Whales, weed and whining girls
August 3, 2005Byron Bay, NSW, Australia
7:37am
Yesterday.
Steph off to Yoga.
Hud and I to the beach to fly our kite.
It was overcast.
The kite sparkled against the bland sky.
I tied the kite to the knapsack.
Hud grumbled his trucks as I read crime prose.
A woman biked by in purple shorts.
A couple passed, the girl laughed and leaned her head on his shoulder.
Dolphins bobbed.
Hud pood in the sand.
I buried it.
We walked back, holding hands part of the way.
We listened to bees.
We poked at termites.
Birds harped digitally.
Ants bit our hands as I put on his shoes.
I wore his hoodie on my head.
He laughed, telling me you’re funny dad.
The construction worker let us pass before the cars.
Steph made grilled cheese and salad.
Yoglowing.
Hud manic now, aggressive.
Frustrating.
Left alone to read.
Read, yeah right.
I make a sauce and some meatballs.
They return.
Hud is naked, fiddling with it.
I say you’re funny Hud.
Steph worn, frustrated.
Don’t rub me right now she says.
I back off.
Hud calms, bath and movie soothes.
Steph cuts Hud’s meatballs.
Use your fork, I say.
Use your fork, she says.
We wipe his hands and mouth.
Bed soon, our eyes say.
Bed now.
Alone now, cuddling.
Doing her crossword in my head.
Over her shoulder.
The Rock, Nic Cage over acting.
Book is better.
Sleep is better.
I dream, about anti-depressants and the liberation of Cuba.
Love to all,
J.
August 2, 2005
Byron Bay, NSW, Australia
7:53am
Go to Nimbin everyone said. It’s an experience all on its own.
Nimbin is about 80 kilometeres southeast of Byron Bay. In 1973 it held the Aquarius Festival, celebrating what I have no idea, but it drew young people all over Australia, to smoke pot and celebrate the free love and hippie ideal. Well it seems a number of them decided to stay and create a commune like lifestyle, where life is spent playing the pan flute and fighting the marijuana laws.
Over the past 30 years, Nimbin has become Australia’s answer to the kid that never left home, still living in the basement or above the garage. The owner of our apartment Faith claims that Nimbin is the 4th most visited city in Australia. I find this a little hard to believe, and Faith seems to be of the perfect age to maybe have attended the Aquarius Festival, and she says she has a farm just near Nimbin. Growing what, who knows. So I am not sure of that tourist statistic she dropped on me like stems and stalk, but who am I to question the earth mother.
So we went on the fifth Sunday of the month, a Nimbin market day. We thought we mind as well see the physcodellic bird in full flight. The moment we arrived, we all had to use the bathroom, and what a treat that was. They were right behind some of the market stalls, and they were not the cleanest facilities in the world. We also immediately noticed the inhabitants of the town were not the cleanest people in the world. And lucky for Steph, she got to witness a drug deal going down as she exited her side of the bathroom.
Now don’t get me wrong, I indulged on occasion in the great green herb, and there are some nights sitting here that I wish the slow fuel of sweet smoke was filling the senses, to make everything seem funny for a while. But this town has overdone it, at least in my opinion. I think even Coburn would think it was overdone and that is saying something. There were three different shops selling full on smoke paraphernalia with huge displays explaining the virtues and benefits of marijuana and hemp-based products. I love the pothead argument for hemp products and medicinal weed, I mean come on, who cares about hemp clothing and hemp rope and whether gramps and his glaucoma can bust out a fatty, its because if that was allowed, it would be easier for you and your dread locked friends to sit around on shallow, stinky couches and listen to The Redemption Song for the one millionth time. Irie my white Rasta brother, irie.
So the market sucked too. A bunch of Sari wearing men and women trying to pawn off old romance novels and clothes that looked neither nostalgic, nor hygienically correct. I mean ew, who wants a pair of stone wash jeans that smell like phatoulie and old 70’s jungle pubes? Another great part of the market, right near the vegetable curry stand, were two woman, on a mock stage, one playing the harp, the other playing the pan flute, the triangle, and the spooky rainmaker (you know the tube with rice in it that you can flip slowly to make it sound like rain. I think Mozart used one in his concerts).
These women, whose voices were like my mother and Stephanie singing after buckets of white wine, were surrounded by hippies sitting on old couch cushions, all of various ages, including toddlers and babies in smocks with feet so dirty they looked like grape stompers. I wanted Hud to go up to one of the boys and show him his cool sandals and then hug him, whispering in his ear how great cheeseburgers taste.
So after taking an hour and a bit to get there, we stayed for a little less than that, feeling that watching junkies hang near the playground, was enough of a Nimbin experience for us. Call us snobs, or city folk, but something has gone wrong in this town. Their lifestyle has been corrupted by their need for tourists to come and watch their lifestyle. They are like tie dyed animals in a zoo, coming out to puff on a bong so the rest of the world can ooh and ahh at the smoke rings they can blow, and the Smoke on the Water they can play on their red, gold and green painted ukulele. Give me a break.
We drove home a different way, and stopped on the way for some chips and tomato sauce (fries and ketchup). I swore I gave the girl at the counter a fifty, but she gave me change for a twenty, and when I questioned it, she assuredly told me I was incorrect. I stewed about this for a long time, bothered by my lack of conviction that the fifty was indeed the correct bill, and also bothered that deep down, I was not sure what note I had paid with, and abhor that kind of absent mindedness. I was also impressed if indeed this girl shortchanged me, she must have noticed my accent, and would have had to been so natural in her explanation to make it believable. Whatever, she was probably right and I was wrong.
That was two days ago. Yesterday was much better. We drove to the lighthouse, a symbol of Byron Bay, and its geographic notoriety of being the eastern most point in Australia.
It sits on top of an elevation of about 400 metres, with a long path winding along the coast where you can look our over the vast ocean. Within ten minutes of walking along this path, we saw two whales, white spray exploding out of the blue, slowly swimming along the coast.
It is such an honour to see these awesome mammals in their natural habitat. Their meandering way, oafish grace, and the weird way they mouths form into a smile, make them a unique spectacle that humans never seem to get enough of. There were at least 30 of us, staring out, waiting for them to breech. One of the women said out loud, “I wonder what they are doing when the go underneath the water” I, of course responded “They are on a people watching tour” To the hearty chuckle of at least my wife.
Another small moment of humour was listening to a precocious British girl, perhaps around seven, talking to her dad as they walked back up the hill… She whined..
”We have been here for over two hours, I don’t see what the big deal is, and we have seen the same hump four or five times, this is sooooo boring”.
It was a perfect golden egg girl from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory moment.
Moments later, as we were walking back up the hill, a pod of about 20 bottlenose dolphins swam by slowly, feeding on fish very close to the coast. Hud could actually see these, due to their close proximity, and he was actually enthralled for a longer than thirty seconds. He has been a bit of demon these last couple of days. Peaks and valleys I tell you.
Next we went to Tallow Beach to chill and read and let Hud play with a couple of new toys I picked for him that morning. It was a bit cloudy, the sun making guest appearances every ten minutes or so. I decided to go for a swim, the surf was up, and I wanted to at least feel good about the waves and the water instead of the mild resentment due to my absolute failure as a surfer. Well, I recaptured something because I had a blast. I stayed in for a couple of hours, with intervals of drying off, as I had to get out to walk back up the beach towards Steph. Fighting the rip in the water was too daunting, and probably too dangerous. When I mean the surf was high I mean I was standing, water at chest level, and the waves were a good five feet over my head. It was manageable because I could stand, but a couple of times, I got caught right in the crash, and I literally felt like a rag doll in a room of four year-old girls. I was pulled in every direction and wee moments of panic raced through my veins like morphine, forcing me too stand quickly to get my bearings. I am a big man, and for these waves to toss me around like a football on Sunday was unsettling, and totally fun. The ocean is a formidable playing partner. But turn your back and she is on you like white on rice, rib punching and face slapping you into breathless submission.
After Tallow, we drove down the coast to a town called Lennox Head, which immediately made me think of getting a blowjob from the air conditioning and furnace guy from TV.
We found a small park for Hud, a café for Stephanie and bathroom for me.
I watched a six-year-old boy ride a wave in and I was both impressed and disgusted at the exact same time.
That night Steph made another great Thai noodle stir-fry.
I watched television and ate a bag of chips, dreaming of the day I will be skinny.
Maybe first just skinnier
Love to all,
J.
posted by Jason @ 5:05 PM
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