Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
did not like all the opulence, imagery, and phoniness. It would have made me very unhappy
to have to live there.
I flew on Qantas Airlines into Sydney and broke a tooth chewing the beef jerky that a friend
had given me on takeoff. The air was very cold in the plane, and each breath I took whistled
over my broken tooth and shot through my nerve into my jaw. I was not feeling that great
when the customs bloke fingered me over with my entire luggage and proceeded, with a
few other goons, to go through all my possessions. They squeezed the toothpaste out of
the tube, went through my shaving bag, examined the linings of my two suitcases, strip
searched me, and glossed over my papers. I finally exploded and asked what the bloody hell
they thought they were doing. I explained the incident regarding my son, that I'd had an
exhausting flight with a hole in my tooth, and that I had spent a year already in Bundaberg
without any problem!
They seemed to relax a bit then and jokingly said that they spy on passengers arriving from
the plane through one-sided mirrors. Apparently they have trained psychiatrists who just
sit there studying the people. They said I looked very worried, and that I looked like a drug
dealer as I was wearing a black leather jacket! I told them that that was my normal worried
look; people are always coming up to me and telling me to smile, that it may not happen to
me and so forth. Moreover, I explained, it was my damn toothache!
Sydney was wet and cold and not unlike England; pubs everywhere, puddles of water,
crowds, culture, and a pleasant hubbub which I was not in the mood for. I couldn't face
waiting hours for a connecting flight so instead bought a bottle of whiskey and caught a
taxi to the railway station and was lucky enough to catch a train to Bundaberg. It was an
overnighter, and I was even more fortunate to have a compartment all to myself. I changed
into a warm, comfortable track suit and easy shoes, in-between powerful draughts of neat
whiskey. By the time I was swaying down the corridor to dinner, I was actually humming
and had an appetite like a horse. Lamb chops and roast potatoes never tasted better, and the
fresh bread rolls were hot and musky. I avoided the sweet dessert or the ice cream, but had
a healthy nightcap back in my compartment as the rollicking train thundered and screeched
its way through the black Australian night.
I slept fitfully all night and awoke to a metallic rattling on the door, and a young, uniformed
train steward passed a cup of hot, sweet coffee through the opening. It was good and strong,
and I naturally put a dash of whiskey in it. Breakfasting on kippers and poached eggs and
more coffee in the dining car, I read a newspaper that had been supplied at one of the stops
and grinned about New Zealand's fallout with the U.S. Navy and their nuclear submar-
ine that they insisted on docking in Auckland. Greenpeace had a field day climbing up the
mooring warps and being hosed off the decks with water cannons.
