of gentle folk once again paired off and
started mixing paints on the flat rocks. It was quiet simple,
just dip the rock in water and rub it in circles on a larger rock,
adding more water as required until a nice pasty paint was
produced. And different rocks produced different colours of
paint, from a deep Indian red to magnificent gold to even blue. I
mixed up a colourful palette as Ana was desperately trying to
remove the caked mud from her toes and feet, creek-manicure style,
as she has a severe allergic reaction to dirt and grime. The
symptoms usually include restlessness, a foul temper and extreme
agitation, so I just stayed out of her way. When she had finished
scraping the last fleck of mud out of her toes I sat her down on a
rock then started plastering the paints on her face. I did the
traditional furious red war stripes down her cheeks, then filled
it in with other ferocious, menacing colors and patterns until she
resembled a war chieftain ready to wage war on some unworthy
tribe. It was then my turn. I sat facing toward Ana as she
dipped her fingers into the colours and dragged them across my
face. I was an Aboriginal warrior and my Indian wife, coveted by
all but consort of solely me, was readying me for the big battle.
The rainbow scars across my face would strike fear and paralysis
into the hearts of my enemies and I would surely lead our tribe to
victory. ‘Aaaagghhhhhhhhh!’ I roared in my inner mind, a roar
like an enraged lion, like a silverback pouncing on an unworthy
rival, like thunder. As she finished I stood up and took the
small mirror she had and held it up to my face to see the fearful
war mask, ready to emit an unholy death cry. Looking back at me
was a red, smiling happy face on my forehead, a big blue clown
nose, and sperm-like squiggles swimming down my face. This
instantly hauled me back to reality and I looked around the
assembled group to see a multitude of ridiculous looking paint
jobs. I guess it takes some practice to get the war look just
right.
Emma soon gathered us and we set back on the forest
trail to return to the canoes. Ross the American, terrified of
getting lost, walked in her footsteps the whole way while the rest
of us simply enjoyed the stroll through the forest. We reached
the swampy mess of a shore and started launching the canoes. A
couple of the other men and I were helping people push off their
canoes, and in the process sinking knee deep in the thick mud. As
we were pushing away I noticed Shayne the Welshman standing on the
only dry bank skipping rocks across the water. ‘Hey Shayne,’ one
of the other guys yelled, ‘are you having fun?’
There were only two canoes left, ours and Emma’s.
I asked Emma if she wanted help launching hers. ‘No, that’s
okay,’ she replied, ‘I’ll get Shayne to push us out.’ I pushed
our canoes out as far as it would go then climbed in and scurried
down to the stern. Ana then jumped in the front of the canoe,
freshly manicured feet again covered in mud and a disgusted look
on her face, and we pushed ourselves off the bank. Once in the
open water we turned to see how Emma and Shayne were making out.
Emma, planted in the thick mud, was shoving with all her strength
on the canoe which appeared to be quite lodged in the mucky bank.
Simultaneously, gentleman Shayne was desperately trying to pull a
dead tree out of the ground. The rotten roots gave way and he
heaved it out of the mud, dragged it over to the canoe, and
toppled it onto the bank, creating a nice little tree bridge he
could tip toe across to reach the canoe without getting his feet
dirty. As Emma was pushing the canoe into the water, sneaky
Shayne walked past her on top of the tree and made himself
comfortable in the stern of the canoe, just as Emma had finally
wrenched it free of the mud. Looking extremely perturbed, our
brave tour guide bit her lip and jumped into the front of the
canoe and pushed off.
We watched transfixed from our own canoe as the
predictable happened. Wild flailing of paddle from the back of
the canoe as Emma shouted at Shayne from the front trying to
direct his random paddling as she did her best to steer from the
bow. I couldn’t help laughing. They meandered from side to side
but seemed to be making progress so we turned and began paddling
our way back through the narrow lake.
‘Look!’ Ana cried from the front of the canoe. I
looked ahead and saw something swimming toward us on top of the
water leaving a perfect v-shaped wake.
‘What is it?’ I asked Ana.
‘It looks like an otter with a duck’s head,’ she
answered excitedly, ‘and the ass looks like a duck’s head too!’
‘It must be a platypus,’ I said, ‘cool!’ The
platypus swam by our canoe, only metres away, giving us a close-up
look at him. It is a very strange, no, frightening creature
indeed when one cannot tell the arse from the head. As it past by
us we heard a splash and it was gone, submerged into the muddy
depths.
Ten minutes later we were passing some scarcely
submerged deadfall when I saw a small splash and dark fur. ‘Look
Ana, there’s another one!’ I shouted. And mere seconds later yet
another platypus broke the surface, much to our delight. I
informed Ana, ‘Now we’ve seen three, uh, uh, what’s the plural for
“platypus”? “Platypie”? “Platypusen”? “Platypice”? Or maybe
it’s “Platypussies”?’
‘Okay! That’s enough!!’ she said, disgusted. I
laughed and kept paddling. The sun was now beating down upon us
and I could feel my beak starting to smoke. Luckily a strong wind
had blown up which kept the heat manageable but made the paddling
more difficult as it was pointed directly against us. After some
hard paddling we made it across the lake and back to the shore
where we had begun the trip. Almost all of the other paddlers had
arrived and put their canoes away. We reached the shore, jumped
out of the boat onto the grassy shore and hauled it out of the
water. Ana immediately found a rock to sit on and began furiously
cleaning her toes. Then we all waited together for Shayne the
Welshman and Emma the Patient to arrive, which they eventually
did.
After locking up the canoes, Emma led us up the
hill and back to the bus for the trip home. I had my last laugh
of the day when I turned to my dear wife who was sporting clean,
white, mud-free feet, and saw her looking with horror at the
German guy walking ahead of us who had thick clumps of gooey mud
caked all the way from his toes up to his knees, obviously
oblivious to the filth and certainly not interested in cleaning up
before getting into the bus. I could see her bite her tongue as
he jumped into the bus, now with bits of grass stuck to the mud,
and left a trail of muck and weeds on the floor all the way to the
back of the bus where he plopped down and fell asleep.
After a short stop at the hostel to pick up our
luggage we were on the road and soon back at Cairns. Emma pulled
up in front of our guesthouse where she got out, helped us with
our bags, and said good-bye. We gave her a big hug and expressed
our gratitude for such an unforgettable trip. She drove away and
we walked into the guesthouse, where I immediately went to the
kitchen, made a big cup of coffee, and sat down for a relaxing
mug. |
