Oz Experience

Now then, I remember when Reg and Jacinta left Edinburgh for Australia, a group of us organized a goodbye picnic for the two of them. Caro and I wobbled up there late, picking our way across the weeds with our little bag of food (neither of us are very good with nature.) 

The thing that sticks in my memory is of everyone abruptly SHUTTING UP when we arrived; it appears that they'd all been having a good laugh at Caro's expense, imagining her travelling the world with her hair product and make-up being toted by her faithful bearer (me). They imagined that Caro would not take to the festy lifestyle of the traveller. 

Of course they were right. Caro made few, if any, style compromises. There are STANDARDS to be maintained after all. However, I must report that she carried her OWN product. But she did stand out amongst the other travel chicks, whose style is pretty much always a variation on the travel-pants-and-tight-t-shirt-with-hair-tied-back theme. 

I was so proud of my Kiwi Fashion Goddess the day she rocked up to the Oz Experience Coach leaving Adelaide, with her blonde hair immaculately spiked, Real Groovy t-shirt on, flared jeans, purple and leopardskin boots, wraparound sunnies and ciggy prominent over one shoulder. I should add that this is at the same time as she's flinging her backpack into the back of the coach and wearing her her daypack over one shoulder. She's so cool. 

The Oz Experience coach was to take us to Melbourne, but would take four days to do so. It was to be a Voyage of Discovery along the Great Ocean Road and into the Grampian and Otway Nature Reserves! At least, that's what it said on the brochure. 

Unfortunately, we were just about last on the coach and so the only seats left for us were right over the wheel, meaning that I had practically no legroom and my kneecap was almost up my nose. It wasn't an auspicious start. Our driver introduced himself as "Rosco" and set off with an ear-splitting, tyre-squealing noise. 

"Don't worry about that," he said. 

Rosco went on to say that if anyone had any cds to put on, that was okay, "So long as it's not Coldplay." Unfortunately for us, he didn't stipulate any ban on Nirvana and we had to sit through some horrid anguished moaning for the next half hour. I was just mentally urging Kurt to pull the trigger. Don't get me wrong, I don't hate Nirvana, but it's not jolly travelling music is it? I mean, you can’t sing along to “In Utero” on a bus.  It's about as much fun as a Bob Dylan disco, or a Radiohead Karaoke Night. 

Kurt's anguished warblings were cut short by arrival at the Blue Lake, which it had to be said wasn't TERRIBLY blue. Rosco did his best, bless him, explaining that it was OFTEN very very blue indeed. Just not at the moment. Ahem. 

Rosco was cool. We had a bit of a chat in a pie shop and it turned out that he had spent time in New Zealand himself, ("Chair, eh bro?")  Like Daniel, I think he was pleased to find a Kiwi on the tour.  Let's face it, finding a Kiwi in Oz, means you've found an instant source of piss-take jokes. 

The Australian countryside is spectacular, even when its lakes aren't blue enough. It's dominated by trees and deadwood, bleached by the sun like arborial bones by the side of the road. Then there's the wildlife. I still haven't got over the thrill of seeing a flock of pink parrots taking off as the bus roared by, or seeing a kangaroo hopping off into the distance.  Meantime, Nirvana had been replaced by the radio which was playing the Top 500 Songs of the 70's, 80's and 90's, praise the lord and pass the Culture Club. After a bit of a drive we came to Kingston, the Australian town that boasts The Big Lobster. I don't really know what to say about this. They've got this lobster and it's big. And it's there. God knows what possessed them. Mind you, New Zealand is just as bad, while there I saw The Big Carrot, The Big Kiwifruit and The Big L&P Bottle. I think they must get bored down under and their papier-mache sessions just get well out of hand.