The Lowdown

Those ceaselessly fun-loving souls at WorldNomads.com are at it again. They’re on the hunt for seven drivers and sidekicks to take a free return flight to Australia to embark on a six-week screech around their preffered state, as part of an 11 month nationwide tour. Each team will take the reins to a fully equipped campervan spiced with no less than $A1000 of fuel money (yes, fuel can be beer). If that’s not enough, ‘Geoff the campervan’ also doubles as a mobile production studio to make the travel world and their mothers proud with footage, stills and a blog scratch. If you need your arm twisting any further they’ll also chuck in free activities - along the lines of outback jackarooing, surf camps, sky dives and encounters with whale sharks (coming soon on ToA.com.

The Lower Down

I know; you’ve just wee’d yourself at the thought and you’re waiting for the catch? Firstly, the maximum size of a team is two, making the minimum just one person - therefore if you’re a centaur I’m afraid you’ve fallen at the first. Secondly you must come from anywhere in the world - so if you’re a Martian, I’m sorry little man, you’re out too. You also need a valid domestic driving license that you’ve held – not literally – for at least 12 months. The biggest catch, is that you really need some experience with editing equipment as there is no room for a live-in geek. If you can’t spell editting equiptyment then that will probably rule you out as well.

The Down Low

WorldNomads.com Global Programs Manager, Amanda Byrne (whom I cannot confirm was sat at the foot of my bed that night) confirms “applications are now open for the ‘Van-Tastic Adventure’, where travellers can win a trip to Australia and spend 6 weeks driving across the country capturing their adventure on video to ultimately win $A10,000 cash and flights from Virgin Blue.” Sorry Amanda, can you say that last bit again? “flights from Virgin Blue?” No, the bit before that, “…ultimately win $A10,000 cash…” That’ll do nicely; $A10,000 and Virgin Blue tickets are up for grabs to the Champion(s) of Champions; one of the seven teams which scores the undying love of the travel nation for their final 3-5 minute mini-documentary of their finest blend of grub-chomping, surf-flumping, possum-bashing and snorkle-jousts.

As Low As You Can Go

To prove your worth just upload a two minute video to the World Nomads Group on Youtube exlaining why you deserve it. I’ll stop here and give you a hint – do not be the pasty person sat at the webcam droning that “my friends say I’m crazy”. It’s up to you if you include your uglier teammate - personally I wouldn’t. In fact if it was me I’d just make them drive and do all the filming, never mentioning the $A10,000. Finally just fill out the online application form complete with begging and bribery and cross your fingers. And your legs. And your eyes. Closing dates ar’a comin’ folks so don’t be a gunnado – slip on some fins and snatch this uniquely Van-tastic opportunity. I would if I could, but I can’t.

World Nomads’ charity doesn’t end there, they also grant me the privilige of gifting you lot 6% discount off World Nomads Travel Insurance via the promotional code TRLANT to keep you covered anywhere in the world this summer winter.

Denim and Dust

Daly Waters; A smudge of a place in the Northern Territory but known the world over for its pub whose charm is gleaned from its curio. Its hundreds of strangers’ ID cards. Its bras and musty footy shirts. Its signage: lewd, rude and hilariously crude. It’s what Aussies deem ‘true blue’, a trophy of everything that is Aussie. We struck it lucky and arrived there on rodeo weekend so the hamlet was throbbing with denim and dust and all things cowboy. It was my first experience of rodeo and I’m confident it’ll be the last.

I found it overtly cruel in a most unnecessary manner. The cows were obviously scared and the use of vicious, relentless canines to assist in controlling the cattle was pretty shocking too. Imagine a pitbull locking its jaws onto the side of a cow’s head and being swung through the air by on a thrust of prettification. I wasn’t sure if the cowboys and girls were stupid or brave. I concluded both. This was compounded when I watched a stocky Aborigine get thrown from a bucking bull and brutally knocked out cold against the metal fence of the ring. The reaction of collective despair among his friends and family a telling reminder of his close-knit community.

High Notes and Smiles

As the dust settled the sun trotted off and the evening shindig began. Cowboy hats bobbed on the dance floor. Cowboy hats queued at the bar. Cowboy hats gathered in groups. Cowboy hats sank in a stoop. An Aboriginal jackeroo named Barra befriended Reb and I, proclaiming we were the first English people he’d met and generally entertaining us with his jovial character. He had that distinctive accent of the Aboriginal people that can be hard to follow, and you find yourself bouncing off the high notes and smiles. Barra was full of praise for his “respectable boss” and the boss’ wife and left me elated by the fact that after 8 months in Australia I’d finally managed a meaningful confab with a real local.

You should know that soon after this, I looked up at four swaying cowboys in their mid-twenties who were sat on the top of the five-bar gate of the rodeo ring. As I tried to scale it I slipped halfway up on a fine layer of dust and fell to the ground red-faced and devoid of man points. With the unshakeable melodies of Shania Twain’s “Feel Like a Woman”, Dolly Parton’s “Nine till Five” and every Don McLean song ever imagined ringing in my fuzzy head we left Daly Waters to head north.

Fascinating Stalemate

Slowly but surely I was painting a picture of real Australia. It’s often not far from the stereotypes; bullish, bulbous populations who descend on Europe due to their country having no history, but in truth live in a country where one of the world’s oldest civilisations suffers beyond the gaze of most folk. A modern, silent civil war with little room for manoeuvre. Can today’s residual Aborigines restore, replenish and return to self-sufficient ways. Should they? Or should they integrate themselves ergo should the so-called ‘white Australians’ stop dictating and start listening. Undoubtedly a little of both is happening in some areas and I can safely say, I have ventured and heard from too little to start prophesising but as a bystander I’m finding it a fascinating stalemate.

Are you a cowboy at heart and have a different opinion or experience of rodeo? Do you think I’ve covered the standoff of cultures fairly? Don’t be a Sheila, speak your mind.

Flirting Mystique

Prior to arriving at the base of Uluru (Ayers Rock) I’d presumed it to be a big, smooth-red elongated hill. It turned out to be pitted and grooved, its surface peeling with onionskin weathering and stained by chemical erosion. At points there were inlets leading to waterfalls, memories and pools of water. The air had warmed since our sunrise reunion with Uluru where we watched her undress from the twilight cloak we’d seen slip over her the evening before. I say her, for no other reason than Uluru exudes femininity. In the warmth that attracts people from far and wide; and in her flirting mystique. A boldness that displays a brave and adventurous spirit. Pockets of her prerogative, secrets that will never be revealed. Red – the colour of love. Orange – the colour of sunset romance. Indigo – the colour of her Casanovas shadow?

Army of Ignorants

If one thing disappointed me about Uluru it was the 50% of visitors who displayed gross ignorance towards the requests of the traditional owners (the Anangu people); “Please Don’t Climb Uluru”. Yet through some leaseholder loophole the government deem it ok to allow the hundreds each day that do (it’s also free to climb so other than physical exertion there’s nothing to deter that Army of Ignorants). According to one white guide the opportunity will be withdrawn should one more person perish (the current total is 35) and this is the number one reason for the Anangu’s plea.

A hundred throws from Uluru is the equally impressive site of Kata Tjuta (The Olgas). The familiar rusty red formations looking not unlike a punctured Uluru inflatale. It’s grooves allow for awe inspiring crevices that tower above us mere mortals as if being some deep lung to scream the Dreamtime stories across an endless land.

In many ways, reaching Uluru was the pinacle of our journey in Australia. Reb and I could both sense and appreciate the inward journey, we both shared the sensation that we were standing in the centre of the Southern Land and that we’d travelled thousands of highway kilometres to get there. From this point, the only way out was back the way we’d come in – the thousands of klicks back!

The Thin King

There was one more sensational stop at Watarrka (Kings Canyon) for a wholly unexpected skitter around the ridges and rims of the marvelled summit. Palms and eucalypts found spots to gather along the sheer cliff faces that spoke exclusively to each other across the deep canyon whose air was permeated with spirits of the ancient stories. “Very thin” gestured a Japanese tourist, his wife sat silently painting with watercolours. I don’t like being referred to as ‘thin’, it implies weakness. “Very thin” he persisted, pointing at me as I sat a safe distance from the lip of the cliff. I pulled out a biscuit as if to show him that I actually eat, and then his wife lifted her dainty face from the shadow of her sun hat and joined the torment. ‘Great’, I mused. A pair of Japanese bullies. Seconds later I cottoned on; I was sat on a “very thin” rocky outcrop above an endless void. “Why didn’t you say sooner?” I joked, then crunched into another biscuit.

The journey to Australia’s red centre was concluded, and with the large sun dipping away we gathered our things and hit the highway. It was only now, after this baptism of culture that I finally knew my journey of Australia had truly begun.

What’s your own opinion on climbing Uluru or other sacred places around the world? Would you climb and why, join the debate without fear of condemnation

“A Rally of Lonely Eucalypts…”

The 2834km Stuart Highway lays like a peacetime spear between northern Darwin and south coast Adelaide and to my disappointment, the section we drove north of the junction for Uluru (Ayers Rock) was achingly dull. If it weren’t for tiny titbits of titillation I’d have gouged an intent u-turn. This was the famed Aussie Outback, a landscape that daren’t wiggle or wave, and riverbeds that renounce the rain. A rally of the majority tufts of spinifex grass, lonely eucalypts, tenacious termite mounds and pondering, prickly bushes disguise a lively red-sand desert. Apart from the grand wedgetail eagles and kites, wildlife is sparse - unless you consider the humble fly a citizen of the animal kingdom. If you do, then the outback is undoubtedly the most populous of places. Personally I now consider them the scourge of the earth and only trumped by the relentless mosquito.

“Fibreglass Sheep…”

The 1163km journey from Mt Isa to Alice Springs took us across the Northern Territory border but most undeserved of your time, other than a few things of note. Firstly, despite my cold front towards the outback I find it has a calming influence like the ocean (ironically this is what it once was). This stretch also gave me my first observations of the infamous Aboriginal Australians. I say ‘observation’ because it was obvious neither they nor I was ready to interact with the other. At this point they’re an enigma (urban-Australia had succeeded in installing this slither of xenophobia in me). This stretch also bred a loathing – that of Australian caravaners, and it would be these jokers (rather than the presumed Aborigines) who would become the symbol of any future reluctance to cruise the central oceans again.

China has its railway stations bellies full with slurping Chinamen; India has its holy riverbanks speckled with glints of gold; England has a puddled pavement tiptoed by a dainty shoe; a Mexican market bellows under a heated squall of conversation; Australia’s outback has a 90km/h slithering trail of fibreglass boxes containing every feasible Tupperware and tool to trade for snippets of snobbery and gossip. Moreover the inhabitants of these boxes are insanely similar to the box behind them – some pair-offs only identifiable via their sub-class - Toyota, Nissan or Mitsubishi. To own a caravan seems to be the Aussie Dream and every time I hear the speech of “Aborigines can never change” I secretly roll over and declare ‘I’m not bloody surprised, their country has been invaded by Fibreglass Sheep!’

“An Arsenal of Deadly Weaponry”

Alice Springs initially reminded me of Lhasa, Tibet – a small, unbothered town where life ticks over nicely beneath its famous moniker. Like Lhasa, the Alice is surrounded by a fringe of low-lying rocky mountains and visited by a snaking river (although Alice’s Todd River is devoid of water) and also like Lhasa, Alice Springs is miles from anywhere.

The Alice Springs Desert Park is a vast display of various desert habitats spliced together with incredible exhibitions and it was here I met the amiable character, Ranger Doug. A stout, mixed-blood Aborigine who expertly explained the intricate life of his people (???) in resounding voice. He explained their in-depth knowledge of bush tucker (attained through generations of trial and error) and talked us through their arsenal of deadly weaponry, from the No.7 boomerang to a spear launcher that could fell a moving red kangaroo from 30 metres. Doug also revealed the iconic dot paintings of many semi-nomadic tribes are a reference tool for relocating water and other vital resources, depicted via the memorable stories of the Dreamtime . I was enthralled as Doug touched on the intricate, vital science of skin grouping and brought his talk to a close with the words “Aboriginal Australians are in early stages, bringing together modern ways and the old ways, it’s only recently - 140 years – since the Alice was encroached by the white man”. That resonated - one hundred and forty years is hardly any time at all.

Australia’s Icons

With equal intrigue our final days were spent digesting the plight of the white settlers. Alice Springs is the hub for two of Australia’s most iconic services. The ‘Royal Flying Doctor Service’ (RFDS, est. 1928) utilises over fifty aircraft from twenty-seven bases around the outback covering over seven million square kilometres. The RFDS is rightfully revered and you find charity boxes in every roadhouse and pub in the outback. It was the technology and experience of the RFDS that made the second institution possible. Australia’s ‘School of the Air’ brings modern education to every nook and creek it’s needed in the outback. Covering an area of 1.3m km² the students are taught everything from maths and science to yoga and Indonesian!

The Alice educated me in all sorts of areas. Without it, I would have viewed the outback as a vast ocean of mediocrity being drawn into its own vanishing point (on the back of a caravan). Now my imagination is armed with wayward boomerangs and portent Dreamtime epics - the journey’s born again.

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For more information on Aboriginal culture than you can puff a didgeridoo, at visit the following websites recommended by Ranger Doug of the Alice Springs Desert Park; www.aboriginalaustralia.com, aboriginalart.com.au/culture/, www.indigenousaustralia.info/culture , www.creativespirits.info/aboriginalculture.

Highway to Hell

I had it all planned. A clever tribute to the Outback, laden with full stops in place of traffic lights; commas leading you up highways; exclamation marks to record calamities; and semicolons for side trips (and brackets to let you in on the local secrets). I was going to carefully pull over at paragraphs, use capital letters to signal the beginning and a trail of… to pull you to a stop. The title? Gone Walkabout. The beginning? I start the engine. The middle? I push the accelerator. The end? I push the brake. Oh, how wrong could I be. Australia’s lineal highways have stripped me of the literary curves and swerves I usually prune, and reduced me to the arrow straight, tell-it-like-it-is truth. The sparsest, remotest… most soul-sapping… nothingness you have ever seen. Roads so straight they send you round the bend!

The Truth

This post could be easily modified to transport you lazily over thousands of kilometres, pausing once or twice for morsels of curio. However that would give potential for the fallacy that the whole outback is full of morsels of curio! It’s not – I have to get this out before I’m slammed to the ground by a hairy-limbed road train driver – it’s FULL of clumps of grass, lots of grass, and gum trees, lots of trees! There is nothing for miles (or kilometres). Mile upon mile upon brain-bonking-granite miles! The highway hardly changed a jot, it was as though the government had tempted me in with the promise of a mob of Kodak kangaroos and a shindig with a Swagman by the billabong. They banked on me being so brainwashed with boredom that I wouldn’t have the ability to reveal it.

The Whole Truth

Heck, you haven’t done anything wrong so I’ll only take you as far as the Queensland/Northern Territory border. This journey took us passed the burnt orange plateau of Blackdown Tableland and onwards through Queensland’s gemfields where ‘fossickers’ search for that elusive retirement fund on the fringes of the teasingly named towns of Emerald, Rubyvale and Sapphire. I got my first cultural-clicks along Highway 66 (boom boom) in the town of Barcaldine. It’s hard to miss Barcaldine’s main attraction; a fantastically huge suspended cube of hanging lengths of wood dangling above a simple dead gum tree. That gum tree was the meeting place for the organisers of a shearers’ strike in 1891 that spearheaded the formation of today’s Australian Labor Party. A few days before we visited, two youths nabbed a branch from the historic tree and now face a punishment that ranges between a $75,000 fine and 80 hours community service (depending on which local you speak to).

And Nothing…

The effortless stretch of road was in the groove between the railway tracks and telegraph poles that brought so much opportunity to the once inhospitable region. It also took us via Longreach, the birthplace of Qantas (Queensland & Northern Territory Aerial Service) and the region of origin for the Australian anthem, Waltzing Matilda. Pure rock and roll! More thrilling than this was my first sighting of an emu; three mangy, oily pompoms darted alongside the ute with all the grace of a catwalk model who had accidently dropped her girdle. To complete the picture book scene, imagine enormous singed brown wedgetail eagles competing with spiralling brown kites for road kill that had no doubt been stomped by the severity of the road trains.

But The Truth

Next along the route came a couple of true blue pubs, each with a tale to tell. The first was the Blue Heeler - once home to the remote surf lifesaving carnival (despite the nearest beach being over 950kms away). The Blue Heeler now encourages punters to make their own mark by scrawling messages of wit and wisdom over the walls for a donation to the Royal Flying Doctor Service. The second pub turned out to be a slight anticlimax; the Walkabout Creek Hotel, which some of you will know as the bar frequented by Mick Dundee in the untouchable movie, Crocodile Dundee. The walls are adorned with fading photos and the bar seems to be frequented more by portly caravaners than those in search of a corroboree. I’d even taken my penknife in so I could pull out the line, “that’s not a knife – this, is a knife!” But alas, the moment didn’t present itself.

So Help Me God

With the border within reach I planted my foot, oblivious at first to the introduction of grand termite nests and the increase in trees. By the time I reached the mining town of Mt Isa - 185km from the border - I was like a bobsleigh rider transfixed on a world record attempt. Faster. Faster. Faster. Speed limit 110kmh. Slower. Slower. The border. Faster! Faster! Bloody floor it! Bye Queensland - you brick of boredom. Hello to the Northern Territory! No wait, hang on. Nooooooo… you’re supposed to be DIFFERENT!

In truth, I’m not sure what I expected. Perhaps the mandarins to fall gently off the tree into the arms of an Aboriginal Australian boy who would obediently carry them off individually to a waiting tractor and at the end of the week, I’d get paid four times as much as him. In reality, the Aborigine was our supervisor and his name was Chester. He was quiet by nature, characteristically demure and affable and I took to him the moment he showed me my first snip.

For a $100 deposit I was given a ‘kangaroo pouch’ capable of holding 30kg of mandarins to my chest, a pair of ill-fitting gloves and a set of snips (secateurs). Reb and I were designated a row of trees that waddled for over a kilometre. The trees were swollen with unripened fruit, and our job was to seek out those with an “orange bum”, snip them, bag them, then pour them into a ‘bin’ (big crate) where they’d be carted off to a gas chamber for ripening. Sounds severe for the humble mandarin.

Shortly after my first snip, things took a turn for the worst with Chester. When he told me we’d be paid a mere $70 (for a bin of mandarins that took over four sweaty hours to fill) my face must of looked displeased. “You happy with that bro?” said he, “no, not really mate, seems a bit tight to me” said I, “well there’s plenty of others who’ll have your job bro” said he, “well they can have the f**king job you f**king idiot” said I (after he’d gone). The next day I questioned Chester as to why a picker was merrily plying his trade ten trees in front of us (to give you some background, Chester told me to scold anyone who was found on our patch) to which I was told I “better stop questioning things bro”. Now, I’m quite a placid guy. Anyone will tell you. But when I’m stood twenty feet up in the air, precariously balanced on the tip of a ladder, holding 29.9kg of mandarins to my chest after six hours in the baking Queensland sun and I’m spoken to with such disrespect, I see red. Or green/orange in this case. I stabbed a mandarin. Not for the first time. Then another. And another. And within an hour, we’d quit. Kevin Rudd will be hearing my thoughts on the working holiday visa extension shambles shortly.

It’s worth me pointing out that the job can be more fruitful (pun intended) than we encountered. The reason our earnings were so low was down to the fact that our trees were so big and bushy. There were friends of ours picking five or six bins a day (at $70 per bin), which was a catalyst to our decision to quit so soon. Upon quitting our “three months with one employer” stipulation became one which requires “eighty-eight days with various employers” and we barely had that time available before our initial visa expires August 1st. So our decision - which I’m insanely excited about – is to peg it round Australia in three months. Reb has her eyes set on Uluru and I have mine on the Ningaloo reefs off Western Australia.

As always, Mundubbera wasn’t all bad fruit, it turned up some good people full of solid advice and great vibes. We may have been the first to quit but we’d be the last to say they’re fools to stay.

What’s your experience of Australia’s harvest trail? What decision would you have made in our position? Should Australia drop the rule? Share the fruits of your knowledge in the comment orchards below!

Driving 1700km in three days was no small task, we chose the shorter inland route to save time and avoid the natural distractions of Sydney’s sticky suburbs. The road (Highway 39) was mind-numbingly boring. For those from the tiny island of Britain, seventeen hundred kilometres (1056m) is the equivalent of driving from London to Madrid in central Spain. I made sure I found this stat, as otherwise this journey would have been rather flat and demoralising.

There was a highlight however - the dusty hamlet of Mirrool (pop. twenty one). A place where the landlady promises to keep the pub door open, simply so we can shower in the morning; a place where the community amenities are cleaned by three mystery octogenarians; a place where meat trays are won in a raffle by a man named Bob; and a place where “you’re only a stranger the first time you visit”. As if all this wasn’t enough, the town is famous for its annual silo kick. The aim is to boot a footy over the 30m tall silo (grain tower), and for those with thunder thighs that do, there’s upwards of a $1000 in prize money. My feeble, secretive effort reached a mere 3m. Nonetheless, I liked Mirrool for its bashful brilliance.

All along the highway you’re urged into Driver Revivers, a wonderful idea whereby the charity on shift can earn some pennies for the coffers in exchange for volunteers doling out coffee and biscuits. Stopping at these and hearing how many cars have dropped in gives the drive the ambiance of a charity event.

A brief stop at a town called Dubbo (a beautifully Aussie sounding name, for a beautifully Aussie town) slammed us in jail (albeit a former jail), and another stop in the town of Warwick put us among the booted country folk for a frantic, XXXX (beer) fuelled polocrosse tournament (one part agile horses, one part lacrosse, two parts machismo).

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Soon after all this, we made it. In fact, we didn’t realise when we got there that it was there that we wanted to be, but there turned out to be the town of Mundubbera. I’m unsure how to explain what happened next, so I’ll just dribble it out in layman’s terms; We walked into a big mandarin, found an astute woman called Jeanette who swiftly took down our credentials, assigned us a campsite and promised us work in the mandarin harvest. Slightly dazed, we set the tent up beside some shanties brimming with bored, young Koreans and began to integrate ourselves with fellow refugees from around the world. It transpired we’d be waiting two more weeks before the harvesting began, and to our dismay, Mundubbera emerged as the most boring spot on the planet. Mundubbera is Aussie for mundane area (at least that’s my interpretation). I spent my days tapping faraway towns into our Sat Nav and marvelling at just how far away we were from anything mildly stimulating. Anything. Any. Thing. The highlight of the town is a bench outside a small supermarket which they’ve christened the ‘Seat of Knowledge’. There was undoubtedly a committee meeting about this, and it was decided it achieved the adequate level of excitement. Go Mundubbera!

In the two weeks that passed my finger nails grew a millimetre or two and my creative edge began to wither and wilt until one night I persuaded a fellow Englishman and a handful of others to get smashed (English for everso slightly inebriated) on the Australian delicacy of goon (a lethal combination of left over wine, fish and egg products). At the beginning of the night there was over 12 litres of the stuff. Three days later I surfaced from a death-defying hangover - and realised I was still bored. My mum used to say “only boring people get bored”. I’ll tell my kids Australia must have a lot of boring people in it.

To keep you on edge, I’ll save the joys of the early days in the harvest for next time. I’m bored now.

Have you ever undertaken a road trip? Have you ever been bored out your brains while travelling? What’s your goon story? Slur to the world via the comment thread below!

There is a certain underworld feeling flowing through the labyrinth of laneways. My arrival in Varanasi could easily have been the opening sequence of The Beach 2. Substitute Di Caprio for yours truly, pin me into the back of a rickshaw and engage me in a conversation with my Indian counterpart. As he weaved me on three-wheels through herds of cattle and taxis he began his string of warnings.

We left his chariot at the edge of the Ghats, stopping once to glue our backs to the wall and allow a relentless funeral procession make its way to the pyre for cremation. An unforgettable flash of Technicolored chaos. His last warning was that I shouldn’t leave my hotel at night, for ruthless knifemen roam the laneways.

This weeks Reprint shows the silhouettes of the Ganges boatmen. It’s the done thing to rise at the crack of dawn and drift along the shores of the Ganges, absorbing the colourful morning crescendo of Hindu life as they flock to the sacred river for various needs and deeds. To observe, was a privilege.

Has this weeks Reprint image hit a cord? Let me know about it via the comments panel, or for more imagery from along The Trail take yourself over to the stills gallery.

I’d completely forgotten about it, until the end of January this year when I stumbled into a muted tent at Melbourne’s Big Day Out festival. This weeks Reprint shows my bright-eyed girlfriend, Reb absorbing the tight-lipped event.

For those uneducated among you, you’re able to switch your headphones between frequencies and choose you own dance-inducing rythms. While you’re chewing the two-step to Erik Morillo your neighbours might be feeding the fandango to Status Quo.

Has this weeks Reprint image hit a cord? Let me know about it via the comments panel, or for more imagery from along The Trail take yourself over to the stills gallery.

The friend in question has the alibi that she was merely selling it on behalf of friends of her own, but I am convinced beyond doubt that they knew the head gasket was shot. As evidence, your honour, I present an extraordinarily big tub of coolant, a bottle of radiator treatment, a throaty engine and a radiator that drank more than most Irish people I know. I don’t care that the car was – excuse my French – fucked, all I care about is the deceitful way it was sold to us, because I’m sure in some dusty station locker there lies a scroll that records the Olde Backpacker Code, whereby you do not steal food from a communal fridge, you do not “knock one out” in the communal shower, and you do not, under any circumstance, knowingly rip off another backpacker. Especially this one.

Buying a car is a tricky process (even in your own country) so I think it’s important that any backpackers reading this, heed the lessons learned from our mistakes. Firstly, if you don’t know anything about cars then don’t buy one without seeking the advice of someone who does. Even if you pay for it, you will potentially avoid a much more expensive repair job. Secondly, do you really need to buy a car? If you’re travelling with it for any less than 3 months then I’d probably say not. The level of risk far outweighs the level of need – rent one. If you really must buy one then check the paperwork (no matter how boring), check the colour of the exhaust smoke and check the temperature gauge. When (not if) you test drive it; turn it left and right, open it up, slam on the brakes, and take it through the entire range of gears (including reverse).

Finally, check what bottles are rolling around, and why are they there? Are there signs of deep rust? When was it last serviced? Why was the exhaust replaced last week, what else is wrong? At the very least these are angles to barter.

If you’re buying a car in Melbourne and it’s Roadworthy Certificate is anywhere near expiring then be warned they pick up on everything from the passenger side sun visor to the sexuality of your air freshener, and there are usually costs associated with every last nut and bolt (+labour and +GST). The extra costs we incurred were disappointing, but when I took a step back, I concluded the cost equalled £1 a day for every day we spent in Asia. We could of cut our losses, but we now know our car isn’t sick.

My final word goes to the friends of a friend who found it in themselves to sell on a wreck – may malaria be the kindest you contract, and may bad karma rain like a merciless monsoon to disclose your guilt and guile.

Have you ever been ripped off by a fellow backpacker? Have you ripped someone off yourself? What’s your opinion of those that do; fair game, or rotten deed?