Today I awoke in a hotel in the small city of Warrnambool. No joke, that’s how it’s spelled. We piled into the car and began a drive to Portland to go see a variety of things.
The previous day we had traveled The Great Ocean Road, a stretch of 2-lane surprisingly fast highway a bit reminiscent of California’s Route 101. Its curves and switchbacks render all but the driver ill and the sights out over the rocky edges are absolutely breathtaking. We’re talking crystalline seas of turquoise with white capped waves, and white sand and tanned surfers. Cartoon coastal Australia.
We ate lunch in Apollo Bay, a ritzy city of yacht owners and white-short wearers. We walked through a temperate rainforest and saw ferns double my height. We stopped at the 12 Apostles, a set of rocks (there are now something like 7 1/2, for technicality’s sake) eroded away from the cliffs, standing upright in the surf. We also saw the Arch and London Bridge, two rocks which had been hollowed out on the bottom. Pretty cool stuff, despite the on-again off-again rain and howling winds punishing our faces.
Now I feel it is time that I officially explain the roadtrip. In my travels through Australia, I am mostly staying with a family consisting of 2 small children and 2 regular, human(ish) people. The trip to Adelaide was essentially a confluence of interests. The mother’s old friend lives there, and was willing to give me room and board for a weekend, in addition to a bit of a grown-up alcoholic tour of what the city had to offer. In exchange, I would pilot the family vehicle, car seats, Wiggles CDs and all, from Melbourne to Adelaide. I would stop for attractions, nature walks, and generally “enriching” activities, and I had an in for some hopeful debauchery on the other side.
That was the arrangement, but of course, these things never work out.
This morning, from Warrnambool, we set off for Portland, and then for Breakwater Lakes, and across from them, the Tarragal caves. The caves were unimpressive, set up about 100 yards into a steep hill, retreating maybe 20 feet into the rock. They were essentially small scooped out shelters for bats and God knows what. We paused for a moment watching a sudden rain fall in between us and the ocean beyond, safely tucked under the hillside above. There were high-pitched orders to look. I ignored and thought grown-up thoughts.
On the descent, something rather awful happened. My back turned, fastening a gate, I heard an “Oof” and a lot of crying. The mother, carrying the two year old, had fallen, and in what is possibly the worst possible turn of events ever, landed on his leg. We raced to the car where we could remove his shoes and pants and examine the leg in question. Judging by the slightly queasy feeling I got looking at the newly appeared dark blue notch above his ankle, the prognosis was not good. I floored it to the hospital through hilariously scenic countryside, testing the limits of the Ford Escort (or Falcon as its called here.) Screeching (just a smidge) to a halt in the Portland hospital’s parking lot, I knew we were in for a day. A long, hard, horrid, waiting room day.
So, I did the most natural thing I could. The mother and the two year old went into the ER for poking, prodding and eventually morphine. While myself and the four year old went for a picnic.
We sat and ate sandwiches and discussed the merits of birds, all to keep our minds (or at least mine) off the somewhat more grotesque reality. Later in the day we drove around for hours, making the noises of flatulence and being as silly as possible, because I knew that when the younger brother came back into the car, this one’s chance to act like a child would come to an end for the day. We also drove to a lighthouse, whereupon I got to see, in the wild, the second craziest animal in the country: the echidna.
Quick paragraph on the echidna: It’s an ant-eater. With spines like a hedgehog. And it lays eggs. It’s a kooky, ugly, bizarre thing; and was rooting around in the brush by the road to the lighthouse. The lighthouse itself was a little meh, but the large wind-power turbines on the surrounding coast were epic and surreal. They brought to mind futuristic steam-punk-y civilizations. Maybe even wind-punk. Like a cleaner steampunk, where you paint things white and there aren’t as many stupid cogs. But I digress.
As predicted, they called around 2PM, four or so hours later, and presented me with a choice. The mother wanted to know if I wanted to continue to Adelaide. As someone who has had a similar injury, and frankly, just as someone who is a goddamned human being, I said “Well, no. I think we should go back to Melbourne.” This was evidently all my decision. I’m not sure how much of that was token or not. That frightens me. Deeply.
So, at 3 we returned to the hospital. After some painkiller administration, some diaper changing, and some general jerry rigging of a car-seat with a foot-rest, we were off at 3:30. What followed was essentially a 4 1/2 hour sprint of a drive. Ripping through countrysides and backwater towns that had no idea what happened. It was, in a very strange and perverse way, glorious. We stopped twice. Once for a restroom and to get food out of the trunk for the kids. The second time was for caffeine. Grown up needs, I suppose. Other than that it was a straight 70 MPH (110 KmPH) race across plains of sheep, cows, and general scrubby plants. The only changes were fields of yellow rape flowers (Yeah, I know. But like rapeseed oil?) and the sight of the Grampians, a suddenly-appearing, semi-comically named mountain range.
So, in closing, today I saw fields filled with yellow flowers, the spiked hindquarters of an echidna, and the raised edges of a broken bone beneath skin.
In short, it was a fucking day.
RJC
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