We're up late, and slow-moving, just because we can, and it's bliss - except for James, who is sub-blissful; the tonsillitis is raging away, and he can't even get out of bed. Although there's some cloud occasionally, generally it's pretty hot and sunny. My room is right at the bottom of the apartment, at the back of the building, so not only is it a little cooler, even without the A/C, but I missed out on what kept the others awake most of last night. The apartment next door is under occupation by a constantly-variable number of Yahoos, who'd decided to have a party, and were shouting and bellowing till all hours, mostly about how much cocaine to buy, and who was going to shag whom. I slept through it all...
After a good stout brekkie (another good stout brekkie) for Chris and I, we determine gentle exploration to be the order of the day; Cairns seems to be just about the right size and shape for it, so we wander up and down, checking out camera shops, internet cafes, supermarkets, the Marina, fishing trips, reef trips, and so on. Somehow, we end up walking the entire length of Sheridan Street, because someone said there's a fish shop just a couple of blocks further on. We chase that fish shop for miles, and find two about 100 yards apart.
Beer, wine, and fresh fish feature heavily on the shopping list; drinking it and cooking it is as about as strenuous as we get, apart from the lengthy walk, and a little hitch when we find the hot water system isn't working. Ach, mañana.
Sitting on the balcony, I get chatting with the Yahoos, who seem to have done with their cocaine-and-shagging fest, and are a bit subdued; sombre almost. Still, they're friendly enough, and genuinely apologetic and concerned they might have ruffled our sleep. Word is, Cairns is getting "real fucken heavy these days, man". Like innocents abroad, the idea that we might a) have flown half-way round the world from our homes, and b) have driven all the way up here from Sydney, fills them with awe. They seem to have rented the villa for most of the winter season. Evidently, being a Yahoo pays considerably better in Oz than in Dear Old Blighty.
Later, we try watching "Resident Evil" on the big-screen TV. That is one rank film.
Tuesday 3rd
Damn it's hot here, even in midwinter. Refreshed by our day of not doing much at all, we're back in the mood for seeing things, so Pete, Claire, Rowena and I head off for the Zoo. James's tonsillitis is even worse today, and Chris decides on another day of R&R, so it's just the four of us. And it's a good zoo; just the right size to get round comfortably in a morning, plenty of shade, good food, and a good selection of animals. We even see the cassowary that's long eluded us - which somehow has a combination of ageless pathos and a mean streak a mile wide.After lunch, we head off up the coast a little to see what the beaches are like. Well, Palm Beach is hell, so we move to the next one south - Clifton Beach - which, perhaps through being a little less fashionable, is much quieter, to the point of desertion, and very much nicer. Sit in the sun a while, dabble the toes in the water, take a few photos, and then we head back to the villa.
I wake up from a nap to a phone call saying my Mother's been taken to hospital back in England. Bugger. I weigh up the cost of changing my flight home, and what I might be able to do when I get there. Turns out she's probably in the best place for the moment, and quite comfortable, so I put on hold the possibility of having to fly back home. Phew. A little later, I try ringing Ward D3M of Southampton General, on my mobile. D3M is where everyone gets put on first admission, once they've figured out they won't immediately die, so it's filled with the full range from heart attacks to full-blown psychosis. It's unclear which of these ails the person who answers the phone, but I have my suspicions. Despite explaining that I'm 12,000 miles away, on a mobile, and the cost-per-minute is gargantuan, I get put on hold for close on 15 minutes. That's gotta hurt. Then whoever it was I'd been speaking to comes back, and it only now occurs to her to ask who I am. I tell her. "Oh; well unfortunately I can't let you speak to her directly. But I can pass on a message. Will you be coming in to see her this afternoon?". Er... I dunno how to tell you this...Later, post-Simpsons and evening meal, the guys from the letting agency turn up to look at the hot water system, prod it, say "She'll be right", and go away again. She is right, thereafter.
Wednesday 4th
We're out early - all except Typhoid James again - and off to the station to catch the Scenic Railway up to Kuranda. The trip up the Barron Gorge is indeed scenic, in the extreme, and the taped commentary relating the building of the railway, and the opening up of the hinterland, remarkable. Rather frustratingly, for 2 chaps who make their living from power stations, and wander the globe trying to photograph them, Pete and I hear the commentary about the hydroelectric station, but we're just too late to see it properly.Spectacular as the train trip is, much of Kuranda seems dull and frustrating, and has the air of just being put on to amuse the tourists. There's not the rather frontier town feel of Millaa Millaa, maybe, or a couple of the places we visit later on, like Dorrigo. Instead, there's a long parade of shops, and an arts and crafts market - most of which is selling generic tourist stuff and hippy shit. Overpriced didges, kangaroo scrotum bags, stuffed cane toads (these at least have a level of art about them, and a macabre charm), and hats with dangling corks. Oh, my sides. A half-dozen marginalised-looking Aborigines sit around drinking. The main ATM doesn't work, and the one in the market is closed.
Perhaps we've caught it on a bad day, but anyway, we decide to get out of the village for a while, and take the Jungle Walk, stopping off briefly at the Bat Rescue charity on the way past. The girl working there, whose enthusiasm, at least, can't be faulted, tells us, among a lot of other things, that bats are primates. Evolution, huh! When did that happen? The Jungle Walk is genuinely impressive; while only a few minutes from the village centre, there's no indication of its proximity.
Heading back towards the village, we decide it's hot, and begin to wilt a little. Pete, Claire and Rowena head back to the Refreshment Room (their phrase) on the station for a mango smoothie, while Chris and I head for the hotel on the corner for stouter meal. Ever the optimist (actually, occasionally the optimist would be more accurate), Chris woffs his down a lot faster than I do, and heads off for a smoothie as well. Time to head home, I meet up with Pete and the family just in time to get the train, but we've lost Chris. Ach well, he'll find his way back - and he does.Back in Cairns, I head in to town to buy a new holdall - the old one having all but disintegrated coming through baggage reclaim at Sydney, and been finished off by the increasing amount of stuff I'm lugging around. 20 bucks gets me a smart new one, with built-in wheels and all. Posh. Then I set about booking a fishing trip for Friday - the others are off to Green Island and the Reef, but not being much of a snorkeller, or a beach-sitter, I fancy something more attuned to my hunter-gatherer instincts.
Continuing on the hunter-gatherer theme, I find a bottle shop in order to stock up on VB, and catch the young lad at the checkout trying a scam. 12-packs of stubbies are marked up at $21.99. He rings up 20 bucks, to make me feel indebted for his largesse with someone else's goods, and lull me into carelessness. I give him 50. He gives me 20 bucks change. He's not even fucking subtle. I raise an eyebrow, about 1/8 of an inch is enough, and do my best to look menacing till he hands over the other 10, and walk out without speaking. Wanker.
On the mobile again to Southampton General, another 15 minutes on hold, to find that no, sorry, I can't talk to my Mother. But word is she's doing better, getting rested and rehydrated. Presumably the Yahoos in the apartment next door are, too, since there's not a peep out of them all night, except for the one who answers the mobile calls and sets off on his mountain bike again to go and do... whatever, the whole evening through.
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