A little while ago I was blessed by the mighty Skymoose with enough cash, time, and glorious weather to take off by myself and explore some of the awesome roads and scenery of the west coast of Tasmania.
For those from the Ewe Ess of EH? who seem to know very little of what really happens in the world.....
Yes, Tasmania is an actual place. (check google earth if you don't believe)
Yes, there are Tasmanian devils here.
No, they look nothing like the cartoon.
No, Australia is in the south, we are not part of Europe, that's Austria, where Arnold Schwarzenegger came from, up north.
Over the week of my travels I observed people, below I have quibbled some of those thoughts.
Be aware, I swear, and I am NOT politically correct.
While I have nothing against those that are religious, I am not religious and appreciate being left that way. Please, do not attempt to force religion down my throat, for I would never force my ideals down yours.
I may ridicule those that try to "save" or "convert" me, sometimes savagely.
It's my own way of getting back at the pricks who try to ram their views down my throat. Fuck off with that shit please.
You could try to sue me if you believe I have gone to far, but as I have naught but a dilapidated bike, some clothes, and a few odds and ends, it'll cost you more in legal fees.
If you don't like what you see, don't read it.
Simple, eh?
Here we go, travel ramblings
I had reason to stop overnight in a sleepy little hamlet that, to protect the innocent, shall remain nameless.
It's redneck/country bumpkin land.
Now out here in the west is a "different" place, when (if) you are ever regaled with stories of Taswegia that involve inbreeding, they refer to the west.
Two headed Tassie's? that's west.
Pointy heads? Yup, west again.
However, they are reasonably friendly to us "symmetrical outsider types".
The office of the cabin park was closed, but a sign said that if a powered or unpowered campsite was all you need, just pick one and pay tomorrow when the office opened at 9:30. If you wanted a cabin, then there was a number to give "Shazza" a call...
Luckily I had no need to call Shazza, as my optus electronic hamsterfone with inbuilt GPS, music maker and camera, amongst other things, does not get reception on the west coast.
Others did need Shazza's services, and they had Telstra aligned hamsters, so she was summoned.
One I shall drop in and get foto's of Shazza and her beau. For I believe I have just found the source of the Facial Tumor Disease that is decimating the Tassie Devil population.
Pub was OK, I only drank the beer served in bottles and imported from the east, just to be safe.
Next morning the Bakery served a reasonable pie and coffee, so far I have not noticed any discernible lumps in my neck that could be a precursor to a brother for my head. Nor is my dome getting sharper. Gratefully, my sister is still my sister to me and I don't have any urges to fight her husband for conjugal rights. I guess that means they are using similarly imported ingredients, must use the same bullock team as the pub does to get the Boags shipped in.
I awoke from a Jagermeister assisted slumber to the sounds of country silence.
You know, the peaceful but very loud silence of native birds, insects and a breeze through trees. Fucking brilliant, riding in the Oz countryside does amazingly good things for your mind, and soul (should those two things be, in fact, different).
I had no idea of the time, and didn't care at all, but I needed a piss......
Wandered down to the ablution block, said g'day to various others. Did the morning ritual of shitting, shaving and showering. Oh wait, I'm on holidays, so delete the shave bit, and add in an extra long shit instead. Ahhh the simple pleasures of life.
Now don't get me wrong, Shazza and her other half are great people, friendly, but fairly beaten to an inch of their life by a capricious god and an ugly stick. I'd rather spend a day with them than half the beemer driving yuppy fags of this world.
Stopped at the bakery mentioned earlier, serving wench was a reasonable sort, except I couldn't tell who she was looking at, as the left eye seemed to be studying the wall, while the right eye was perving at the guy on my left, I struggled to refrain from moving side to side in an attempt to get eye contact. Oh well, I got the right order so something worked.
Sitting out in the glorious morning sunshine another bike rider appeared, riding a little Spada. He was a sight, leather jacket with twin leopard prints sewn to each side at the back, various studs and dangly bits attached. Jeans that were rolled up mid calf, and doc martins for boots. Fucking brilliant! Helmet off, and yep, mohawk that turned into a rat tail at the back.. that man was awesome. Looked like Vivian from "the Young Ones"
The spada is his first machine, he's done 90,000k's on it in a year, that man has the right stuff I think. He was on his way to Hobart to meet up with his GF who was flying in from Brisbane IIRC.
Some local skanks were taking the piss, he didn't give a shit. I couldn't help but to advise the skanks about what the rest of Tassie thought about Roseberrites. They shut up and fucked off.
I ended up at another town, stayed at another local cabin/tent place.
Nice enough place, although understandably full of 4WD's towing trailer tent things and mobile taj mahals on wheels. Dunno why people bother going anywhere if they're going to bring everything they own along with them. Fuck me, they even brought fucken TV's... don't want to miss an episode of their favourite game show or soap opera I guess.
One group from Canberra had a little pop top trailer van thing, 10" wheels that look like they were pinched from a wheel barrow or two. Both parents and two teenage kids crammed inside. Fuck that'd be fun....
Kids didn't look happy, mum had that strained smile only mums on valium or vodka can provide. Dad was determined to show that it wasn't a fucked up idea, and everyone will have fun if it's the last thing they did. Poor cunts.
I was recommended a pub in town that had good meals, when I got there I was told that yes, the meals are good, but only served on Friday and Saturday nights. Typical.
I went to another pub, had a carpet bag steak, it was ordinary. I don't think the people around me really appreciated the t-shirt I was wearing, one that says that car drivers should get a fucking eye test.
Fuck em
I headed further south, through more little towns, and got to Strahan. This place is asdvertised everywhere as a place you must go to.
I have noticed that the best time to ride is between 9-9:30 and 11:00 am, seems the RV bovi are still packing up their mobile condominiums or arguing about what pair of slacks/cargo shorts to wear. You get another hour or so of clear road about 2 till 3 ish, but the rest of the time is mobile beigeness.
Strahan is fucked.
It is a typical tourist trap.
All Bed n breakfasts, tacky pseudo period shopfronts and pay for the hour parking.
Full of Lexus, BMW and Merc 4WD's. Plastic town, plastic cars, plastic people.
I didn't stop, I didn't return the wave from the satchel bearing, tessellated clowns on the harleys , metric cruisers and Triumph rocket riders that minced about the front of a boutique cafe.
Another day, another little place to stay.
This time I pitched tent behind a pub, small affair, inside was a bit tacky, with gay-bar piped music like Barry Manilow playing way too loud, but the beer garden area was sublime.
Inside was the prettiest barwench I had seen in a long time, cute little thing of asian decent. Kept calling me "sir" (or was that "cur"?) anyways, I said don't call me sir, I work for a living, call me Jim"... she frowned (made her even cuter, I couldn't believe it would be possible) and kept calling me sir.
I drank boags on the beer garden balcony thing, listening to hamster fone music, I was at peace.
Some other guests, from the houses or hotel room things around the place, arrived. I thought the night was gunna be ruined by these people.
Poor bastards, ex dink's (Dual Income, No Kids) but now with offspring in the pram or on the tit. They never seem to smile at each other, speak much or appear to enjoy each others company. Maybe the loss of income hurts, or the loss of freedom.
Maybe it's the loss of time with friends, doing whatever dinks do together when dinks meet. Maybe the guy is lamenting a loss of his wifes sensuality. Some of those post birth comfy clothes women wear had to be designed to destroy any stirrings of horniness in the husbands. If that don't kill the bedroom circus, the noises and smells of young rug rats is almost certain to.
I was never a dink, the ex never worked, so I was just a sink, then totally broke with two kids, so I was sunk.
A word from one who has been there, and made mistakes. Make sure you have time to yourselves you newly married or new parents (or both). Retain something that is yours and yours alone to do. It must be more than just a shed to escape into for blokes, or a mothers group/sewing circle for ladies.
It should be as close as possible to what you did before children/monogamy killed your freedoms, but not enough to kill off your relationship. Blokes need time with blokes to just be blokes, Girls need girl time just the same. Do not smother each other, or you will not last.
Trust me, been there, got let out on good behavior after 23 years.
Some more "once were dinks" show, all of a sudden mothers, who were previously glad to let hubby have them, grab the kids to fuss over, mothering and child rearing equipment spread across tables. Animated discussions about teething, nipple pain, ear infections and sundry other topics that are disgusting to single people ensued.
Husbands talk together, seems to be about gadgets, computers mainly, then about work. I notice the blokes are drinking some sort of low alcohol fruity beers......... Fuck me it's getting depressing. I head into the Musak infested bar, get some more boags, order a serving of BBQ pork with veg.
Return outside and see that the next table is now full of engineers of some sort, electrical I'd guess, that sort of beige is unique. They talk of nothing but numbers and formulae and shit.
I also notice a very short, but amply endowed waitress serving food to the assembled punters. She doesn't look happy with the customer demographic either. I select some Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, and CCR to put onto the hamster fones' playlist, turn it up to near headbanging level, turn my back on the others, and chillax.
My Meal arrives, it's grumpy waitress, I pull out the earplugs and say my thank-yous, this pork was a generous serving, and smelled fucking yummo! She heard the music, noticed my obvious bike riding ensemble (well worn Draggin jeans, BikeMe! t-shirt and boots), and she smiled a gorgeous smile that made my day.
"Pleasure Darl" she coo'ed, "would you like another boags?"
Would I! How bout a head job as well?
I'm glad I didn't think that aloud, I just said, "bloody oath, that'd be great"
The Pork was the fucking best two slabs of pig meat I had consumed in ages, perfectly grilled over charcoal, meat so tender, the fatty skin bits just chewy... a subtle BBQ sauce and fresh, firm baked vegies. I scoffed em down, Creedence sang "looking out my back door", Smiley waitress brought fresh beverage. I was in a good place.
I took the plate and empties inside, congratulated the cook on his culinary skillz, was effusive in cheer and goodwill to the two cute bar wenches, paid for the drink delivered outside, had more boags and generally felt good about life.
Eventually I departed for the tent, my belly satiated with pork and beer (the two most important essential food groups right there). My eyes and imagination happy that the barmaids had erased the sad observations of parenthood and engineering.
This place is only lacking in the right clientelle IMHO, I think that Motorbike people should ride here and use it as "home base" for a few days. They have Makers Mark on the shelf you know.
I had good dreams, the sort of dreams dirty old men hope to have, involving pork, barmaids, beer, and porking barmaids.
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