Syd Soyley is a True Blue outback backpacker, licenced professional adventurer, and genteel vagabond. He travels the world bringing his readers the grundiest travel log and extreme vacation guide on the Net.
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI
Part VII
Part VIII
Part IX
Adventures in Dirt Cove, Part I
G'day mates!
It's been a bloody hard week for this 'ere bloke. I've been doin what an adventurer hates most -- standing still. Me regular readers know I'd rather box a drunken roo with an aboriginee fer a bleedin referee than go to ground ... unless it's for a good root! Too right!
I'm a long
way from Down Under this week, mates. I'm writing this from
a place called Newfoundland, Canada. It's the most easterly
point in North America and as bleak and barren as a koala's
freckle. The natives are celebrating 50 years of being
Canadians with a ripper of a party. This 'ere journo figured
it'd make for a grouse of a travelogue -- fog, lighthouses,
viking villages, and bored sheilas dying to meet a real live
adventurer.
Well, from what I've seen so far, they should change the name to Crookland. In the last few days, yours truly has been kidnapped, bamboozeled, manhandled, rorted, and bloody near killed. Of course, when you're a genteel vagabond, that just comes with the territory, luv. No worries!
Well, let's start this tale at the beginning. I began me trip by phoning around to some bed and brekkies to find the going rate. Most places charged $80 - $100 Canadian (about $16.50 in Yank bucks) for a cot and a loo, but one spot -- Old Woman Hicks B&B -- offered room and board for a mere twenty (they'd actually owe you three bucks if yer a Yank). The proprietor, Missus Hicks herself, told me the place was "near Upper Lower Cove", and assured me there'd be plenty of birdwatching, sea kayaking, and an exciting folk festival with famous traditional entertainer Rory O'Ryan performing. Whoever the hell he is. She even agreed to send a driver all the way to the capital city Saint John's airport to get me -- due, I figure, to me astonishing world-wide fame. Bonzer, I thought, and made the reservation.
With lodging settled it was time to pack me Outback Backpack! Pay attention novice travelers -- a bloke's backpack is the difference between life and the absence thereof in the outback. For this trip I packed me local maps, me swag, a couple clean pairs of grundies, a sweater to keep out the crappy weather, and a camera (digital, of course) to catch a trophy snap of the proud and noble "shyt hawke" that Missus Hicks told me is a rare and exciting piece of fowl.
And of course, I never travel without me trusty laptop and cellular modem to keep me log floating.
I'll spare you the details of the flight across the pond, other than the damn birdie circled Saint John's a dozen times before landing. The fog was thicker than Mel Gibson's accent before he shot through to Hollywood. (Back when he made movies a bloke could watch like Mad Max -- that's beauty cinema, that!) Anyhoo, I was near to putting on me parachute when we touched down.
Note to the easily confused: Canadian air hostesses say everything twice, once in English and once in French because of a few Frogs who live central. No worries -- you won't need to speak Frog to get by in Newfoundland. You can forget English too, because these bushies don't speak it! I don't know what they yabber but it ain't Aussie strine!
I retrieved me backpack from the bagmen and had a smoko while I waited for me ride. Had a poke around the gift shop. Bleedin' small airport. Right about then, these two fat ockers came over, reekin like wet, dead, roos. They asked if I was the "book bag man".
"If by that," I countered, "you mean the Outback Backpacker, then that I am."
They stared dimly at me and then one
of them, the younger, started to fiddle with his privates. I
could hardly wait for the four hour drive.
"Where's your rig?" I asked. "Is it built for rough terrain? I want to see the outback."
"Nuddin' much out back," said the older, stinkier man. "Just a sanicare and we pretty much picked that clean."
So, it looked like this 'ere adventurer was going for a ride with a couple of garbologists. The older bloke introduced himself as "Big Bill". "And dis here's me son Little Bill," he said, indicating the other dipstick. "Most people in my communitay calls 'im Crazy Billy, though," he offered. Frankly, I was beginning to suspect neither of these blokes were the full quid.
I
followed the two dills outside to their "rig", which turned
out to be a rickety old rust-bucket of a pickup. I bailed
out of riding up front for fear I'd chunder if I spent any
time in close quarters with those two. Better to take me
chances in back with the rubbish. I climbed aboard, found a
spot that was relatively free of filth and pulled me Tilley
down to catch some well-deserved shut eye.
I woke to find Little Bill with his hand down me daks. I wasn't sure if he was after me wallet or me doodle, but I suspect the latter. After a brief struggle, Big Bill calmed the boy down by giving him some bottled gravy. "Don't worry," said the elder Bill. "I'll fix he."
Apparently we'd stopped so Big Bill could visit the dunny -- his strides were still down around his ankles. "How much farther?" I asked, eager to see this Upper Lower Cove. I'd managed to wrangle a brochure on the place at the airport gift shop and was interested in the "small, rustic village".
"Not dere yet", said Big Bill, tying his son to the flap of the truck with a length of grimy rope. "You best ride ride wit me, b'y."
Beauty, I thought, I'll just hold me breath for a few clicks. Oh well, good chance to find out more about Upper Lower Cove. Might as well give it a burl.
Bill Senior wasn't too chatty about my supposed destination, though, driving like an enraged wallaby. Something smelled off -- and it wasn't just Big Bill. When we passed the turnoff to Upper Lower Cove, I knew that everything wasn't ridgy-didge.
"That's the road to Upper Lower Cove!" I shouted.
"Not much to see dere," said Big Bill. "We're goin to Dirt Cove. Dirt Cove's more betterer."
And that was that, backpackers. Syd Soyley'd been kidnapped.
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