Club Politique by Che Tibby

The dream ends tomorrow when I head back to the miserable weather in Melbourne. I've heard that it's been raining off and on for a week now. For just this minute though it's 8am and I'm lying on the beach after a hacking cough acquired in Cairns forced me out of bed. To compensate, I've just had a wee therapeutic swim and am lying on the sands of the Gold Coast.

A couple of cousins live here at Palm Beach, and I'm basking with a view of Surfers Paradise in the distance, and listening to some German tourist giggle like schoolgirls as they wade in the waves. Let me halt any fantasies by stating that they're in their sixties. But laughter is good to hear any day of the week.

I'd love to be able to take a snap of the coast to let you know what it's like (wrinklies aside), but I'd adapted a strange personal philosophy that has confounded backpackers in Cairns, the snap-happy campers they are. I swear, I have rarely seen anyone so shocked as my dive group when I told them I don't bring cameras travelling.

I'll admit to taking snaps at things like weddings, or events that involve people, but there's something about scenery and experiences that an amateur like me simply can not capture. This isn't to say I haven't tried in the past, somewhere in storage I have a slowly mouldering stack of snaps a mile high from past trips that are and loosing all relevance to me as the years go by.

And that's the point.

A professor at Auckland Uni once said to us (at the pub) that there's two theories on memory. One, that your mind is a bucket, once it fills anything new will displace something else, which becomes forgotten. The second is that you remember anything that interests you. Personally, and probably characteristically, I prefer a middle of the road answer between the two.

To me, photos are simply triggers that allow you to recall memories on some stuff, and to foist false memories on some people. You know, Uncle Gavin's pesky slideshow of their holiday to Club Med. My argument out on the boat was that any photo I take of the Barrier Reef would be a joke compared to a good coffee table book. Sure, my photos would be of the exact fish/clam I saw, but what difference would that make to the person seeing the photo?

Look, I'm already forgetting the faces of some people on that boat, and I spent almost four days non-stop with them. The cold fact of the matter is, I may never see any of them ever again, because we didn't get close enough to want to stay in contact. And looking at photos would probably just re-impress memories that are taking up valuable real estate in this aging brain. But, the way I felt about them, and what I thought of them, is still very clear. And obviously that's something you can't capture in a photo.

The same goes for landscapes. A postcard of Cairns or Brisbane can't convey the humidity, the heat, the smell of the flora, or the 'vibe' of being there, whether it's the exact picture of what I saw personally or not. I could run you a twelve-day, full surround sound digital vision of the trip, and you'd still impress your own interpretation of what it was like for me.

For instance, you'd get bored at some of the landscapes or city-scapes and might spend your time waiting for people to look at, or wishing I'd spent more time looking at what interested you. i.e. spend more time looking at that bikini brother...

Finally, a photo is only made real with a good story to accompany it, or if you've already seen the subject (and in the latter case, why would need the photo?). I could show you a coffee table book and tell the same story about a 'nemo' fish as if it was the exact one I'd seen. It's the experience that triggers your interest, that picture just supplements.

So as a consequence I never take photos, and instead just try and hitch-hike on other peoples cameras. Sometime, yes, I will take snaps. But it has to be of something I absolutely do not want to forget. Family, close friends, a place I need to lock in time. But lampposts, 'weird' plants, streets, a Starbucks, blah blah blah? Nope.

PS. This was written partially on the beach two days ago, and partially at a train station in Melbourne. I got back yesterday. Yay. At least the weather fined for me. I'm thinking of heading back! Maybe, just maybe.

I don’t think I ever realised how snobbish Melbournians were towards Brisbane until I spent a little time here. All in all it’s not too bad a place really. What I had expected from seeing a few locals heading this way on the same flight from Cairns was hordes of mullet-wearing, Falcon-driving rednecks in wifebeaters, but on the whole the place is pretty and urbane.

By far the greatest feature is the Brisbane River. The friends I’ve been staying with have a place overlooking the River and University of Queensland, and they have the greatest view from the front veranda of the ‘Queenslander’ (a type of villa characteristic of these shores). It ranges out to the hills in the distance over the green of the suburbs, and the River winding its way towards the city centre.

Thing is, Melbourne is also a river city, but I’ve never realised how under-utilised the Yarra is. Sure, some people have river frontage, but on the whole people seem to avoid it for the cesspool it really is. There’s been at least a few cases of water-users being seriously infected by it. Very seriously infected. The same threat doesn’t seem to stop Queenslanders from waterskiing though. Go figure.

While curious about the use of the River, my desire to stay well out of it meant I caught a ferry from just up the road into the city to take in the fantastic scenery and hear the locals chat. Eavesdropping is my favourite way to gauge a population. The ferry system was well up to the task, and sets Brisbane well and truly above Melbourne, and closer to the Sydney public transport system, with hubs all along the waterfront. I heartily recommend it as a way to tour.

I stopped on ‘Southbank’ for example and checked out the Arts Precinct. Not too shabby. The Museum was, in a word, dull, and the Gallery had a few interesting Masters and the usual Australian art collection. But, it also had two fascinating pieces. It’s weird how I can wander around a gallery or museum and only remember one or two items. Picasso? Ho-hum. Installation by Japanese or Indian unknown? Wow….

Anyhow, the first was a shallow pool, around 20cm deep and partially filled with lots of river stones. The pool was maybe 8m wide, and 20m long, at a guess, and was partially covered in hundreds of silver spheres. The artist had set up a few jets in the water for movement, and the balls, which sounded much light Christmas tree ornaments knocking together, kind of floated around and made these sharp little sounds. The currents meant that the spheres would sometimes float out by themselves, or huddle in big groups around one or two square islands in the pool, and keep making ringing noises when they contacted one another. With the reflection of myself and other people in the shiny spheres, it wasn’t too difficult to imagine a microcosm of a society in that pool.

The other object that grabbed my imagination was a large ‘cup’ that hung on the wall of one room. It was hung so that the flatted base was touching the wall, and the open ‘top’ faced outwards to the viewer. It was coloured an incredibly deep indigo, with a tiniest hint of red, that made it really difficult to focus on the texture of the cup’s surface. Then, what I at first thought to be the flat base of the cup appeared to be ‘floating’, and spherical inside the object. When standing directly in front of the cup, the illusion was of a flat circle with a sphere floating in mid-air between the viewer and the circle. But again, focus was exceptionally difficult, so the sphere would kind of fade and reappear in my vision. I had to get really, really close to realise that the base of the cup was actually a half-sphere, obviously intended to produce this illusion of a void within an open space. Amazing.

Artsy-fartsy stuff aside. There’s two more things, one is to go to the Brunswick Street markets on a Saturday. The place hums. Oh, and to the bloke who made me coffee, you are a barista, not a rock and roll icon, drop the attitude. I had a question about the antipasto and asked for a coffee, not for you to rate my ‘cool’. You wanker. That aside, they did the best $10 big breakfast I’ve ever had.

The other thing I noticed pretty quickly was the omnipresent critters. Sure, in Melbourne we have bats for example. You’ll see them flying in from the suburbs to the Botanic Gardens. But here? The big feck-off bastards hang out in the trees around the house, that squawk and flap about. I arrived at the gates to my mates place after 11pm and one the things scared the crap out of me.

But wait, it gets better. Everybody has these noisy geckos living in their houses, which are actually kind of cute, despite being 15-18cm long. Then there’s the now-banal flying giant roaches. The friends partner had one land on her face when sleeping, and now sleeps under a mosquito net. Mind you, that’s more reassuring than the 2 and a half metre python that lives at the bottom of the garden, by the river.

Queenslanders seem to take these things in their stride however. While this Melbournian-cum-Kiwi goes “What the fecking hell is that?!!” to the 30cm Water Dragon at the ferry terminal (a lizard, looks a bit like an iguana), the locals were completely unphased. In fact, they were almost condescending their indifference.

So all things being considered Brisbane is really a Western city like any I’ve ever been to. I expect that if I really want to see the Army of Gavin and the mulleted masses I’ll have to head inland.

Which isn’t going to happen.

I actually wandered around Brisbane for half hour before I found anything faintly resembling a Melbourne noodle bar. In the end I headed for Griffith University, figuring students equals cheap food. So now as I write this I'm seated at a leaner bar and looking through a picture window at a tropical garden of palms and big weird plants. Next I'll go find a net cafe to send, and my day will be done. The wander was fruitful though, for a number reasons I will now explain.

Cairns was a blast. I took the dive course and did manage a total of six dives on the Barrier Reef (including the Introductory dive on Saturday). Absolutely worth every cent. If you ever have the chance to dive the reef, or even snorkel, do it. But, if you do get the opportunity, there are some tricks for young players.

#1. Shop around for a dive course. As I said the other day, there are stacks of competition so you can always get a good deal. I went for the "special upgrade" (read "bait") to a two day/one night liveaboard out on the reef. Which considering my seasickness was a good thing (the reef slows the waves, but the transit can be through some two hours of heaving seas). This all cost $319. But. After you factor in the hidden costs like medical certificate ($45), reef tax ($20), and having to buy booze/snacks on board you're looking at closer to $400. Main meals, coffee/tea are provided though.

Again, worth every cent and the time it will take me to repay the card.

Trick #2. BIG hidden costs. The liveaboard was on a fairly stately boat for only $319, where it would normally cost $480, an apparent saving of $160. But if you'd like a third day aboard then you'll pay this money and the $50 to upgrade to three day/two night. I deliberately booked a non-refundable flight yesterday to stop myself doing just that. And it's a good thing, the tourist glamour almost overtook me, and my money.

Trick #3. Make sure your liveaboard isn't heading back to harbour to refuel on any of your days. This one really pissed me off. Luckily I was in a cabin on one of the Kangaroo Explorer's lower decks, so was spared the worst of the buffeting in the huge seas we had to traverse. In the morning there were more than a few bleary eyes and angry punters. We had a 6am dive and the noise while the crew restocked the boat at 1am was simply phenomenal.

Trick #4. The hard sell. I can't say what the other courses were like, but SSI made an obvious attempt to sell us all kinds of crap at ridiculous prices. At one point I nearly parted with $500 worth of gear that was apparently 20% off. I left it overnight to think about it, and didn't buy. As it was I grabbed a too pricey mask and snorkel.

So a word of advice. DO NOT buy anything or any gear at the course. I highly recommend the course itself, and know the accessories are how these guys make their money, but don't do it. They tried to sell me flippers for $300 for example. I've since seen a similar pair that was more than adequate for my needs for a mere $70. And just yesterday I saw the same mask for $50 less than I paid.

Like someone at the hostel said over a couple of beers, why buy gear at the most expensive place in Australia? Another indication was the $90 dive booties I just saw in a sports store for $30.

Otherwise, SSI did a great course. The class was a little too big to get the trainers full attention if you were having trouble, but still managed to walk away feeling completely confident about my safety and water skills, and am 100% ready to explore a new world. I got to see all kinds of corals, cute tropical fish, turtles, giant clams, cuttlefish, creepy sea cucumber things, big scary fish, and pretend to be drinking beer, underwater, with sunglasses on (available on DVD for $60).

The downside? I picked up a cold and now can't dive again till it clears... Looks like Brisbane is going to be shore leave! The cold must have been from sleeping off my hangover under a tree in the park after the final night shin-dig. Mr. Dive Trainer, damn those pesky sambuca depth-charges.

Cairns? What can I say but beautiful place, beautiful people. Kind of reminds me of Whangamata or the Mount with more palms, more heat, more humidity, and more tropical reef that’s once in a lifetime diving.

Originally I was going to wait till I had completely finished the thesis before going on a big jaunt, but a final draft is close enough. More than close enough. I reckon that getting the final paperwork and stuff done will be months, so, I might as well look to find that good job in the meantime, and get into it. I had actually planned to go to Vietnam or the Pacific Islands, but changed my mind and am spending the saved dollars on a dive course here in Cairns, Queensland.

Basically, the war between the airlines here has pushed the price for a three and a half hour flight from Melbourne down to an amazing $166 (total, one way). And right there on the doorstep is the barrier reef. Until global warming kills it that is.

At first the plan was to just snorkel around a bit, but this town is positively crawling with operators who love to offer great deals on dives and reef trips. I shopped around and pretty quickly got talked into doing an ‘Intro Dive’ that confirmed my ten year belief that I needed to be an adventuring, underwater kind of bloke. It was the patting the sea turtle and making GIANT clams snap shut that sealed it. Pesky damn gorgeous native wildlife.

The other thing about Cairns is that it has the distinct feel of a tourist trap, but with too much competition. So $100 buys you a trip to the reef (two hours out, four on the water, two back) and one dive to whet your appetite. Once you’re out on the water you get to choose a second dive and shell out more bucks. And there’s the catch. I was so impressed I almost did, but reigned in the impulse and signed on for four dives and certification instead.

A little reward to myself for finishing. And I deserve it damn it.

Those New Zealand crayfish better watch it. I expect to recoup my money in dinners when I get home.

But competition and the high numbers of backpackers who come here also seems to have pushed the price for things like accommodation down to respectable levels. A room in a hostel with stinky toilets and no A/C will only cost $14 per night, about $4 less than Melbourne. However, if you’re a sook about the heat you might want to remember than it seems to be about 30 degrees at 8pm here.

Strangely, very very few mosquitoes though, which is a small mercy. Geckos, giant flying roaches, huge spiders, no mozzies. Sleeping under a fan seems to help, what bugs there are don’t seem to like the wind, making the cooling effect a bonus.

The combination of cheap accommodation, reasonable supermarket prices (the local place at Uluru is daylight robbery), and dive certification means I’ll be hear till Thursday evening, forced to work on my tan and chill out without even spending one minute on the study treadmill.

I would however like to take my hat off to the guys on Noahs Ark Two. They’re the smallest dive company on the reef, but they have a good crew full of Kiwi’s who only gave me the tiniest bit of gib about getting completely sea-sick on the way back in. The good news is that being a smaller boat there were less tourists getting in the way while this particular tourist chased schools of tropical fish, poked at coral, tried in vein to find any souvenir shells, and was amazed at seeing things like giant Trevally. Despite the sickness, worth every damn cent.

I have to go drink beer now! Hee hee.

Ok, so I have the wooden ruler out and I'm measuring it.... So far, 34mm!! Can you believe it? THIRTY-FOUR MILLIMETRES. Go on, get out the ruler and do it yourself. I just wish I was an engineer and had those fancy caliper things to get an exact height, but that's close enough. Those of you at home will need about 300 sheets of paper that have gone through an ordinary laser printer to get close enough, but it'll be worth it.

Mind you, right now it's just a stack of paper that keeps catching my attention from out the corner of my eye, being kind of poised on the desk next to my computer station, all shiny and white. Whenever I glance across the writing sort of springs into view, as if to say, 'edit me, big boy'. I'm playing hard to get though.

Written on those 300-odd pages are 90,000 words of waffle about why I think I should be awarded a Doctorate of Philosophy. As a means to self-aggrandise I could have picked a better, funner way, but each to his own, right? As I may have said before, I should have tried to become a rock star.

Well, to be honest, I did. Back in the early 90s, when I had hair down to my ass and a conviction I was god's gift to lonely, vulnerable women I took up the bass. And I was pretty good for a bloke who'd played five minutes. All it took to stop me though was a well-placed, 'dude, you're shyte' to filter through my tone-deaf eardrums and I sold the axe to the first victim to hove into view. Probably all for the best though, I have all the rhythm of a... I don't know what, but take my word for it, I'm no metronome. Or even a ruralnome.

I should apologise for that last gag now. Sorry.

If you haven't twigged yet, the final draft of the thesis is currently sitting on my desk, after me having gone through the literal mountain of unnecessary material I gathered over the past eight years, from important primary material like interviews, to stuff I just collected from second-hand book stores and reception's. There was a lot of this junk. And I mean, A LOT. It took me days to sift through it all, catalogue it, and add it to the thesis if it had actually influenced my thinking, or just looked good in the bibliography.

From here on in? Editing. I'll spend the next four or five days re-reading the bits that need close attention (i.e. the most recent stuff), and then send it off to the supervisor by the end of next week at the latest.

The big question is then what to do.

I have a sneaking suspicion that at this exact moment I'll be offered that dream job ($35k, long hours, no perks, get yelled at heaps), but if that happens it happens. One can't complain. I estimated the other day that this study has cost me something like $160k. Seriously. $160k. I got that figure from looking at where some old mates are at today, subtracting me not doing as well financially, subtracting the amount I have actually earned/sponged since I kicked off this project in 1997, and I'm left with at least $160k.

Fuck.

However, the optimistic contingency plan says holiday. Big holiday. Maybe international. I’m thinking of Option 4B at Student Travel, “Wake up in a gutter covered in vomit to find homeless person trying to knick your shoes after a week of endless boozing and swapping spit with semi-clad but heinous Finnish girls called Umi and Uma in a beach chalet on the coast of a tropical nation populated by easily-exploitable working poor”. But then I might just as well go to Byron Bay.

We shall see. Whatever happens, when I submit that thing you’ll probably hear the ‘whoopie’, or ‘yeehaw’ all the way to Auckland.