Hoop Snakes, Drop Bears, and Life in Western Oz

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The ‘roo count was nine to three. There was a distinct thrill watching a wild kangaroo bounce comically across a field. Like witnessing ostriches run on their backward knees, it points a firm finger at the prankster nature of evolution. Almost two thousand kilometres of driving, and only three wild kangaroos were spotted in the endless cattle fields, as opposed to the nine dead ones, sprawled across the highway like an autopsy. “I think that one was a wallaby”, says Jess, keeping count, “and a fox, and weird furry thing, could be a wombat.” Australia’s indigenous animals are nocturnal, and as any rabbit knows, shining lights are addictive. Especially the spotlights of the “road-trains” - enormous trucks that ride the highways, shepherding goods and killing national animals. We stopped in a small town diner where I glimpsed the scene I’d been looking for. Outback Aussie characters, named Reg and Bruce, weathered skin, sun dried hair with brim hats, chatting over coffee, “nice one mate.” From the kitchen, Kate hollers nasally, time to watch Neighbours, fancy that, she has a mint mullet. Jess uses words like “feral” a lot, which is lot more descriptive than redneck, but I still haven’t quite worked out what “dag” means, as in “Esrock, you’re such a dag!” Finally, I was starting to feel like I wasn’t in a forgotten part of Canada.

Western Australia has a population of nearly two million, of which 70% live in or around Perth, and the rest are scattered across small towns that seemingly consist of signposts and nothing else. This is big country, with a big sky and golden fields of healthy, fat cows and sheep. Further north, rich fields of iron ore, bauxite and gold have led to an economic boom, especially considering the region’s distance to Asia. Meanwhile the Margaret River region in the south is most famous for its wine, grown, bottled and exported around the world. There are literally hundreds of wineries, open for tasting throughout the year. With police targeting “drink driving” (as opposed to drunk driving elsewhere), my tasting options were limited. Stopping into a small wine store, Jess was looking for a red while I was up front chatting to the cashier, who smelt of Marmite. “She’d prefer a Merlot I think, mate, as women haven’t evolved a palette to appreciate a solid Cabernet,” he says to me. I was starting to get the hang of the word “feral”.

Margaret River was surrounded by beautiful forests of tall eucalyptus trees, hosting more tiny things that would kill you than anywhere else. Sailing at high speed across a fantastic river of tar called Cave Road, I enjoyed driving for the first time since leaving Vancouver, especially on smooth empty roads, through lush scenery and with Chicane massaging my ears courtesy the iPod and it’s wireless iTrip. Our brand new 2.0 litre Hyandai had just 1600km on the clock, the air was crisp and clear, and life was good. We kept heading south, looking for budget accommodation that wasn’t full, expensive, or a pillow in some wino’s closet. Finally, we found a caravan in a small town called Augusta, just a few miles from where the Southern and Indian Oceans meet, the most south-westerly tip of the continent. Fresh, strong winds, the sound of children laughing, fishermen feeding giant white pelicans, crispy fish and chips. Long walks on the beach, ice-blue water bashing against a rugged, rocky coastline, peace and quiet and natural beauty, and this is more like it. Take away the flies, as annoying as a bulimic teenage starlet, and I could quite happily dig my hole in the sand and never leave.

“Man breaks leg kicking spider,” was the headline sent to me from a friend in Sydney. Seriously, this guy kicked a spider that was so big he broke his leg. The roaches are enormous; I put a Tupperware bowl over one that crossed a kitchen floor, and the bastard just kept on moving, taking the bowl with him. “Women Killed by Shark,” screams the headline of the West Australian, Perth’s daily. The fish ripped her arms off in shallow water, and she was at a Christian social gathering. Jesus!
“Take a stick if you’re going for a walk,” says Neville, the proprietor of the fantastic Baywatch Manor in Augusta. Walk heavy, and the snakes shouldn’t really be a bother.”
“Poisonous snakes?” I ask,
I’m not afraid of snakes, you see. I once owned a beautiful corn snake named Aquarius. She disappeared for three weeks, and we found her living in my hi-fi speaker, inches away from my head in my bedroom. We changed her name to Sony. I was pretty impressed that Sydney’s Taronga Zoo featured a corn snake. It made me feel very Crocodile Hunter. “Crikey, I owned one of them!”
“Oh,” continued Neville, “only the third or fourth most dangerous in the world, really, just watch where you walk.”
A gentle walk in the forest had now turned into a snake-dodging exercise, with hundreds of small, sticky flies continuing their corporate retreats into my orifices. It’s just too extreme, this part of the world. Gorgeous, tranquil, quiet, isolated, and extreme. With a tearful farewell to a wonderful companion, it was time to continue my journey east to Melbourne.

The Witch’s Hat
Perth

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