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.