We head up to Mackay, taking a detour to visit town, do some shopping, and send an email or two. The Fuji film shop does a good deal on a dozen or so rolls of film, and (we later find this to be so ubiquitous it's not even worth mentioning) will burn pictures from the digital camera onto CDs, cheap. I buy the Black Cab and Waifs CDs. Later, in the Post Office, I realise I've got no pens left (again!), so I buy three. This time, I don't even get out of the shop with them; getting distracted by something else, I walk out and leave them on the counter.
On up towards Eungella, and we stop at Mirani for lunch, and a little further on, storm a hotel in a little town, to stock up on VB. Phone reception, at least away from the Bruce and the major towns, is patchy; effectively, we're cut off for a couple of days. Yet somehow we live through it. Apparently there was once a time before mobiles existed.
We've booked a night at the Platypus Bush Camp in Finch Hatton Gorge before even leaving England; Wazza was pretty accommodating even via the internet. We really don't know what we'll find there, but we're impressed - and continue to be more impressed with hindsight. It is very well-run indeed, with a very informal camping area, campfire, wood-fired showers, and a few cabins for those preferring a little more comfort. No such fripperies for us; we're hardened by 3 whole nights of camping. Better yet, the Bush Camp has its own stretch of river and pools, where platypuses can be seen at dawn and dusk. Peace and quiet is positively encouraged. Bliss!
Chris and I get a sudden urge to communicate - with the outside world, that is - so we dash off up the dirt road to the internet shack, but turns out it's only open fitfully. Today ain't fitfully. The road to hell, and all that. Platypuses is what we're here for, so we settle down as the sun sets, by the platypus viewing pool. And wait, and wait. We're in a deep gorge, so the light goes pretty quickly. It's quite amazing looking up at the sides of the gorge, with some very big trees indeed, growing way way up above us. Thuggish cockatoos chase each other around the treetops, squawking in the last of the sunlight. We sit below in the pure and gathering dark, and wait some more. Gradually the others drift away. It's very nearly dark, when I hear a rather oily 'plop', and see a few ripples. Platypus? Who knows...
We decide to show the locals our prowess with a BBQ again. Timidly, rather like wild animals, a few of them begin to emerge from the shadows, attracted by the firelight. They're a little less attracted by the sheet of flame which erupts, as it emerges that the gas cylinder isn't securely fitted in to the gas BBQ we borrow from Wazza. That's smooth... We opt for cooking over the campfire instead. The less said about the BBQ, the better. We will get the hang of it, eventually. The horrors of eating charred toughened flesh, with only quasi-dry bread to accompany it, are a strong persuader. Anyway, among the 'locals' there's Vicky, from Liverpool, who's off to Thailand to study holistic medicine, and just spent a week in the Whitsunday Islands. She and her friends are off to Fraser Island next, so we swap tips and hints. She's great fun to talk to, and seems genuinely interested in the life of peripatetic marine biologists such as us - or just very polite. Then there's a quietly-spoken, but extremely pleasant, drily humorous and well-travelled Aussie couple, who are a delight to talk with, as they share tales of their travels. And then there's Darren The Fuckwit.Darren The Fuckwit probably isn't the name he was born with, and it's probably not the kind of name you'd self-apply. He's from the West of England, got a VERY LOUD VOICE, and he's very dim, in an amiably bouncy grinning fuckwit sort of way. His girlfriend (let's call her Aurelia), we surmise is actually a bit posh, and not particularly good at hiding it, so we imagine she's slumming it for a couple of years, before she goes off to marry an accountant. At times she seems pretty embarrassed at his crassness. Ah well, her choice.
Darren tells us about how many good mates he's got across the continent, who'll provide him with board, lodging and work; how many good drugs he's had - mostly weed, coke and Es, and all about his chosen sport of kite surfing, or some such thing.
Guess which of our new-found friends decides to stay to the bitter bloody end...
Slowly the others slink off, leaving me, Darren, the girlfriend, and the campfire. I try dropping hints, yawning loudly, and abruptly wandering off unannounced, mid-sentence, to fetch beer; I even try to deter them by smoking and drinking ferociously, but he's having none of it. Later, Claire says they could hear him talking half the night; they knew it was him talking, though they couldn't make out a single word, except "Fuck" and "Fucking", which helpfully he repeated and emphasised quite frequently.
Eventually, they declare it's been a great evening, and wander off to their tent. "Peace, at last", I think, and settle down to enjoy a last bottle of VB, and the remains of the fire.
Darren and Aurelia start shagging, noisily. Mmmm, nice...
