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 I
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI
Part VII
Part VIII
Part IX
Adventures in Dirt Cove, Part II
Welcome to Scenic Dirt Cove. Drink Pepsi read the faded sign just outside of town. The bitumen had long since ended, and the rusty ute was bouncing around the dirt road like a pissed roo. Combined with Big Bill's rank stench, it had me gut feeling a bit wonky.
I dug into me backpack for the Tourism Guide and leafed through until I found an entry for Dirt Cove:
Dirt Cove is a small, scenic, rustic, and quaint community located on the province's Shagwater peninsula. It is very historical. It is home to the province's largest, functioning dirt mine. It is also home to Uncle Wally's Tavern and Pub. There is lots to see and do in Dirt Cove. It is much nicer than Upper Lower Cove. Come visit Dirt Cove today.
Come visit Dirt Cove today. Looked like I didn't have a bleedin choice!
There didn't seem to be much to the town.
We passed a handful of "salt box" houses on our way up a low
hill. On one side was the harbour, with a huge rusty thingo
sticking straight up out of the water by the wharf. It stood
out like a dog's balls.
"Nazi U-boat," explained Bill Senior. "Dey smacked into the wharf after dey shot the fact'ry."
Crikey! I was still pondering why the brochure had failed to mention that little tidbit when we rounded a bend and the road ended at a dung-coloured two-story house, rough as guts.
Big Bill leaned on the horn as we drove up, scattering a pack of mangy wild dogs skulking about the place.
"Dis is it," said Big Bill. "Old Woman Hicks B&B."
Bloody oath. "I was told Missus Hick's place was near Upper Lower Cove," I said, as we climbed out of the ute.
"Sure b'y, it is, 'cause it's in Dirt Cove. An' Dirt Cove is near Upper Lower Cove." He seemed quite pleased at his own powers of deductive reasoning, and set about untying Little Bill from the flap. The drongo seemed no worse for the wear -- in fact, he must've enjoyed the ride, 'cause he was grinning like a shot fox.
Just then the screen door banged open, releasing a waft of stale air, a few tufts of cat hair, and a half-dozen randy cats. Make no wonder that pack of dingos had been hanging around out front!
"Is dat you, Billy?" said a shriveled up old prune of a woman who emerged from the doorway. This, I presumed, was Old Woman Hicks.
"Dis is da pack man," said Big Bill.
"Outback backpacker," I corrected, as Missus Hicks came up and gave me a squiz. "Syd Soyley, at your service."
She was wearing a gray jumper that seemed to be made of cat hair. In fact, it was hard to tell where her own hair ended and the moggy hair began.
"Billy, ye came home at last!" she said, taking me by the arm. "Come in! Come in!"
I was confused. Did Big Bill and Bill Junior live here? Or was everyone in this community named William?
Inside, the place was rank with cat piss. So was Old Woman Hicks, for that matter. She must've kept at least four dozen moggies, and at any given time half of 'em were having a good root at the other half.
"I made supper!" she said, dragging me into the
cramped kitchen, with the two Bills bringing up the rear. A
large, battered pot sat simmering on an ancient oil stove.
"Your favourite, Billy -- cooked meat! Nice cooked meat!
Lovely cooked meat!" A quick swipe with a wooden spoon
dispersed a couple of cats having a naughty atop the
counter.
"Erm, I'd like to discuss my lodgings," I said as we sat down at the wobbly kitchen table. Too right! This looked to be the worst place I'd ever made camp -- and I'd lived amongst the Wambesi Dung Tribe for six months!
"Sure, what do you mean, Billy?" she asked, rummaging about for some suitable crockery. "Of course ye can have your old room back! I kept it just the way you left it!"
"I'm not Billy--" I began, but Missus Hicks was having none of it.
"Oh don't be so foolish, Billy! Sure I knows who ye are," she said. We were all Billy, it seemed, and that was that.
She served up the meal, a gamey-tasting boiled mince that reminded me a bit of the snag eaten by the Panda People of Nepal during their Andy Gibb festival. The two Bills ate with gusto, and went back for seconds.
Still intrigued by the U-boat wreck in the harbour, I plied my host with questions about it, but she was as useless as an ashtray on a motorbike.
"Dat old t'ing? Dat's dirty, Billy. Now go to bed. You been gone so long. Bad Billy!"
Cripes, but this woman had kangaroos in the top paddock! Still, she wasn't about to get any arguments from me at that point -- I was feeling bloody stuffed after a long day. I bid g'night to the two garbos, who were too busy lickin out their bowls like lizards drinking to do much more than grunt.
Missus Hicks directed me up a creaky flight of stairs and down a dimly lit hallway that was a bleedin minefield of cats. A small, dark room at the end appeared to be my lodgings for the night. I was fumbling about for a light switch when the old mongrel slammed the door shut behind me.
"Bad Billy!" she scolded, as the door lock clicked into place. "You won't go to sea no more will ya, Billy?"
"I'm not bloody Billy!" I shouted. "I'm Syd Soyley, genteel vagabond, goddammit!"
"Dat's shockin', lyin' to yer mudder, dat is. You won't leave me no more! Now go to bed!" I heard her footsteps recede down the hall, punctuated by a loud complaint from a moggy with a trampled tail.
And so ended day one in Dirt Cove, backpackers. Syd Soyley had gone from kidnapped to unlawfully confined.
But that was just the beginning!
Related Links:
Dirt Cove Home Page