One side trip worthy of mention was my daytrip to Nimbin, a little town in the mountains about an hour from Byron. Another one of those little towns those resourceful hippies invaded in the 70s, its retained a lot of the alternative culture, including a generous toleration of behaviour usually frowned upon by law enforcement agencies around the world.

I booked a daytrip with Jim's Alternative tours, who picked me up from Art Factory in an average looking coach. Once aboard, however, the stereo was cranked up, as Jim provides a soundtrack to accompany the day long tour (at first, classic rock and psychedelica, soundtracks to Easy Rider and the Big Lebowski), along with a little bit of narration about places along the way. The first stop was Lismore, where we were invited to grab a couple of beers for the bus. Done. Then it was on to Nimbin, located in the mountains west of Byron. It is a crazy little town, full of hippies, tourists, dirty backpackers, and reprobates. The main drag is lined with cafes, herb, clothing and art shops, lots of colour and a bit of seediness to give it some edge. Incense everywhere. Ate some cookies I got from a nice old lady, but they made me feel kinda funny.

One place of note was the Nimbin Museum. Looks like it was a house (squat?) at one point, but now is made of several rooms covered from floor to ceiling with a collage of paintings, surreal sculptures, inscriptions, and newspaper articles. I wandered through to have a look, but with only an hour and a half to spend in Nimbin itself (damn tours!), I could only have a superficial look around. I'd come back just to spend a few hours in the museum.

However, it was back on the bus, the crew on the tour much less boisterous than they'd been at the outset of the trip. I'd mentioned previously that Jim had set up a soundtrack for this tour. About a half hour outside of Nimbin, he pulled over, and told us that the next ten minutes of the ride were choreographed with some music he'd picked out, and that it may be a little intense for some. He then pressed play, and "One of These Days" by Pink Floyd started up. Threw the bus into drive, then starts careening down a mountain road. The tune has a slow build, then kicks wide open about two minutes in, at which point the bus pitched forward down a huge hill, cliffs on one side. Finally, as the last few seconds of the tune died out (5:22), we gently flattened out, and reached the end of the road. Nicely done. The next tune was Bob Marley reassuring us that "Everything gonna be alright", which carried us to a little farm, and we disembarked with the lyrics "Take a load off...."

The farm was run by Paul, a wild-eyd, long-haired dude who looked every minute of the 28 years he'd spent in the Numbin area. He'd purchased the farm upon his arrival years ago, when it was a flat grazing plain. Since then, he'd hand-planted (some say obsessively so) lots of native trees and bushes, as well as some non-native sub-tropical species. To look at the dense greenery around me, it was hard to imagine it had been an open field three decades ago. Paul's work has even been officially recognised, as the farm has been declared some sort of heritage reserve. We were free to wander around, so I found a little spot by a pond and chilled out. After who knows how long, I heard an engine start up, then realized I couldn't hear anyone talking. Egad, the bus! I quickly gathered my things, and made a bolt for it, only to realize later that I had likely left behind my clock (yes, another one - and replaced with a real crappo) and shades. Kinda poetic, I think.

We then were shipped to look at a waterfall (Minyon) for a bit, and then dropped back at our respective hostels, but not before Jim giving us a little spiel about challenging oppressive ideas and governments, and having the courage to express our own ideas. Although I'm not one for day tours (I don't like the time restraints), this one was planned out well, really interesting and informative, and Jim was quite personable. Greyhound drivers could perhaps take a page from this guy's book, though to be fair, their destinations aren't nearly as fun.

As far as nightlife, Byron was pretty good. I jammed at the onsite Buddha Bar with a band reminiscent of Medeski, Martin, & Wood, but by the time I stumbled across them, and then stumbled back with the horn, their set was essentially done (it was only 9pm.... sounds like a Cat Empire show). Touched base with the bassist, Tone Broker (for real?), and may get in touch with him when I return to Byron, as he plays with a bunch of different combos in the area, as well as DJ stuff. Still smarting from the whole Magnetic Island rebuff, so I'm not holding my breath....

A place called The Rails (an old railway station, get it?) had live music every night, usually of the solo acoustic nature. One night though, caught a band called Stipsky, who played a fusion of Latin American and Roma folk music mixed with a lot of groove. Tenor, violin/acoutic gtr, clarinet/flute/didj (this guy was AWESOME, and a bit of a character too - I see him all over the place in his orange flappy shirt and crazy grin), trumpet (pretty good ensemble player, had to whip off some crazy Middle Eastern riffs), bass and drums. I bought a CD, though I think it was recorded before the band added the groove, so pretty traditional. Still good stuff, a nice alternative to the Gypsy Kings.

The Beach Hotel offered a couple of different nights of really good bands, each with full horn sections. One was playing modern funk and ska (I think they're called Watussi), while the other was led by a guy who looked like Tom Waits but played like Jimi Hendrix. All walks of life shimmied on the large dancefloor, and both nights I was whacked in the face by a flailing Edith Bunker lookalike (younger, though dressed to suit). While all the hack "sitting in" stuff I've been doing, I really miss being part of a tight musical unit. Food for thought.

The Great Northern is an old hotel, and has several good rooms which serve as the Bay venue for the hipper touring acts. There was supposedly a wicked reggae band there one night, but I didn't feel like paying the 20 bucks, and when they wouldn't let me bring my knapsack in, that sealed the deal. Oh well, went to a different room and shot pool, then gave the Beach Hotel my business.

My last night in Byron, I tried playing a talent night, accompanied by some dread dude. We tried playing a bit of blues, but things just didn't sit right. Ah well.

The next day was the 19th of September, and I was off to Brisbane, to connect with my flight to Proserpine Airport. From there, I would shuttle to Airlie Beach for the night, and the next morning commence the almost cliched Whitsunday's trip (I think it is the one stop every traveller to Oz tries to make if they can - sorta like the Fraser Island excursion, which I'd made up my mind to skip out of convenience).

The surf wasn't very good in Byron, so I spent my time wandering the beach (lined with navy mountains on the horizon), and forest (adjacent to the hostel), practicing in various remote spots (managed not to get any sand in my horn, and the crash of the waves covered up the sound; scared the hell out of some cattle), and prepping for upcoming legs of my trip. Sat overlooking my pond, reading my book. You know, hard stuff..... (A couple really bad games of chess on my part, too)

Took a walk along the coast and up to the Cape Byron Lighthouse, which overlooks Byron Bay. Along the way, passed Cape Byron, Australia's eastern-most point. Saw more huge iguanas, as well as dolphins. I tried looking for humpback whales which can be spotted from the cliffs, but instead, watched a rainstorm come across the ocean, kinda killing the day.

After a 3 hour shuttle ride from Brisbane CBD, I descended from the Burringbar Range into Byron Bay. I ended up at a hostel called the Arts Factory, apparently started by hippie Americans in the 70s. A rainforested backlot contains a variety of accomodations from tents, cabins (pic on the left is the view from my porch), tepees, and dorms, while some of the staff live in a converted double decker bus. Also onsite is a cinema with couches and reclining chairs (caught a late night showing of "Dusk til Dawn"), as well as a bar with live music and DJs, but it was never too happening. Crazy birds calling at all times of the day, and huge iguanas lounging all over the place. A guy named Cockatoo Paul (walked around with a tame cockatoo on his shoulder) seemed to be the entertainment co-ordinator, the bush guide, and the didj craftsman all in one. There are classes for yoga, massage, didj-making, as well as full art, music, and dance studios.

After these three spots, we were pretty rocked out, and decided to pack it in and head for Adelaide. Besides, nothing could top the chopper ride. We headed up the coast for a bit, stopping for a break in the little fishing village of Port Fairy. With its little stone buildings, and fishing boats along the pier, it was quite picturesque. After this bit of Shipping News sentiment, we were back in the car, and heading north along the inland Princes Highway towards Adelaide.

It was well into the night when we began our hair-raising descent from the Adelaide hills into the CBD. I hadn't realized how high we were, as the highway just continued down, down, and down, Hamilton or Caledon Mountain on steroids. Finally arrived at the house of Karen's folks, Joe and Moira, thus completing our 2200 km journey from Sydney.

Adelaide is described as the City of Churches, and South Australia is known as the Festival State, also renowned for its vineyards. I didn't do any of the above. Instead, I spent an afternoon walking around the Rundle Street Mall in the CBD, a street cut off to traffic and lined with boutiques and walk-in arcades. Although it was warmer than Melbourne or Canberra, I was a little overeager to ditch the jeans-over-jamjams, socks and shoes; subsequently chilled a bit in my shorts and clogs, and a little out of place amidst long-sleeves and fall wear. Picked up a really good funk complilation that I overheard at a record shop, as well as finally replacing the trumpet valve brush I'd lost in Cairns.

That night, I stayed up late, talking and tipping a few with Joe and Moira. They told me stories of their adventures around Oz and what it was like to live through 1975's Cyclone Tracy in Darwin (described by Moira as hilarious). Despite the temptations of hooking me up with ravishing beauties were I to stay in Adelaide for a spell, I had to disappoint my generous hosts and get back to my previously scheduled mission on the Eastern Coast.

The next day I was up early, and driven to the airport by Norm. He was flying out later this day as well, first to a wedding in Bali, and then onward to start his new life (sans car) in Bankok. Good luck, man! I flew to Brisbane, and then completed the planes, trains, and automobiles triumverate by hooking a subway straight from the airport into the downtown core and bus station (what a revolutionary concept of transportation!!) Snagged a shuttle to my next stop: Byron Bay.

Past Port Campbell, we hit the Arch, London Bridge, and the Grotto. London Bridge was originally a little peninsula of the mainland, before one of the arches suddenly collapsed into the sea about ten years ago. A couple was actually out on the point and were trapped by the cave in. The funny thing was they were both married, but not to each other, and were totally busted, as the subsequent rescue operation took about three hours, and had extensive local media coverage. Talk about Fate intervening.

Next was Loch Ard Gorge, the site of a terrible shipwreck and also part of the park. The ship ripped open on the seaward tip of Mutton Bird Island, and most of the crew and passengers died as a result of being bashed by the cold sea or swept up against the razor-sharp protrusions of the rocks. Only two people made it, but found themselves on a beach walled-in by 30-foot limestone cliffs. We walked out on the beach (there are stairs there now), along the cliffs, and followed the story on little signs. There is even a cemetary for the 4 bodies (out of 180) that were recovered. Conditions were so bad it was dangerous to retrieve most of the corpses that reached the shore. Back in the car, and we are off to Port Campbell for lunch.... when Norm swerves off the road into the parking lot of a local helitour company. We'd been watching the helicopters over the last day or so, and he'd been talking about trips he'd flown in choppers as part of his career as marauding journalist. I was being treated (thanks again, man).

We opted for the cheaper 8 minute flight, despite the persistent attempts of the guy to upsell us on the longer flight. We were then left to wait, until another car pulled in, and were successfully sold on the longer flight. The pilot approached us, and gave us the longer flight for free as long as we kept our mouths shut. Score! Zipped. I have to mention that Norm was narrating the outcome of this transaction the whole time ("Okay, now we have to wait... I bet they're holding out to fill out the passengers before we go up....", etc), which made the whole situation funnier. Nice call! This was my first time in a helicopter, pretty cool, got to wear the little earphones with the microphone, went up really high and was generally blown away. Our trip took us out past Port Campbell to London Bridge (hadn't been there yet), and back around the 12 Apostles, then back to the helipad all too quickly.

Afterwards, we hit Port Campbell for lunch, and watched a little kid in a Superman costume chase seagulls around the beachfront. It was my turn to fill the tank, and I totally got gouged at the pump. Gas was 20 cents a litre cheaper just fifteen minutes out the other side of town. This trip sucks.

12 Apostles.

We woke up fairly early (for us) the next day, eager to get a start on viewing the coast. The weather was sunny and cloudless, a break from the recent batch of wetness and murk this area had seen recently. Daylight revealed that the Twelve Apostles Motel was located amidst acres of farmland, the rolling crop-covered hills giving way to flat grazing pastures which ended abruptly at the coastal cliffs. Our first stop was Port Campbell National Park, home of the Twelve Apostles, towers of sedimentary limestone slowly eroding off the coast. We wandered around, checking out the colourful strata and taking in the feeling of vast size and openess.

The view off Cape Otway, and a caution.

As we walked back to the car, we encountered the lighthouse keeper. As we started to stammer through an excuse, it became apparent that he didn't really care that we were trespassing, somewhat anti-climactic, actually. Turns out that he just maintains the grounds for tourism, the functional lighthouse (a separate light from the original and scenic 1848 tower) being more maintenance free. Not a bad gig, and a great view, but you'd have to be okay with isolation.

With the sun down, we checked in at the nearest inn we could find to the Twelve Apostles, so we could get up and catch them in the morning. Seeing a sign for the Twelve Apostles Motel, we headed down a dark dirt road (a bit creepy given the isolation of the area), and finally saw some lights. It was a little place run by a decent guy, a retired-cop. Considering the locale, and lack of competition, we were thus gouged for food and lodging for the next twelve hours.

Sunset at Cape Otway.










After a full day of driving and clambouring over sand dunes, we were now racing over a road through the rainforest, trying to make it to Cape Otway in time for sundown. Upon reaching the gate, we found the place closed at 5pm, and it was now 5:30. With a frighteningly quick inclination for mischief, we hopped the fence and ran stealthily across the grounds. Beyond the fence were several old buildings of whitewashed stone, workshed and living quarters for the lighthouse keeper. Not to be deterred by the guy's truck in the driveway, or lights in his kitchen, we ran out the point just in time to see the flaming yellow globe set in the red sky over the sea. Cool bananas. We hadn't made it to the fabled Twelve Apostles to see the sunset, but this was still pretty good.

Some more of the dull roadside scenery. This trip sucks.

With sheer cliffs, snaking turns, and spectacular views, it was great to drive (well, be driven). Sometimes we were a couple hundred feet above the sea, sometimes just inches from the high water mark.

Just happens to be along the highway...

Bells Beach and coast.

We got up the next morning, and already the 9-11 rehash tributes were clogging the airwaves. We thanked our gracious hosts Annie and Lee, and after a few errands hit the road south from Melbourne to Torquay via Geelong, essentially an industrial burb of Melbourne. At Torquay, a little (though popular) surf town, we could see the coast for the first time, and started our trek down the Great Ocean Road. I wanted to stop and see everything, and I'm glad Norm had the same mindset. One stop was Bell's Beach, a famous location for surf competitions. One can see why, as the trees and hills around the beach give shelter and the function of a natural amphitheatre. The waves seemed decent, but I think we were there at low tide.

Lazed about Lee and Annie's during which the news was full of tributes for Steve Irwin, and now Peter Brock, an Aussie motor-racing legend who was killed during a race, prompting people to ask who was next. The death penalty was also a topic of conversation due to the Bali 9, a group of young Australians caught smuggling heroin in Indonesia, and upon appealing their life sentences, were given death. Heavy. We decided to go out on the town in Melbourne. It is renowned for the little alleys coursing through downtown, where pushing open unmarked doors can lead to clubs, pubs, cafes, or perhaps simple warehouse space or squatters. We weren't intending on being that random this night, opting instead to go see a band called Bop Deluxe at Manchester Lane, a soul-funk revue. Out were Norm and myself, Lee, Annie, one of the Eds, Alison, Luke, and Norm's friend Verika. I'd brought my horn with me, and talked my way into playing a bit the second set. Nice guys and a good bunch of players, and I did okay, although it took me a chorus or so to figure out that we weren't playing "Summertime" in the key I knew it. This was a bit of a first for me, since I usually make sure there is no one I know in the club when I throw myself into this kind of stuff.

The next day, caught a little Yum Cha with Annie's cousin Annie, then went to the Melbourne Cricket Grounds (MCG) with Norm, Luke, Alison, and Lee. I was cheering for my beloved (been a fan for about 12 hours) Collingwood Magpies, a team reviled by the rest of the AFL, and they were taking on the Western Bulldogs. Learned a lot about the game, and can't believe that Melbourne can sustain so many sports teams (though it should be noted that none of them made it to the finals, to be played at the MCG). Apparently this site is referred to as "sacred ground", as the game originated in this park over 100 years ago. There is even a piece of the original structure worked into the current facility. Loved listening to the little kids get into it ("Go 'Pois!! Cut your hair ya hippie!!) Though they showed promise in the first quarter, the Pies couldn't keep the energy going, and were trounced by the Bulldogs roughly 126-84.