Month: July 2018

I didn’t sleep as well as I might have that first night.

The bed was plenty comfortable and I switched around between the aircon with blankets, and fan with a sheet – but never quite managed to find my sleeping mojo.

Still – I finally rose proper at around nine o’clock.

With no official plans for the day – I made a cuppa tea (the only thing in the room) and sat out on my balcony, overlooking the palm trees.

I watched the whistling kites gliding and swooping on the thermals and suddenly it delighted me that this exact combination of temperature, humidity and breeze, is a purely Darwin thing!

It had been ten years since I’d felt it – and I’ve been around a bit in that time, but that particular feeling was exclusive, and the realisation brought a smile to my face.

I watched some local TV and chuckled at the amateur-hour ads – like Arnie’s Fencing, with some clown (probably the owner of said company), doing a very poor Schwarzenegger impersonation throughout, flogging off fences and gates.

I had a shower and another cuppa then headed for a walk down the Mall.

I noticed Kitty O’Shea’s pub was now the Hotel Darwin (which backed onto the motel I was staying at), and further down – the old Commonwealth Bank building is now Rorke’s Drift pub.

I wandered through a few back alleys I’d been known to frequent – but couldn’t quite recall exactly where they led. I was slightly annoyed that my mind was betraying me like this and decided to just proceed on instinct. Things slowly began falling into place.

I was glad to see ‘Melissa’s Café’ was still going – though shut at this particular hour. It used to be a convenient favourite, on my walks between the Chan building near parliament house, and Darwin Plaza, further up the mall.

A few shops had either changed names or shut down completely – and a few new ones had arisen.

The Victoria Hotel (The Vic) – which is well over a hundred years old and withstood the Japanese bombing of Darwin, as well as Cyclone Tracy, had shut its doors to trade. Apparently the strain of trading against so many close competitors was eventually more than the old girl could handle – which is a great shame, in my eyes.

I called into a busy café and secured myself a bacon and egg roll and a strawberry milk for breakfast (I’ve never succumbed to the lure of the beloved NT Iced Coffee obsession, despite living there for nine years). The tucker and cold milk really hit the spot.

I was sitting on a Mall seat, setting my mental bearings and watching the tourists (a cruise ship was obviously in town) when James rang, looking to organise some kind of plan for the evening. Apparently there were a few blokes pretty keen on a beer and a catch-up.

We settled on the Hotel Darwin, simply because it had a nice beer garden – plenty of room for a bunch of blokes to blow the froth off a couple and reminisce about days gone by.

Though I was super keen to get into it – James wisely suggested we hold off till five, I agreed and that was the plan we ran with.

As I wandered back to my room, I decided to call into the Hotel Darwin for a schooner of coke – I was still thirsty and sick of drinking tea.

So I purchased a coke and sat out front on the veranda.

I was thinking how a lot has changed about Darwin.

I got chatting to a bloke from Jabiru – he was in town for a wedding or something, and there were a bunch of rowdy people behind us.

A police wagon drove down Mitchell Street and a young, local lady seated behind me yells out:

‘Hey – there goes my Fkn lift home! Eh, Officer ya C*#t – gimme a lift!
I called triple-oh eh, and no f*cker answers me! F*cken @resholes!!’

….apparently not everything has changed.

I retired to my room and waited till about four thirty, when I decided it was time to stake my claim on a prime spot at the table in the beer garden.

So I entered the pub and ordered a schooner – Carlton Draft.

They no longer sell Tooheys New on tap in Darwin pubs.

This too was the case when I first arrived at Darwin in 1999 – no Tooheys on tap.

VB and Melbourne Bitter (of all things!) were popular back then – but after a year or two, Tooheys had a push and big promotional campaign and New became available on tap in most pubs.

I walked out to the beer garden – there was a bloke playing guitar and singing songs. He had a unique style, for his songs were unfamiliar to my ear – I guessed originals (or spawn of some obscure artist of which he was a fan).

Upon closer listening – some tunes were in fact popular songs, just sung in his own, personal, unrecognisable style.

The beer garden had very recently been done up – and I struggled to recall how it used to look. The main facilities remained unchanged – I knew where the toilets and various bars were to be found, but the paint and concrete floor had been spruced up and the over-all appearance seemed brighter and fresh.

There were only about six to eight people there besides myself, yet the singer of songs appeared quite content entertaining himself with little jokes in between tunes, and laughing at his own remarks.

 

I noticed quite a few large tables with ‘Reserved’ notes declaring them off-limits, and then a big white screen up front.

After some thought, I realised that this was the evening of Australia’s first Soccer World Cup game against France! We could get a few people here tonight.

The first schooie hardly touched the sides, so I went and bought myself another.

I sat at the side of the stage, where I could see both the singer and the big screen – with my stool on a forward, slightly downward graded slope, so as not to cut off the blood to my lower extremities should I perch there too long.

Shortly thereafter I recognise the familiar relaxed gait of my old mate Jimbo strolling through the doors, with that ear to ear Picker grin on his face and hand outstretched.

He looked as though he’d lost a few kilos (that I’d managed to find), but all in all the last decade had been pretty kind to him.

Ben Fairchild climbed aboard the stool to my left – sporting a flash new pair of RM boots, shining spotlessly tonight on their maiden outing. A recent bargain, at four hundred and fifty bucks.

Ben’s a funny bloke who calls a spade a spade and is a gun builder who can turn his adept hand to just about anything in the game.

I still have a bookcase and a massively-strong, overkill outdoor table setting that Ben built for me some fifteen years ago.

 

My memory tends to blur a little after this point and I can’t recall with any degree of accuracy, the order of things as they went down.

Next thing I know, I’m laughing with Liam ‘Muzzy’ Musgrave and Phil Bartlett, two blokes I used to work with. I notice a tall, thin, rangy looking fella heading our way so I give a cursory nod and continue with our banter.

I look up again as a big arm wraps round my neck – Shane ‘Harro’ Harrison!

The rangy fella looks a little older now (married with a couple of kids), and has clearly lost quite a few kilos since last I saw him! (Which again, I’d managed to find).

Harro is the perfect height to wrap his arm around your head while his elbow rests comfortably upon your shoulder.

He too is a humorous, piss-taking, affectionate, fun-loving son of a bitch!

 

Amongst the witty banter and jovial repartee, I realised that my old mate Micky had missed the memo regarding this impromptu gathering!

I sent Micky an SMS suggesting he come join us.

Micky, or more correctly Kaleem, was once a computer operator with the rest of us but had since moved on to become one of the Top Ends most accomplished (and entertaining), fishing guides! If you wanna catch Barra, Jewies or any number of reefies – give Micky a call at Springtide Safaris – he’ll put you on the spot!

Anyway – Micky was originally a little reluctant to come, as he’d planned to watch the Soccer at home. I told him we had it on the big screen and he should come along into town.

He relented after very little pressure and was soon cutting through the growing crowd with a jug of Great Northern.

We were still waiting for Michael ‘Pottsie’ Potts to put in an appearance – but some feared he may be tethered to the bar at Monsoons, his haunt of preference in Mitchell Street.

James ordered a couple of pizzas – to fill empty gut bags currently sloshing with beer and froth. They were some breed of meat-lovers, with a load of mayo blown across the top.

They went down a treat and saved more than one of us from a likely uncomfortable night/morning driving the porcelain bus.

Muz was hitting Micky up on my behalf for a complimentary seat on his next fishing expedition, but that happened to be a Mother-Ship excursion of some six days duration.

Maybe next time.

By the time the World Cup match kicked off, the place was a seething mass of Froggie fans – with a small, though rowdy bunch of Aussies thrown in!

The supporters of Les Bleu were sporting French flags, berets and even waving bread-sticks in the air – it all combined to create a good natured, party atmosphere.

Songs were sung, chants were called and dances done – it was quite the spectacle!

We all had plenty of laughs, relived old stories and told a few new ones.

I think everyone had a good time – I know I had a ball and loved every minute of it. Well except the minute where the Aussies got beaten by the French.

But even that was short-lived, you couldn’t help but respect the enthusiasm and patriotism of the French supporters, they were over the moon at their win – and while they celebrated hard, they didn’t look to cause any trouble.

At some stage Muz simply disappeared – the theory being he went looking for Pottsie, never to return – but who knows?

People left in dribs and drabs until I found myself having a final couple of quiet schooners with Phil. We had a nice chat about all manner of things – work, marriage, kids, retirement and drinking.

I had one final schooner and had hit the wall. It was around midnight and I was done.

I bid Phil farewell and stumbled home – amazingly once again finding my way directly to my room without reference to the map (which I’d left on my bedside table).

I took a long swig from the cold-water jug in the fridge (still no mini-bar), and just before I laid down and passed out, I posted the following on Facebook, which summed up my feelings:

“Well – my trip has been worth it already. Had a pisser of a night – caught up with some great mates!”

 

So I arrived at Brisbane airport three hours before my flight was due to leave.

I read my book for a while (Matthew Flinders Cat – Bryce Courtney, which I’d grabbed on the way out the door), before conceding to have a beer.

I ordered a Crownie from the very limited beer list, in a café on the ground floor.

“That’ll be $11.50 for a Crownie thanks”

Now that’s good value, I thought – I might just buy a carton of it – for $276!

So I necked that beer while reading more of my book – which had started to get interesting by now.

I decided I should try another, so I approached the same counter and said:

‘Another Crownie please’

“That’ll be nine-dollars thanks”

I look confused – the last one cost me eleven fifty.

She gets a plate out and says “The chocolate one?”

I glare at her – WTF you talking ‘bout?
‘A Crownie’.

“Oh – I’m sorry – I thought you wanted a Brownie!”

The lady embarrassingly put away her plate and moist chocolate offering, and handed me another Crown Lager.

I resumed my seat at a tiny little table – still waiting for the Tiger Airlines check-in to open.

I was looking around the airport at the passing parade, as one does – and wondering about the stories that saw people arrive here at this point.

There was a smoking-hot young chickie who walked past in tight jeans, reading her I-phone and dragging a bag behind her like a Shih Tzu on a leash.

Then there was a big solid looking bloke, about thirty years old, six foot-three – with tatts all over, including his thick bull-neck and rugged head. A smaller, mostly clean-skinned bloke of similar age met up with him and they decided to sit at the table adjacent to me. The big bloke bought two beers.

We were sitting pretty close and the little fella asks me about my book:

‘Good book is it mate?’

“Yeah mate – not too bad. It’s Bryce Courtney – he’s an Aussie dude”

(He didn’t immediately strike me as the bookworm type).

‘Oh really? You ever read any of that other bloke? His Aussie too. He’s funny as fuck!’

(The way he described it, I figured he was alluding to Robert G Barrett and his character Les Norton).

I said – yeah, I know the bloke – he’s pretty good.

And the big bloke says – ‘Watto can’t read’.

I assumed he was taking the piss – but ‘Watto’ says – ‘Yeah, I can’t read. But a mate used to read them out to me – I love those books!’

I felt a bit sorry for the bloke at this point – it must be a real struggle in this day and age if you can’t read.

I didn’t show it – I’m sure he would have been offended if I had – and in my mind, there wouldn’t be too many occasions where you’re sitting round together with a mate, long enough for him to read a book to you.

There is only one situation that comes to mind where that might occur – and it’s a place I don’t want to go, but wasn’t surprised he’d spent some time there.

They were talking about blowing this place and going to a pub – so I said my goodbyes and went to check in. They seemed nice enough fellas – but had already been banned from a few venues on the Gold Coast for rowdy behaviour. That’s not really my scene – though I’d rather have these two on my side than agin me, should a stink erupt!

 

The flight to Darwin was unremarkable – Tiger Airlines were fine, nice staff and friendly hostesses.

I had two of those little bourbon bottles with coke, throughout the four hour and twenty-minute flight. You see, heading in that direction, you face a roaring headwind up in the Jetstream (coming home was three hours ten-minutes or so – ripping along with the tailwind).

I was very curious when I finally got out at Darwin – had anything changed? Had everything changed?

I was considering catching an Uber (which I’ve never done before). People keep telling me it’s much cheaper than a taxi. However – there were three flights who all landed together, at about 12:50am, and everyone was hoping their bag would be next on the conveyer belt – facilitating a hasty exit.

But it was my bulky, black & red portmanteau who next burst through the plastic curtains, like a middle-aged actress running late for an encore!

It was among the first, so I grabbed my bag and headed for the doors – there were only about ten people in the cab line, and some fifteen cabs lined up.

Now was not the time to be messing round with my new Uber-Ap!

(It turns out that Darwin does not have Ubers anyway – they have a thing called ‘Thanks Oscar’ or some such title. Similar thing to Uber – but my Ap would have had me waiting forever till one arrived for my convenience that night).

So I stood in line and waited for my cab to approach.

I hopped into the cab at around 1am.
Some young Indian dude with a knot in his hair.

I say ‘G’day mate – the Palms City Motel’

He stuffs around a bit and says ‘Ess Planet?’

I say ‘What?’

“Ess Planet?”

I look at him ‘Eh?’

He’s pointing at the cash meter and says once again “Ess Planet?”

I’m about to put my specs on to see what he’s pointing out – then it dawns on me.

‘Esplanade! Yes mate – it’s on the Esplanade’.

‘So – you been driving cabs long?

“Cabs? Yes”

‘Really – how long?

“Me? No, only new – maybe two months. But I get you to your destination’

‘Good mate – that’s all I care about’.

We didn’t talk much after that.

We took the sneaky federal backroad out of the airport – which I’d forgotten about.

But passed a couple of massive new constructions – like a flash new bowling alley and it’s twin, neon-signed establishment, which I didn’t recognise.

After exiting onto Bagot road, near Bunnings I was in familiar territory – though there seemed to be a few new Quick Mart service stations around the place. I was surprised when we approached the overpass to the city – where I used to do a quick little U-ey and sneakily cut through the BP garage to head to my house. The British Petroleum service station is now some type of jungle cat. A Cougar, or Jaguar or Puma. A slick new moniker for a fuel dispensing beast likely to skin you alive – which is rather apt given the price of petrol in the Top End!

Further on to the city and I noticed The Top End Hotel and Lizards bar had been all but demolished and replaced by a shiny new multi-story monstrosity that I didn’t much care for. I am a traditionalist at heart and appreciate the history of older towns and their landmarks.

Then it was south, along the Esplanade to my hotel.

I realised early that this was not the type of motel where you hop in an elevator, turn right and enter you room. The Counter-Chick started drawing a map with a highlighter pen – ‘Okay, you are here at reception. Head through those doors, turn left – go straight for thirty metres then turn right. Twenty metres further on you can climb the stairs to the second floor, then follow the balcony, turn right again until you reach room 265.

Surprisingly, I made my way directly to my room.

There were three blokes sitting on the balcony of the neighbouring room – discussing micrometre adjustments, stud patterns and Johnson Rods – obviously up for the V8 Supercars who were racing at Hidden Valley that weekend.

I gave them a wave, was disappointed by the non-existence of a mini-bar in my room, sat out the front for ten minutes, then headed in to crash at about 2am.

The hard part was over.

I was back.