Manners please.

HELLO, my name's Stuart, and for the last eight years I've worked in tourism. Sometimes it's been voluntary, sometimes it's been to ensure that I fulfil my graduation promise to myself that I'd never set foot in Centrelink ever again.

During that time I've worked for three different tour companies, two backpacker hostels, a five-star London hotel and now at a couple of serviced apartment complexes. Throughout I've always tried to get a laugh or smile out of a guest to try and brighten up their day, add a bit of personality etc etc, a massive spray recently from a couple of people who didn't seem to think extra charges applied to them left me pretty shaken up and disillusioned.

As such, in the interests of tourism workers everywhere I'd like to share a few points with y'all about how get the most out of your tourism experience.

Do your research
Seriously. So many people are quick to jump onto Tripadvisor (more about that later) and complain about facilities (or lack thereof), extra parking charges, credit card authorisations etc. This is actually where Tripadvisor can come into its own: while there's nearly always one person per page that thinks your establishment is where Beezlebub himself controls his evil empire of reality shows, what you'll generally find are helpful comments about facilities (or lack thereof), extra parking charges, credit card authorisations etc. And if you don't trust Tripadvisor, every booking website I've come across has a reviews section from people who've actually paid and stayed. This would have saved one couple, who when told they had to leave a credit card pre-authorisation decided to punch the manager in the head.
Then, failing all that, just read the fucking terms and conditions when you make a booking. Trust me, everything you need to know is generally there.

Listen to staff
One place I worked at had a slightly convoluted way to get to the carpark, ie there were more than three steps to it. So what we'd do on check-in was hand them a piece of paper with the instructions, then go through each step individually, stressing certain aspects about where they could and couldn't park. Now while this was plenty for most people one lady in particular sticks in my mind. She came to check in, I went through each step with her, stressing one lift was for residents and the other for our guests. Ten minutes later she stormed across from the residential lifts, complaining that I hadn't properly explained where she had to go. A couple of days later she called to complain about something else, then claimed I'd left her waiting for over an hour before I'd checked her in. She also reckoned that while I'd given her the instruction paper, I didn't explain that she had to read it.
Now in this situation you're doing all you can to not call her an idiot and hang up the phone. She complained to the manager, although his comment afterwards was along the lines of "I feel stupider for having spoken to her", so I wasn't in any trouble there. Likewise the girl who had a bag stolen in Barcelona on one tour. I'd spent about 10 minutes explaining that Barcelona was notorious for pickpockets and thieves, that you only had to lose sight of your bag for a second, and that on average one person on every coach had their stuff nicked. Soon enough she came up to me in tears saying her bag had been stolen but she'd "only turned around for a second". This was part of a horror stretch where four punters had bags stolen in Florence, Nice and Barcelona; two of them later came up and said they wished they'd heeded my warnings a little better.

Staff are people too
On a ferry over to Fraser Island I overheard two people discuss how rude/abrupt the ferry captain was to them. One of them commented that maybe that's just how he was; the other said that people like that shouldn't be in tourism and that you should be happy all the time.
They're right - but only so far as your default setting should be approachable/friendly. But sometimes you've had a rubbish night's sleep, sometimes you're going through relationship issues, sometimes you've just received a massive spray for saying parking was $25. The last couple of people who've decided to share their anger issues with me have all had people standing right behind them - stepping out back to have a cry/punch holes in walls isn't an option. It takes a fucking lot to be happy and bubbly after someone's tried to tear you a new one because they didn't want to pay for parking.
That's not to say you can't fairly criticise. The worst tour I ever took had some ridiculous feedback (one review had me as the worst tour guide, but I knew my stuff, was well organised and brought the group together), but also some fair stuff like how I was being "smug" when answering questions. I took it on board and the very next tour was one of my very best - wouldn't have happened had I not received that criticism.

Things go wrong. Control yourself
One of the best sprays I've ever witnessed was a German businessman in London abusing the night manager because his swipe key didn't work. Never mind that he was blind drunk and probably doing it wrong: we were the worst fucking place in the world and the worst fucking staff and etc etc etc. Next day he received a note under his door from the hotel manager politely informing him he would no longer be welcome to stay with us.
Ever hear the phrase "you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar"? It's true - especially when you want something fixed. Looking back on a couple of sprays people have given me I know for a fact I could have handled it better, but for whatever reason didn't. Part of that reason is that when someone is yelling at you, cutting you off and saying "YOU stuffed up our check-in and YOU didn't do this and YOU didn't do that", you don't really want to help them, you want to tell them to fuck off. Your blood pressure rises, you want to shout back, but you can't because you're a professional.
There's another saying: "do unto others as you would have others do unto you". Do you like being shouted at at work by people you've never met before?
Didn't think so.

Problem? See staff straight away
Once upon a time a Scottish woman checked into a hostel I ran. This lady had a persona that screamed "I hate people" - I never once saw her socialise, never once saw her smile. But every time she walked past I'd make sure I addressed her by name, asked how she was and offer advice where needed. When she checked out I felt I'd put in the hard yards to make her stay memorable.
That was until she submitted her review. Turned out the hostel was just awful, service was bad and that there were so many things wrong with it that she wouldn't recommend us to her worst enemy etc. This annoyed me - not because those issues didn't need fixing, but because in all the time I'd been saying hello how are you she never once mentioned these.
Likewise a review I saw on Tripadvisor for a place I'm staying at in January. Just about every review is 4 or 5 stars (hence why I've booked it), except for one. Once again there was one person who ripped the place to shreds, saying the room was rubbish and that they had to ask for fresh towels. What I love about this review is that the owners responded back, asking why if these guests were having such a terrible time did they not mention anything when, you know, sitting by the fireplace chatting with the owners.
 If something's wrong with your accommodation, I want to fix it. When you're on my tour bus/in my ho(s)tel, I want you to enjoy your experience and rave about us to your friends. Making you happy makes me happy. Telling me on check-out the lights didn't work, but that you didn't want to call reception because it was late so you showered in the dark is really quite stupid. Tell us and we don't fix it, then by all means slag us off online. Tell us after the event and I'm afraid there's not much we can do.


So that's just a few tips. I'm sure there's many more; I'm sure there are some that would consider that just a rant from someone better suited to an office job. And that's fine: just be polite about it, ok? Remember, everyone wants you to have a good time.

SAJ Travel Podcast August 2, 2013

SAJ Travel Podcast August 2, 2013

Turn Around: The Tour After That Tour

OWEN and I looked at each other as the first few piano notes came through the speakers.

Turn around

 Every now and then I get bit a little lonely and you're never coming round

As befitted a loud tour guide and Welsh coach driver, we were already singing along.

Turn around

Every now and then I get a little bit tired of listening to the sounds of my tears

We're heading through the Croatian countryside down to the Dalmatian town of Split. We've got maybe an hours worth of driving left, then dinner & drinks before everyone goes their separate ways. Some will head with Owen back up to Prague; some will join me and fifty of my closest friends on boat tours down to Dubrovnik and back. Some will make their own way to Dubrovnik; one couple not just to sightsee but to become man and wife.

Turn around

Every now and then I get a little bit nervous that the best of all the years have gone by

As Owen and I get into our spontaneous karaoke, another voice joins in behind us. Then another, and another.

Turn around

Every now and then I get a little bit terrified and then I see the look in your eyes

It's not long before the first two rows have assumed choral duties.

Turn around, bright eyes

Every now and then I fall apart

Turn around, bright eyes

Every now and then I fall apart

We're all singing along, and for me it's pretty amazing: for most of the previous two weeks I was about to fall apart.

TWO weeks earlier I couldn't have been happier. That 2009 European summer had started well as I felt I'd finally cracked the secret behind good Greek Island tours, balancing telling people a little about where they visiting with the inevitable excessive alcohol consumption. Towards the end of my two-month stint there I'd started to get tired and was pretty happy to head to new pastures. And this was well and truly new pastures: I was heading to Eastern Europe on an itinerary that read Split-Prague-Split-Dubrovnik-Split over four weeks; the final two weeks on-board boats where "work" was attending breakfasts, small walking tours and making sure no-one was arrested. Living the dream, eh?

It started well enough. The stretch from Split-Prague went fairly well, with the driver a useful ally as I travelled many of the sectors for the first time. The group had a good dynamic and I got to jump off a 12m bridge.

Coming out of Prague we changed drivers and dynamics. Heading into Budapest I'd nearly lost some of the passengers by not knowing enough about what to do in the Polish mountain town of Zakopane, before complete and utter disaster hit. I woke up the first morning covered in bed-bug bites, with respite only coming after someone kindly passed on some anti-histamines. That night I met two people joining the tour; the next morning I downloaded our manifest and discovered we had five people joining the tour. 

And two vacant seats.

I handled things pretty badly from here. The next hour was spent playing phone tag with two different bosses and trying to placate three angry passengers. I eventually had to leave them to deal with the bosses directly so the rest could start to head down. When I got on-board I asked how everyone was, when someone asked back how I was. I snapped: "Well, I've got bed-bug bites, and just had to leave three people behind. I'm going to sit up the front and sulk". Which is pretty much what I did, and pretty much where I lost the tour. Matters weren't helped when a Plitvice barbecue turned into an opportunity for the driver to try and fill his pockets, charging people five Euros each for 4 small sausages, some bread, lettuce... and that's it. Of course I was the one that had to tell people this and collect the money.

I snapped: "Well, I've got bed-bug bites, and just had to leave three people behind. I'm going to sit up the front and sulk".

Which is pretty much what I did, and pretty much where I lost the tour. 

ONTO Croatia then and things didn't get better. My first tour was a combination of people who wanted to chill and a pack of fucking idiots. By now I'd decided to try raise money for charity by staying off the booze, something extremely difficult when you're on a boat and all there is to do is eat, swim and drink to excess. Coming back from Dubrovnik was a lot better with a more relaxed group; however I still felt like I was being wasted there. I'd always considered storytelling and relating history my tour-guiding strengths, yet here the focus was more on socialising - something I'd always struggled with. I told the boss as such and she agreed, changing my sequence from another pair of sailing tours to the Split-Prague-Split tours.

Naturally, I was pretty happy. Coming into Split I was disappointed to find the man making way for me was someone I very much respected as a guide, someone that continually received great reviews from clients. Nonetheless I met a couple of girls on the tour and it seemed like we'd be in for a good tour.

I lost the tour again.

This time the driver really didn't help. A great tour driver isn't just someone who gets you from A to B without crashing or getting lost along the way, but someone that helps out in the smooth running of the tour. In this case the driver spent all his time with the pretty girls, meaning that I ended up spending most of my time with everyone else lest they feel they were a couple of cup sizes short of getting our attention. Despite this, I didn't realise how badly I'd lost the tour until I overheard one girl at the final dinner loudly exclaim how she'd sent a complaint letter to the company about me.

ANOTHER day, another tour. The drivers changed again and I couldn't have been happier - I knew that Owen was a true professional and a man who could easily have slipped behind the microphone if he wasn't so damn good behind the wheel. We did the introductions coming out of Prague before pulling up at Kutna Hora for the "bone church". While everyone went and had a look at the artfully arranged skeletons I had a look at the review forms the old driver had reluctantly handed over. Every single one of those feedback forms wanted the other guide; not one of those people had felt comfortable in handing their form back to me lest I throw them straight in the bin.

Leaving Kutna Hora I decided to do a talk on the revolutions of 1989. I'd done one the day before to find everyone drifting off to sleep; this time I decided that if I was going to go out, if this was how I would leave four years of tour guiding, then I'd bloody well do it with style. I don't think I ever did a better speech than I did that day, taking 40 people through the calamitous events of that year from Solidarity in Poland to the Czechoslovak Velvet Revolution; from the fall of the Berlin Wall to the fall of Ceausescu. When I finished there was stunned silence; hanging up the microphone Owen turned around and nodded his head in a "well done" gesture and I breathed out and let all the tension flow out. Soon after the man I'd picked as being the hardest to impress came up the front to have a chat.

I'd won the tour.

I don't think I ever did a better speech than I did that day, taking 40 people through the calamitous events of that year from Solidarity in Poland to the Czechoslovak Velvet Revolution; from the fall of the Berlin Wall to the fall of Ceausescu.

It still wasn't easy. I was still off the booze - that would end at midnight on the tour's final night - and once again Zakopane almost proved my undoing. During the day one of the bosses had called to discuss the seriously shit reviews, leaving me with a sense that he didn't really rate me. Then another boss (the one who'd changed my tours on request) called with news none of us had expected: the woman who ran the hostel bar in Athens had died. Owen came out of the shower to find on the edge of the bed, head in hands at the loss of a friend. If ever I needed a drink it was now; luckily everyone on tour was pretty keen on seeing me push through and finish the four weeks sober. Had this happened the tour before chances are I would have got on a plane and headed back home to Australia; instead I got to see 15-odd blokes tied together (and piss together) as they made their way through the streets of Split before being filled full of booze after the kind of midnight countdown you normally associate with December 31.

Heading down to Split we said goodbye to a couple of people and picked up another few - although this time we had plenty of seats on the bus. The difference when we hit Plitvice for the barbecue was amazing, with Owen suggesting we get some volunteers to grab the salads while we grabbed the rest. End result was a great barbecue where everyone felt like they'd contributed - and that they got value for money. The whole coach even played a prank on their photograph and Lady GaGa-hating guide: when I jump back on-board after grabbing the room keys I find Paparazzi blaring through the speakers. I sigh and settle in, only for someone to call out behind me. I turn around to find 30-odd cameras pointing my way!

And I need you now tonight

And I need you more than ever

And if you only hold me tight

We'll be holding on forever

By now half the coach have joined in. I'm not sure if we've got everyone on-board belting out Bonnie but that's only because I'm having too much fun. The smile never leaves my face as we get right into this 80s epic.

Once upon a time there was light in my life

Now there's only love in the dark

Nothing I can say

A total eclipse of the heart...

The song fades out to laughter around the coach. I finally turn around to see everyone smiling back, except for one girl sitting directly behind me.

How she slept through that I'll never know.

Random Adventuring: Hobart

MID-MARCH 2013 and cricket fans around Australia are glued to their internet connections. As of March 14 all six states had a chance of making the Sheffield Shield final, with four of them an excellent chance of hosting it should results go their way.

I won't bore you with the details, but the end result was that my home state of Queensland would play Tasmania down in Hobart. Chatting it over with the boss I mentioned something along the lines of how good it would be to be there if Queensland managed the win. He reckoned I should get my arse down there, and he was right: it was the perfect combination of four days off work, my team playing a final somewhere I'd never been before - and most importantly, money on the plastic.

Debt repayments be damned*!


FIRST up I actually had to get there. With a limited time before I had to be back in Brisbane for work on the Wednesday I had to catch a 5am flight down to Sydney before connecting through to Hobart. Now the key thing when you have such an early flight is to pack the night before and get an early night. What I actually did was stay up until all hours celebrating the marriage of two good friends before coming home three-parts elephant trunk, forcing a bunch of clothes, toiletries and camera kit into a ridiculously small carry-on bag, grabbing a couple of hours sleep before spending the taxi ride to the airport trying to do up my shoelaces.

With such a great lead-in the trip down was spent either pushing out the big zzzz's or pushing in a Red Rooster combo at Sydney Airport. It wasn't until Captain Speaking told us in a pleasing baritone we were approaching Hobart International that I woke up and began peering out the window at the only Australian state that had thus far eluded me.

Now it would be a shame to visit somewhere new and spend the entire time at the sporting ground/pub, and as such had a rough idea what I would do. The plan was to arrive, head straight over to Bellerive Oval for the rest of that day's play, then alternate between the game and sight-seeing depending on how well Queensland were doing. Not knowing how expensive Hobart taxis were (and not being keen to find out after the $60 cab fare to Brisbane Airport), I decided to ask a shuttle bus driver how close he could drop me to the ground. The answer was not that close, although according to Google Maps (how did we travel before smartphones?) it would be a pleasant walk. This would no doubt have been the case, only for a squall to pass overhead, forcing me to take cover at a funeral home before arriving at the ground in brilliant sunshine to find play stopped after the groundsmen had taken their time getting the covers on.

This turned out to have an unexpected bonus. Heading into the main pavilion I found the Tasmanian Cricket Museum, which not only listed modern-day greats like Ricky Ponting and David Boon, but also included the history of cricket on the island. This included a panel on Charles Eady's unbelievable 566 not out for Break-O'-Day back in 1902. Other sections included lists of all Tasmanian first-class cricketers both pre- and post-Sheffield Shield entry; about the only thing missing was mention of Boonie's tinny-drinking record on the 1989 Sydney-London flight.

Play eventually got back underway with Queensland struggling against an excellent Tasmanian attack. Rather than sit around listening to locals crap on about their boys I decided to try and work off the previous night's festivities by walking into the city. After heading back to where the bus dropped me off I learnt a very important lesson about walking in Hobart:

Don't walk over the Tasman Bridge.

Seriously. The pedestrian/cyclist pathways are about 2 metres wide and right next to six lanes of traffic in what was 20 minutes of carbon monoxide poisoning on an island famous for its clear air. By the time I'd made it up and down the graceful arch I had the flu, black death and a nasty little sniffle. South of the Derwent was a little better, with the pathway a good few metres up and away from the freeway.

I eventually made it into Hobart's compact city centre and checked into the Mecure Hadleys Hobart. Now for those that haven't stayed in a nice place for a while - and this is a nice place - I will warn you that many large chains now take a pre-authorisation on your credit card; ie they put a hold on a certain amount of cash that you won't be able to use until your bank decides you can have it back. This varies from place to place, so I suggest doing what I did and calling to see how much it will be, budgeting for it, then hoping like hell the bank releases it before petrol prices rise by 12c/l. But I digress.

After a quick snooze (sleep on a plane not being all that helpful after two hours sleep the night before) it was down to Salamanca, host to a world-famous market every Saturday. This being a Sunday, locals and tourists alike were thin on the ground. After a quick blockie with the windows wound down and house music blaring I decided to dine at a James Squire bar, where I had an adequate, if slightly overpriced, pizza and beer. Then back to the hotel bar for my first Cascade in Tasmania.

Tasted good.


MONDAY, and I was a bit excited. After dragging my sorry carcass out of bed relatively early (did I mentioned I'd only had two hours sleep on the Saturday night? Because I totally did.) it was down to the harbour for the ferry out to the controversial Museum of Old and New Art (MONA). According to the good people at Wikipedia MONA is the largest privately-funded museum in Australia; having now spent some time there it's unlikely any government would have had the courage to do it themselves.

On arrival you leave your bags in the cloakroom, grab a portable guide (free of charge) and descend into the depths of the building. Your portable guide not only tells you where you are, but also has sections like "Gonzo" and "Art Wank" for more detail on a particular work. I managed to end up in the adult-only section pretty quickly (it's on the bottom floor - teehee I just wrote "bottom" - which is where you start) and while works like the painting of a transgender person didn't bother me, Juan Davila's Arse End Of The World certainly did. I won't go too much into it, other than to say I'm pretty sure Burke & Wills never interacted with local flora and fauna quite that way.

While I'd heard about MONA before the idea of heading to Tasmania even came to mind, I didn't realise the main building was on the site of a winery. Despite Queensland starting to run through the Tasmanian second innings over at Bellerive, I simply had to (I'd pre-paid and was determined to get my $10 worth) do a wine tasting. Although I booked a set time it turns out you can rock in pretty much any time you want to - not that I minded waiting as it was 20 degrees and cloudless outside. The wines themselves were quality and it was only the safety measure of leaving the credit cards at home that stopped me from signing up to their wine club and having eight bottles delivered to my door every three months. Still wouldn't mind, but there's nowhere online to sign up. I also gave the locals beers a crack and very much enjoyed them as well.

So back on the ferry, back to the room briefly to drop off the daypack and off to sample some more local culture. This time is was at the Lark Distillery where for $10 I got to sample some of the local whiskeys. I don't normally drink whisky but enjoyed this, chatting away to the bartenders from New Zealand and Warwick, Queensland respectively. By the time they kicked me out for closing I was in a pretty good mood - so good in fact I decided to go back to the James Squire pub, spend nearly $50 on a steak and a pint, and proceed to watch my beloved North Queensland Cowboys play like the Nauru under-19s and get thrashed by Newcastle.

So much for the bloody smile. Only started coming back when the lovely barmaid at the hotel bar decided to fill - and I mean fill - my wine glass when I popped in for a nightcap. A couple of minutes later she told me it was last drinks; a bit redundant seeing as it took me another hour to finish the wine glass.


TUESDAY dawned with the realisation that 10 o'clock was checkout and I wasn't nearly in the mood to, you know, be awake. I eventually dragged my sorry carcass down to reception then set about finding breakfast. While scouting Salamanca I discovered a book store and found myself $40 lighter and 1kg heavier; soon afterwards I found a spot at the busiest cafe and settled in for breakfast. The pancakes and bacon were delicious; the service somewhat lacking. In fact, 30 minutes after they'd cleared my plate I was still reading one of the books, wondering if anyone would notice either my empty coffee cup or me walking out without paying. Honesty got the better of me this time around, although next time I find myself breakfasting in Hobart they'd want to be keeping a closer eye on things.

A bit of a wander around Battery Point and I found myself with some time to kill. Queensland were now no chance of snatching an amazing victory, which ruled out Bellerive. I'd already done quite a bit of walking over the previous few days so was pretty keen to rest my feet. Wandering into a bar by the bay I found two different cricket games on the tv, cold beer and a hot barmaid.

I'd found home for the next few hours.

A few beers, a few sledges from locals about the Shield final, and some fish and chips down by the water and it was time to jump on the bus back to the airport. Although I only made it down for a few days it was easy to see why Lonely Planet rated Hobart as one of its "Best in Travel" for 2013 - and I hadn't even been there over a weekend! Proof that sometimes the most random travels are the best.


* Only joking about that debt repayment thing. I take my obligations to Dewey, Nee-Capem & How very seriously and very much enjoy being able to walk along such magnificent structures like the Tasman Bridge.

The Great Australian Road Trip

YOU always remember your first.

So they say. I can't – but then not many can remember where they were at age two, let alone two weeks. Likewise, I only have my parents and some old black-and-white photos showing that at some point in December 1980, we trekked down the old Bruce Highway from our home in Townsville down to Mum's family in Brisbane. It's a trip you could never repeat – me wrapped up in a bassinet with a net over it, which in turn was secured to the Mighty Datsun. Dad really had to drive carefully, lest his unsecured newborn pinball between the sides of the bassinet. He somehow managed to do this despite becoming one of the first to drive the coastal stretch between Sarina and Marlborough, missing the turn-off for the old road through the mountains and instead driving down the dirt highway still awaiting its tarmac topping.

That was my first road trip. We had plenty more through childhood – Dad's military career and my grandmother's untimely passing from a brain tumour meant we pinballed from Townsville to Canberra to Brisbane to Toowoomba to Queanbeyan to Caboolture back to Brisbane; Dad driving his ever-increasing brood while we did our best to drive him nuts. On top of that, with Mum's parents living in Morayfield, Caboolture and Nanango, and Dad's in Mildura, trips to visit relatives were always planned out well in advance.

Thus childhood played out in a succession of cars, vans, cheap motels, service stations, 80s mix tapes and massive arguments between four young boys. The day before would see Dad sound asleep in preparation for the drive ahead – Mum never trusted herself not to fall asleep, and even if she did it's moot whether Dad would have relinquished the wheel anyway – while we had to pack our bags for the trip ahead. An early dinner, the car packed, and by early evening we were away. Trips south would inevitably find us at 2am in some country service station, simultaneously warming up, stretching out and pestering both parents for some chips or lollies. Daylight hours would involve mass games of “I Spy” and outbreaks of spontaneous karaoke syndrome, when our car alternated between a giant John Williamson jukebox of Australian folk tune and all Dad's greatest hits, turned up LOUD. So ingrained is the latter on my memory that it wasn't until I was 15 or so that I realised that Elton John's falsetto chorus on Crocodile Rock wasn't just Dad playing silly buggers.

The family settled down a bit after that last move to Brisbane. We spent nearly four years in the one house before heading slightly closer to the city in late 1995. Soon after I began boarding school in Toowoomba, thus getting to know the Warrego Highway rather well as we trekked up and down for school sport, weekends away and holidays. In 1996 I made my first solo trip down to Mildura on the Greyhound; in 1997 a bus took me around New Zealand's South Island as part of a school trip.

THE next road trip was the biggest though. These days it's hard to comprehend just how expensive it was to fly around Australia back in the 1990s; my favourite statistic from that time is that for the same price for a return trip from the East Coast across to Perth, you could buy an around-the-world ticket and really make a day of it. Wanting to visit an aunt over in the western capital meant getting imaginative with the travel arrangements, skipping the $1000+ airfare and paying around $800 for an itinerary that read Brisbane-Melbourne-Adelaide-Perth-Adelaide-Mildura-Canberra-Sydney-Brisbane. The original plan saw the Melbourne and Sydney legs swapped around, which would have given me daylight hours in the two major cities; unfortunately the family in Mildura I wanted to see would be away those dates.

The whole trip was one of those things you can only do when you're young and stupid. It took 24 hours to get down to Melbourne; an overnight trip to get across to Adelaide, then another 30 or so to cross the Nullabor to Perth. Despite the trip length it was all relatively comfortable – I managed to sleep most of the time I sat next to someone, including the entire Melbourne-Adelaide stretch where I jagged a seat at the top and front of a double-decker bus, meaning I could fully stretch out onto the raised platform directly in front of me. If ever there was a bonus to topping out at 5'8”...

The sector to Perth was easily the most fascinating. I remember not long after leaving Adelaide looking up to see the world's bluntest sign:

Northern Territory →

Western Australia ↑

It definitely showed what kind of emptiness we were about to go through. This was only heightened when we stopped off at Ceduna for a meal (the first time I'd ever tried oysters) - I thought we'd crossed most of South Australia, only to look at the map on the wall and realise that not only were we not in Kansas any more, it'd be a very long time before we were anywhere at all.

The Nullabor came and went as we past the Great Australian Bight during the Great Australian Night. The driver woke us as we crossed the state border at some ungodly hour to let us know that we'd be stopping at the local police station in case they wanted to search the bus for drugs.

Drugs? On a Greyhound? You reckon the bus yesterday was found with a whole heap in the toilet? Pull the other one mate, it plays God Save The Queen. After arriving late the next afternoon into Perth it turned out that no, he wasn't joking – one of the drivers from the day before had found a whole bag of cocaine hidden away in the bathroom. Delayed that bus for a while, which definitely makes the culprit a prime candidate for a lynching in my books.

Then again it had been a long trip.

Once in Perth the sensible thing to do would have been stay put for two weeks, venturing out for supplies and not much else before the 60-odd hour trek back home. Which is why I found myself in a full car at stupid o'clock with my uncle and his mad mate, heading back east to a place called Peak Charles where the pair of them would climb up some sheer rock faces and I'd try not to get hurt. We stopped at Wave Rock along the way, before heading down over 100km of dirt road to our final campsite. It was as remote as I'd ever been – should something happen we were at least 100km as the crow flies from the nearest communities of Norseman and Esperance, a figure all-too-real when I managed to slide down a rock face as I tried to cut a new path across the face of a mountain, rather than going back to the bottom and taking the footpath back up the top. A couple of fortunately-placed saplings impeded my progress but increased my lifespan long enough to get back to Perth ok.

The road trips were a lot shorter once back in Perth; the longest a trip out to Fremantle to see the jail and try Australia's best fish and chips out on the waterfront. Before too long though it was time to farewell the relatives and jump back on the Greyhound heading east. On boarding the driver said I was sitting next to a little blonde woman, a trip highlight that last as long as it took to find my seat and realise that in WA “little blonde woman” meant “big, fat blonde man”. The whole way from Perth-Port Augusta I found myself with half an arse hanging off the seat in order not to have any kind of physical contact with the man; more than once I found myself looking longingly at the luggage racks and wondering if I was just small and light enough to squeeze in for the night.

Port Augusta brought both physical and comedy relief. The physical relief was that a few disembarked there and I could finally move into a spare double-seat; the comedy from the Chinese man that must have gone exploring and never made it back. After stomping up and down the bus a number of times to confirm he could still count past 10, the driver eventually muttered something about giving this bloke all the time in the world and driving off, while the rest of us looked out the windows for signs of a streak of panic and/or vengeance to come tearing our way.

AFTER more than 10,000km on the road I made it home. While I was 18 and officially an adult at the time, my trek across to Perth was really my adolescent self's last hurrah. Eighteen months later I headed west out of Brisbane with a full car, a Canberra street directory and no idea what would happen when it came time to actually use it. The Triple M radio signal stayed with me right until Cunningham's Gap, dropping out along with my childhood and adolescence once over the crest of the pass. Adulthood kicked in along with the CD I had to keep me company.

And just like childhood, adulthood began with a road-trip.