Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Our trip up the Burnett River was very pleasant. We departed fairly early and were happily
surprised to see that we had a following wind that would help us upstream. The tide was in
our favor as well. It was cold as we set off; the wind had a definite nip to it and confirmed
that winter was on her way down. In fact, we had noticed since leaving Fiji that the further
south we traveled the colder it became.
The river was grey and sluggish; we kept a lookout for logs and debris that broke the mono-
tony from time to time. We waved at the one or two yachts we saw motoring briskly down-
stream; we appeared to be standing still as they breezed past us. I couldn't believe it, but
Gavin had a line out as usual and said defensively, “Well, you never know!” I had no idea
what he was hoping to catch but humored him; he was a creative fisherman at least. The
trip lasted around five or so hours; we had motor sailed through lush farm lands, waving
green sugar cane in the autumn wind. Giant bluegum trees were everywhere, standing sen-
try at the foot of these cane fields as they fetched up on the banks of the river.
Eventually we sailed into the little farming town of Bundaberg. It was picturesque and
peaceful; I liked what I saw. It would turn out to be our home for the next year. This was
an interesting part of my life, complete with an in-depth view of life in a farming town in
the land of kangaroos and koala bears.
We puttered along, slowing down now as we arrived at the dinghy dock on the eastern
bank. In midstream, there were heavy metal poles perhaps two hundred yards apart with a
heavy cable strung between them in a long line. It was onto this that the other yachts were
tied, and we duly followed suit, finding a suitable spot near the landing dock.
The only memory I have of that first foot on land in Bundaberg was at a traffic light at one
of the streets we were crossing: a noisy group of almost black Aborigines were crossing
the opposite side; they were in their teens, and as we passed them, one said almost angrily,
“Whatya lookin' at man, never seen a fuckin' Abbo before?” or something like that.
“As a matter of fact, no I haven't!” I shot back, smiling.
“Well, now you fuckin' hev mate!” was his quick response. I was stung and kept quiet. The
girls in his group tittered at his boldness. They were coarse and loud, their clothing pre-
tentious and shabby. Their lingo was colorful to say the least, and judging by this youthful
group, every other word was an expletive. Their features were unlike the black folk from
South Africa; they had more definition in their noses and mouths, their foreheads more
defined, and their very coarse brown or black hair was worn longer without the usual Afro
or Rasta results.
“I hope they aren't all this friendly,” I muttered cynically to Gavin as we walked on.
“Oh, you'll get used to them,” he said breezily, puffing on a smoke.
