PACK UP YOUR TROUBLES.

I was going to begin with "Hey dudes..how you doin' " ??

Then I thought that I might instead use a more Australian greeting like.....
"G'day how yuz goin', alright " ??

But in the end I ended up sticking with the more generalised but never the less sincere.....
"Hello Friends".........so just ignore those first few lines...will ya ?? Thanks.

Ummm....I thought that today....I would share with you, a humorous and true anecdote from
my early days when I traveled the many miles...or kilometres as we'd say in Australia, from Sydney to the desert country of Western Australia.

It's a bit of an adventurous romp......and please take into account the fact that,at the time,I was a wild eyed young man.....hopefully I've improved a bit since then.....guffaw guffaw....tee-hee.

Thanks...friends.......I hope you like it.

PACK  UP YOUR  TROUBLES

When I was nineteen I left Sydney for my first Radio Announcing job, in Port Hedland in Western Australia. According to the map Port Hedland is about as far away from Sydney as you can get, and in those days it really was a bit like the wild- west. After the long flight from Sydney to Perth I caught another connecting flight north to Hedland. I knew very little about the place, except that out of all the little towns across Australia, it was the only place where I could get my first start in radio.

I was supposed to be met at the little airport by the manager of the radio station, which was called 6NW. However due to some lengthy delays, my flight didn’t arrive until very late at night, so accordingly other arrangements had been made. I ended up getting there some time after midnight and one of the first things I noticed was how incredibly hot it was. Apart from the oppressive night heat, there was also something quite different about the air. If you have ever lived in or near a dessert, you will know exactly what I mean and although Port Hedland is obviously on the coast it is also surrounded by the great sandy dessert. Due to my lengthy delay, I discovered that a message had been left for me at the small desk that serviced the little airport. I had been booked into somewhere called the Walkabout Hotel and I would instead be picked up some time the next day.

I therefore collected my one small suitcase and upon my exiting of the terminal, I found a couple of taxis waiting in the car park. I don’t know how to describe properly the droll humour of what happened next.

The driver, having been told my destination of the Walkabout hotel helped put my suitcase into the back of his taxi, we both then got in and drove off. In the ninety seconds or so that it took me to tell him that my name was Tim, I’d come from Sydney and I was the new D.J. on the radio station, we were there. The Walkabout Hotel was just a stroll away, directly across the road from the airport.

It occurred to me that the taxi driver could have suggested, that I should simply carry my small suitcase, out of the car park, across the road and into the Hotel.

It also occurred to me that his fee, to this young inexperienced traveller seemed unusually high. I recall thinking ‘we can’t be here already”. As the driver who was an amiable sort of a fellow, stopped the cab, demanded his fee, helped me with my case, then wished me well and drove off, neither of us said anything about the extraordinary one and a half minute taxi ride.

I checked in to the single level bungalow style hotel without paying much attention to my surroundings, which at that time of night naturally appeared dark and completely pitch black. For me, it was straight into bed and goodnight.

I awoke the next morning and I remember these three things.

Firstly I turned on the clock radio, which sat upon the small bedside table and excitedly realised that I would soon be talking on that same radio station. I was listening to the Breakfast show. Coincidentally the breakfast announcer was also the station manager and was the same bloke who would be coming to collect me later in the morning.

The second thing that I recall was going to the bathroom and splashing cold water on my face. Only it wasn’t cold water but hot, not even lukewarm but hot water instead. You see another surprise for the unsuspecting young traveller was that the water that runs through pipes in hot dessert country comes out hot.

The hot water is hot and the cold water is hot. Perhaps the taxi driver could have mentioned that interesting piece of information during our enlightening chat over the course of our extraordinary ninety seconds drive.

The third thing that I remember about that April morning in the year of 1984 was what I saw as I opened the blinds to the window of my little room. Absolutely nothing, red dirt from my window to the cobalt blue sky of the horizon. I think my heart skipped a beat as I probably thought to myself,  

“ this place is even smaller than they said”.

Now it turns out that the airport and the motel are some good kilometres out of town. It also just happened that my room was on the edge of the complex that faced outwardly, with a beautiful view of the great nothing beyond.

I learned a good lesson regarding perspective and first impressions.

Steve, the station manager and breakfast announcer soon arrived to pick me up. We drove from the motel into South Hedland, where the radio station was situated. It was also where I was to find the little house that I would be staying at. Steve lived there too as the house was owned by the company that owned the radio station. Steve’s wife had apparently just left him and she had moved back down south to Perth. I gather she had taken the furniture and anything else of any value with her only leaving Steve with a three legged dog, named “luvey”.

I don’t think I ever asked what had happened to luvey’s leg.

The house that we lived in was typical of many of the houses in the Pilbara region at the time. The iron ore, working town of Port Hedland is situated above the 26^th parallel in Australia’s rugged Pilbara region and it frequently gets a belting from the strong winds of the many cyclones that form out at sea in the Indian Ocean. Most of the houses back then were built to be only temporary in structure and had also been designed to resist the strong cyclonic winds. To this effect the exterior walls were made of aluminium slats that with the pull of a lever would open horizontally, to let the huge gusts blow through the house, rather than the house being entirely blown down. All of the windows had cyclone screens in front of them. Screens of strong metal mesh that would hopefully protect the glass window pane’s from being broken by any of the flying objects that would be hurled around during one of the powerful windstorms.

The house in Mauger Place that I now called home was in an appalling condition. Not only was it unloved and uncared for, but it was totally trashed by the passing parade of temporary occupants who had come before me.

Country radio D.J’s can be an unpredictable and unstable bunch.

Because of the oppressive heat, pretty much every house in Port Hedland had ceiling fans only the really good homes had air conditioning.

The rotating ceiling fans in our place had thick black spirals which had been roughly spray painted over them, no doubt for some past drug fuelled psychedelic illusion. There were also numerous holes punched through the walls and the place absolutely stunk of beer and cigarettes.

My little bedroom had an entranceway in which the bedroom door and wardrobe, if both opened at the same time, would meet end to end in a sort of triangle that blocked the entrance way in and out. The bed I slept in was a small wire framed fold up thing that was no doubt one of the cheapest available. The first few days and nights there saw me to lazy too bother unpacking my few belongings and precious things that I had brought with me from Sydney. Unpacking just didn’t seem to be a priority. Oh brother was I wrong.

On about my third night in town, Steve and another guy took me out for an evening’s entertainment. We set off for some fun at an illegal gambling night of “two-up”, that everybody in town seemed to know about.

 I remember us driving a short distance out into that pitch black desert night, when suddenly up ahead, the solid and utter darkness of the night was sliced open by a long thin beam of bright shining light. From a distance it seemed a strange and mysterious sight.

As we got closer I became aware that the strange vertical light was coming from inside a huge pre fab warehouse style shed. Its massive sliding door was only slightly open, with the light from within running up the enormous height of the structure and off and out into the darkness.  There were four wheel drives parked all around outside, while inside the wild men of the Pilbara smoked and drank and gambled and swore. “Come in spinner”. I recall a large Yugoslav guy threatening to stab some other punter, with no one else seeming too concerned.  Let the good times roll baby.

Anyway at the end of the night we arrived back at my glorious chateau.  A very drunk good night to all and into the welcoming springs of my tiny fold out cot. A few short minutes rolled by when suddenly the room began to spin, the young bloke from Sydney can’t hold his piss.

I must as quietly as I could somehow get to the toilet for a technicolour yawn.

I rolled off the little cot, it collapsed and folded in on itself but never the less I was standing up and was completely lost in the dark of the room.

I needed to find the door,  pronto.

“Here it is, no damn it’s the fucking wardrobe door, hurry hurry, I’m going to be sick”.  I felt my way along the wall of the room like a panic stricken blind man who is far too drunk to think. “Here it is, yes it’s the door”.

 I open it but it meets the edge of the open wardrobe door and blocks my exit. “Feeling sick, can’t think”.  I stumbled backward and grabbed onto something.

It was the latch to the cyclone proof wall. Suddenly this whole crazy room actually turned inside out.  “This is just too much, I have to be sick and go unconscious”.  Blind panic.

“Here, there’s something here, quickly open the lid and spew your heart out brother”.  Now everything is okay. Purge and sleep. Good night.

In the morning as the chill outside air blew in through the now missing bedroom wall, I snapped immediately awake, knowing that something was wrong. Surveying the room I realized that I was laying on the floor, next to that semi collapsed stupid little fold up bed. 

The bedroom door was pushed half open firmly against the other door from the damnable wardrobe. “That’s right, last nights frenzied attempted escape”.

It was all starting to slowly come back but what had happened ?

Apart from the open doors and the ridiculous missing wall and me of course sleeping on the floor next to the fold up bed, everything seems to be all right. Suddenly it dawned on me, “oh no, no noooooooooo”.

I stealthily crawled forward to my little suitcase which contained all of my possessions, which I had been too lazy to unpack. 

Please, please no. It seemed okay. I opened the lid and looked inside.

“Oh my God”.  Every single piece of clothing and all of my few little treasures were completely covered in a toxic alcoholic chunky after burn.

My mind went immediately into damage control.  I quickly looked out of my room, it was early and my new boss Steve was still asleep. 

No time to panic, I work well under pressure. It was a simple plan.

Take my suitcase outside.  Open suitcase, turn on hose, hose out contents.

Is there a hose? Strangely enough yes there is, considering there is no garden here.  I think that the hose was actually used to fill the water bowl belonging to Luvey the three-legged dog.

So imagine now, if you can. 

Me ,wearing only my underpants, while standing outside of the house holding a garden hose in one hand attempting to discreetly hose last night’s vomit out of my full suitcase of clothes onto a cement pathway. 

When suddenly, no doubt attracted by the running water,

the three -legged dog comes limpingly running and sniffing snout first,

into the pile of my vomit soaked personals and proceeds then to carry off a pair of my disgraceful soggy underwear.

Continue please if you will, to imagine my surprise as I looked up to see the married couple from the house next door standing together at the small waist high fence looking over at me. He said in a bewildered but pleasant tone,

“good morning”, she simply stood there looking somewhat horrified.

Again as a good lesson regarding first impressions, ”she” and  I were to shortly become very close friends who would indulge in the odd naked swim together.

Kooky.

There is one other particular incident concerning the ramshackle little house that perhaps I shall take a moment to share with you.  Although there is no real humour involved, apart from on its coarsest merit.

Shortly after my arrival, Steve my housemate, made other living arrangements and he had moved out.  This left me as the sole occupant of the premises.

There seemed to be absolutely no consideration given to the decrepit dwelling by anyone in any official capacity.  So when the plumbing in the toilet abruptly ceased to function, it took some weeks for it to be fixed.

This left me in the unenviable position of having initially only two options.

My first option was of course to urinate outside in the dusty yard.

My second option was to try and time any bowel movements to correspond with when I was at work, with the luxury of a functioning toilet.

In theory both of these options seemed do able until of course nature disagreed. While sitting at home one day, the first rumbling stomach spasm gave immediate warning that my toilet timetable was about to be counted null and void. Considering I didn’t own a car, my quick calculation of the ten minutes brisk walk to the radio station was not the answer to my problem.

For the very briefest moment I contemplated an impromptu visit next door, with a  “knock knock knock …excuse me, my toilet doesn’t work so I was wondering if I might be able to take a quick dump here at your place, oh yes yes, I’m the vomity suitcase guy from next door”.

In all probability that would possibly have seemed the most sensible thing to do but it just seems so dreadfully and totally wrong, doesn’t it?

Another stomach spasm, there was no time to lose as things were about to happen. Necessity is the mother of invention and I had to think quickly.

An empty toilet bowl without the slightest drop of water, a full roll of toilet paper and the desperate need to crap immediately.

“Divine inspiration”. Line the empty bowl with lots of toilet paper, bombs away, empty out with such sweet relief. Throw more toilet paper on top, roll more paper around hands, like gloves. Scoop the entire frightening contents out of the bowl and keep on rolling toilet paper around the awful surprise package until you have a mini football sized toilet paper object, with a horrible turd hidden inside.

I know, this disgusting little episode is absolutely revolting isn’t it but wait, there’s more.

One simply cannot leave one’s own little “shitbags” sitting prettily on one’s own little doorstep, can one? No, one can’t!!

So I placed the freshly baked little crap cake inside an old plastic shopping bag. I took it for a long walk and when I was sure I was totally unobserved, I swung the bag and threw the puerile contents as far as I could and strolled unobtrusively home.

Of course being a creature of habit and with the terrible precedent now set, this dreadful happening occurred on more than one occasion. I am regretfully sorry but what else was I to do.

I suppose that there is something rather philosophical to be learnt from

such  extremely vulgar occurrences.

If I had not been lazy and had chosen instead to unpack my things, the contents of my suitcase would have indeed been spared, however, due to some of life’s circumstances that are beyond our immediate control, “shit invariably happens”.

I had some great times and outrageous adventures up there in the wild wild north west of the Pilbara and I met some real characters.

During my first week there, I went to the local South Hedland pub, aptly titled “the last chance saloon”.

While sitting there perched at the bar enjoying an icy cold Emu Export beer,

I met a long bearded, toothless old man who had come “in to town” from the desert to get his “supplies”. The old fella was a genuine gold prospector and just like in the movies he spoke in hard to understand utterances and within a few minutes he became hostile and wary that I was going to try and “jump” his claim. I politely said goodbye and moved to the other lounge bar.

I couldn’t help but notice the twenty or so dust covered, leather clad bearded bikers. They were a good bunch of blokes who took great pleasure in working and riding around the desert country. Within a few minutes I had been introduced to “Mo” the unofficial leader of the group.

Mo seemed very interested in my story of having come from Sydney to work on the local radio station.

“Play us some Led Zep and some AC/DC” said Mo.  ”Sure thing” I replied.

After a few beers and a few laughs we said goodbye.

About a year or so later I had been transferred from Hedland to Karratha,

about 220 km’s south. I was riding my own motorcycle then. Interestingly, apart from sand and red dust there is nothing much in between the two towns of Port Hedland and Karratha. Although at approximately the halfway point, there is a great little pub, the Whim Creek Hotel. I don’t know how or why but that little pub, out in the middle of nowhere, is almost always full. I would often ride my bike out there on the long flat expanse of road and stop in to was down the dust.

Once though, I had a scary experience with a long road train truck. The maniac wouldn’t let me overtake him. Every time I pulled out, he pulled out. There was no other traffic on the road and this large behemoth of a vehicle was playing chicken with me. Eventually I saw an opportunity and I gunned my little Suzuki 750 past the truck just as fast as I could.

Have you ever seen the movie “Duel”?

This experience was a little like that.

Another frightening experience I had up there in the wild west west was having a loaded rifle aimed at me while I walked through a dusty paddock way off the main highway. I had made  friends with a another young bloke who worked in town as a mechanic. One day he asked me if I’d like to go target shooting with him. I have never had much to do with guns and I don’t like them but I said “yeah why not” anyway. This bloke who I hardly knew turned out to be a real freak…..of the creepy kind. “Go out there and set up these old bottles…no no further back further back” he called out to me.

That’s when I became aware that this relative stranger had lured me far out of town, off the main road and in to the isolation of the desert. He had me scoped and was tracking me with every step that I took. It occurred to me that if he had pulled the trigger, I may have well dropped to the ground right where I stood and it could well take twenty years if ever, for someone to come along and discover my remains. I hadn’t told anyone where I was going or who I was going with.

In those few moments, perhaps for the first time, I really did face my mortality and made peace with it. Needless to say, he didn’t shoot me. Interestingly though the only thing I remember about that bloke, all of these years later is that his first name was Bradley. Bradley is also the first name of the man charged with the infamous murder of British backpacker Peter Falconnio. This terrible murder occurred in the North West.

I have often wondered.

On a much lighter note, one evening while those of us from the Karratha radio station 6KA were out celebrating somebody’s birthday at one of the very few local restaurants, we couldn’t help but notice a rowdy table near ours that had seated at it about twenty or so rough looking dust covered bearded bikers.

Two or three of them were actually unconscious face down in their food.

It looked hysterical but no one in the restaurant was going to say a thing.

Suddenly a loud voice demanded my attention. ”Hey Tim…how ya likin’ it up here mate “? It was Mo, of the desert rats who I had met during my first few days above the 26^th parallel.

We shook hands and said hello as Mo passed me a tiny slim rolled little joint. I walked back to my table and showed the joint. I think it was my lesbian friend Karen, who immediately grabbed it from my hands and lit it up right there inside the restaurant. I felt so dreadful for the few little families who were also inside the restaurant with us but again no one said a thing.

Minutes later our table was a shambles. There was raucous laughing, throwing food, dancing on the table and general insanity.  I don’t know what was in that tiny little joint but if it was enough to put three hardcore bikers face down in their food then you can imagine the chaos.

 Of course what goes up must come down and shortly afterwards there was the predictable “spewing” and perhaps even a few tears. Luckily I maintained my composure and actually took some evil pleasure from the chaos I had helped to cause.

I am very grateful for the times I spent up there in the Wild North West of Western Australia. To quote John Lennon “life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans”.