Chapter 1
I’ve stared at the laptop balefully for the last few days. On one hand, knowing that I should be punching the keys, but on the other hand, finding the weakest of excuses to leave it till ‘tommorrow’. Whatever the virus that occupied my body for the best part of 2 weeks, laying around and coughing my lungs up was in fact the easiest option available. And, as we had a special guest visiting us, even that ‘pleasure’ was hard to escape to.
So, now I’ve rescued my motivation from the doldrums, this will be the Gilgamesh of entries, so, DO get comfortable.
Where do I start? Once upon a time…..no wait, that’s been done. OK, the Jeep has been formally diagnose with a blown oil cooler, which in layman’s terms means the oil cooler, oil cooler housing, seals and replacing any water hose contaminated by the escaped oil AND multiple flushings of the radiator AND new oil and coolant. Of course, the mechanic had never seen such wanton destruction involved with an oil cooler before. I’ve been told the Jeep will be ready mid-morning on Friday. The good news is, it could have been a lot worse. I’ve put Tamika on a plane back to Melbourne for two weeks and am holed up back at Central Caravan Park.
Several months ago I committed to a free accom in return for unspecified duties gig somewhere in the Perth hills, so with the Jeep finally discharged with a script for yet another radiator flush in 1000klms, I hitched up the van and headed east. It was one of those driveways that you had to commit to and pray there was another way out. The house was large on a rural block of at least 10 acres but very hilly and boulder strewn. The first thing Frank said to me was, “We’ve never had a caravan here before.” This is what you DON’T want to hear towing an 8 metre van, with no easy way out.
Still, we found spot, literally between an rock and a hard place and I spent the next few days doing painting jobs around the house and pool (my one and only stint as cabana boy..lol)
Frank’s Japanese wife Junko (yeah, I know) was busy completing renovations on a rail carriage that would become a bespoke B & B in the near future. Now, we both new I had already paid my way, so I was suddenly employed to finish the exterior of the carriage as much as could in 5 days. Nothing like a project and a deadline to keep ‘missing you’ at bay. A generous hourly rate certainly added to the enthusiasm. But the nicest thing of all was having suggestions and ideas from a stranger easily shared and embraced. Now, they’re just waiting on the sign writer for the finishing touches and it’s already attracting a lot of interest.
In between assignments, I managed a day trip to the city to see the much trumpeted King’s Park and Botanical Gardens. Apparently a riot of colour between September and November, but 50 shades of green for the rest of the year, this sprawling natives only park is manicured to the millimetre with stunning views of the city and the Swan.
As the departure date loomed, I had still not figured out my “exit… stage left”. Frank and I had tidied up a track that did come back out onto the road, but it was always going to be tight fit…and in the end it was too tight. ONE tree leaning in slightly at the wrong height…we’re talking millimetres here and I was forced back along the track to where I started from. Options ranged between risky and impossible. Was this my Hotel California? In the end, using what little wriggle room there was, managed a backwards-forwards 360 degree “three point” turn and found myself back on the highway heading towards the north side of town.where I had booked the van in for some minor repairs the next day. And the next day was big news. Re-stocking the van, new jockey wheel (again) and the arrival of both Tamika and great friend Ken Cook within two hours of each other that night.
That day, everything ran like a well oiled machine, leaping effortlessly from task to task and checked into the caravan park by 3pm. All that was left was picking up Ken just after 10pm and dropping him at the motel, and Tamika just after midnight. What could possibly go wrong???
Chapter 2
This should have been soooo simple, yet between us we managed to lurch from one miscalculation to another, blinded by anxiety and an ever narrowing window of time culminating in the most diabolical predicament I’ve encountered – not in some barren, remote wilderness, but in the heart of Perth suburbia, less than 10klm from the airport!!
Firstly, someone HAD to be fed immediately. That was the easiest part of the night. I had already punched the address of the motel into Google. Unfortunately, not the last digit, so we drove off confidently in the wrong direction for several kilometers before arriving at a vacant block, which of course we did twice before realizing the mistake. Still, no worries, plenty of time. Ken punched in the address and we sailed back past McDonalds.
Somehow, between us, we missed the blazing neon sign of the motel and pulled into another motel. We were sure. I made the mistake of sending Ken into reception. Fifteen minutes rolled by before he returned, not with a simple “it’s back down the highway about 300 metres”, but a lost treasure map of directions through back streets and darkness to the rear of OUR motel. NOW, I’m getting nervous. It’s after 11. I have one hour to complete my mission. Ken’s never been to Perth before but is giving directions like a local. We finally arrive at the rear of the Flag Motor Inn and then it really hit the fan. So, I drive in the wrong way towards reception then BANG! The roof rack of the Jeep is now wedged firmly against the roof of the drive through. It’s 11.20pm.
The Jeep was going nowhere and the concourse echoed with some well chosen expletives. Can’t even unzip the bag as they’re bent up in the tangle. I spend the next ten minutes deflating the tyres with a chopstick, till they are no more then puddles of rubber. No movement. It’s now 11:40pm. She arrives in 30 minutes. Only one thing left to do. The roof bag was on the way out and held together with assorted adhesives. I leapt onto the running board and tore at the bag with my bare hands. Finally a glimmer of hope as a giant hole appeared. While all this was going on, Ken had quietly checked himself in, made a cuppa and was giving running commentary from the sidelines. In five minutes, had everything from the roof on the ground and then crammed into any available nook in the Jeep. Left Ken and spent next 5 minutes rear-inflating tyres, then broke innumerable traffic laws to get back to the caravan park at 11:55pm to quickly cut away remnants of the bag and head for the airport.
Geez, I wish that was the end of the story, but sadly…..not yet. In Perth, terminals 1&2 and 3&4 are not separated by metres but by kilometres and, you can guess, no-help from Tamika’s email. So I screech to a stop outside Terminal 2 at 12.10am, only five minutes late and no word from the girl. Made it….not. The terminal was as empty, not a soul in sight. A very helpful stranger pointed towards the distant lights of Terminal 3. Back on the highway again for another ambulance run. Finally arrive at 12:20am, wide-eyed and mentally fried. “Oh no” said the fat controller, “the planes running late. It says 12:40am but really closer to 1:00am. Ya canna park here but, so on yer way.”
OK, enough time to get back to the van and tidy up the roof rack. I’d barely put the scissors in my hand, when the phone rings. “We’ve landed” she cooed. Slash at what’s left, then back in the car to the airport, where I sat for 20 minutes while a broken baggage cart was removed from behind the plane. Yet despite it all, there I was, standing next to the Jeep with my arms open as promised, as she fell into them. “How are you darling?” she whispered. “When we get back to the van, I’ll tell you all about it”, I said, hoping she’d fall asleep before my confession. Of course, she had slept the whole way from Melbourne and was WIDE awake. I didn’t get a lot of sleep that night.
Chapter 3
Now under normal circumstances I’d have already booked Ken’s return flights for later that day, but I’d been working for years on him to embrace a life without self-flagellation, get a van and start really living. So, with a heaving sigh, I pick up Ken from the motel, who, to be fair, was already working out where and who could fix our/my disaster. Luckily, we’d been carrying a tarp round for years and it seemed to do the trick, at least for the time being. A phone call from the motel to advise Ken he’d left his mobile pharmacy in the fridge, did little to improve my mood. Still, the Three Amigos were on the road by 9:30am and two days of rest and relax back at Nanga Mill. I’d planned it for Ken and Tamika as an entree to a week at Margaret River, but I think it was me looking forward to it more. Yet, despite the travails of the past 24 hours, seeing young Ken with a cuppa in hand and the early morning sun warming his back, tipped our adventure into the worthwhile category. His smile had the first hint of wonderment and the pleasant surprises would continue to find him for the remainder of his stay.