TECHNO FERAL

                                       THAT’S TECHNO FERAL WITH A CAPITAL ‘T’ SON 

After Bagsy and his truck had vanished in a puff of blue smoke up West Beach road I dragged the dingy into some low, bush dotted dunes near the sailing club boatramp.  There were a group of dodgy looking characters hanging around the carpark area, so I left Rufus guarding the rest of my stuff  while I did trips back and forth with the buggy.  Once everything was safely stashed among the dunes we camped under the oar propped dingy and were sheltered from the evening breeze by sand on all sides.  I got a small fire going and smoked the last of my riverland weed as I indulged in a sense of personal satisfaction and reflected on how well things had gone thus far. The successful transportation of my fully loaded boat, the dog and myself over the  distance we had covered was quite an accomplishment and it made the challenge to overcome any future ordeals less daunting.  Now my mission was to come up with some way of getting us out of the southern states and back to my houseboat on the Brunswick River.

The following morning the sea was flat and calm as I loaded up the tinny and eased it into the shallow waters of Adelaide’s southern beaches.  I used to play on these beaches as a kid and from my memory of the area I figured my best chance of finding a sheltered campsite was on the Pattawillunga inlet, so I putted out past a group of early morning swimmers and made my way out towards Glenelg.  A pod of dolphins came right in close to the dingy as we moved along and Rufus barked madly at them from the bow as they splashed and dived for schools of mullet.  He jumped in and swam after the dolphins but he gave up and paddled back to the boat.  My bedroll was saturated when he climbed back on board and he spent the remainder of our trip scanning the water for other submerged creatures.  Once in the Pattawillunga inlet I found a well concealed campsite under a large willow near the golf club. It was perfectly sheltered from the glaring summer sun and it hid the boat so well that none of the passing rowers even knew we were there.  

he coast was buzzing with holiday boating enthusiasts which meant increased waterway patrols so I decided to stay put on the inlet until after Christmas.  The dingy was overloaded to the max and the last thing I needed was an encounter with any over zealous waterways officials.  Rufus and I spent Christmas day hopping into a food hamper that I picked up from a charity store in town.  With maps spread out on the picnic blanket and all of the party aids a homeward bound drifter could need I set about plotting a coarse for where next my journey would lead.  It would have been nice to have done a trip to Moana and ochre cove but it was out of my fuel range so I decided on a trek up the Port River instead.  Port Adelaide is the town of my birth after all and I never got to explore the place as a kid let alone as an adult.  The festive season passed as it does amid hangover blurred memories of disco lights and unfruitful flirtatious encounters.  The morning after boxing day I departed the Pattawillunga inlet bound for Outer Harbor which sits at the mouth of the Port River.  I spotted a number of waterways patrols long before they saw me and I avoided their scrutiny with a series of clever diversions.  My boat was sitting pretty low in the water and it was easy enough to hide behind other, larger vessels as they moved towards the port.  On my entry into the Port River I had to do a wide circle back into the open ocean as a massive cargo container was tugged through the mouth on it’s way to a waiting dock.  The bow wave of the gigantic ship would have been big enough to turn my little boat over so it looked like a more sane option to wait until it was well clear of the wave splashed rock walls.  After an undetected passage up the river I passed under a roadbridge which marks the entrance to the Port harbour.  My first priority was to find somewhere to stash my gear so I could lighten up the boat and avoid the unwanted attention of the law.  To get my vessel away from the central harbor area I took the first available turn I came to and it happened to be the mooring area of the Port Adelaide Yacht Club.  I was hoping there might be some disused spot around the place where I could stash my gear and possibly set up camp, but it proved useless and I had to double back.  The late afternoon sun was inching ever closer to the ranges in the distance so I pulled over to a mooring platform at the yacht club and tied up next to a sleek, deepwater cruiser.  There appeared to be some kind of function taking place up in the clubhouse and I heard music filtering down across the water.  Disco lights were flashing through the large plate glass windows and I could see people sipping cocktail glasses on a balcony overlooking the harbor.  I had just fastened the rope to a bollard when I was suddenly confronted by a voice which was similar to that of Thursten Howel on Gilligans Island. In the fading hues of twilight some intoxicated  individual had inquired,”And what exactly do you think you are doing young man?” The voice belonged to a safari suited elderly gentleman who was sipping on a cocktail and performing a rather shaky decent of the mooring gangplank.  As quick as a flash I replied that I had just arrived in the harbor from open water and I was hoping to secure a mooring for the night.  The old piss tank was all puffed up with newly assigned responsibility and he said,”Well you had better follow me young sir and I will see what we can do”. We walked up the gangplank towards the partying clubhouse and I smiled a secret smile as this tantalizing new scenario unfolded.  Also at the fact I had adopted a mode of thrift shop attire for my grand homeport arrival which suggested I may have stepped off of a luxury vessel myself.  Once through the open doors of the clubhouse the old boy left me and walked off to speak with another fellow who looked like he might be in charge.  The two men came over to where I was standing by a large, well stocked bar and the other bloke introduced himself as the Commodore of the club.  He said that a mooring for the night would be “no problem at all” and I was promptly invited to join their party.  I sipped a cocktail with those most courteous and accommodating old salts and told a little of my adventures before the Commodore had to toddle off to the stage and make an announcement.  Apparently two of the clubs veteran members were leaving on a world sailing trip and the party was to bid them an official farewell before they embarked on the journey.  The elderly couple were welcomed onto the small stage amid hearty applause from their peers and a plaque was presented in honour of their life’s dedication to the club.  The party goers were all as friendly and welcoming as the Commodore and his old mate had been and I started to wonder if somewhere on my Port River excursion I might have made a wrong turn into the ‘Twilight Zone’.  At the first opportunity after the presentation I popped down the walkway to the boat and gave my trusty, tail wagging doggy boy a plate of chicken scraps and some water.  After he had finished dining I putted the dingy in next to a small ramp and tied up to a mussel covered post. With my belongings safely guarded and out of the way of any passing boats I returned to the party just as the traditional waltz of honour was being performed. Glasses were being filled for toast upon toast as the party gathered steam and the merriment excelled into the star speckled Port Adelaide night.  

Even though we all had the sea faring thing in common I still felt a little out of place in the company of such immense wealth.  The row of boats out the front must have been worth about a squillion bucks and the carpark was filled with expensive imported saloons of every imaginable kind. The Commodore kept popping over to see if I was ok and a waiter was instructed with a chuckle of good humoured authority that my glass was not to be seen empty.  Jesus! all I needed was a safe spot to moor my boat for the night and I was being treated like some long lost son of the sea faring clan who had returned from being shipwrecked on a desert island.  My situation started to make a little sense when the Commodore took the microphone in the closing stages of the party.  He went into his usual mode of ceremonial banter as he described the time honored traditions of the Port Adelaide Sailing Club.  At the end of his drawn out delivery he mentioned a law of the club which concerned the support of travelers in need.  My ears pricked up much the same as my dogs would if a potential meal broke a twig in the bush.  Apparently it was a long preserved tradition of the club that when any of it’s members left for high water the first new arrival was granted,  ‘The Rights of The Travelling Seaman’.   ‘That’s  me...  Bingo!’  I was formally welcomed onto the stage by the Commodore amid great applause as the waiting DJ filled the airwaves with ‘Sailing’ by Rod Stewart.  The old couple, myself and the Club Commodore shared the mike in a semi-pissed harmony rendition and the crowd laughed so much that the dance floor became slippery with spilt cocktails, whisky and beer.  Rufus must have recognized my voice as I went for the high notes and I distinctly heard him over the music howling at the moon.  After the festivities had concluded for the evening a junior club member led me to a boatshed just near the ramp where the tinny was tied up.  The wooden doors of the boatshed were unlocked and I was told that I could use it until the start of the new year when work resumed at the club.  I thanked my escort and wished him a pleasant good evening, then I laid my bedroll out among rack mounted dinghys, oars, ropes and anchors.  ‘The Rights of a Travelling Seaman’ echoed through my mind as I dozed off and the sound of Rufus feeding on lobster portions and Peking duck was the last thing I heard as I smiled myself to sleep.  ‘I am sailing … I am sailing … Home again … Home again’ …

The sailing club served as a perfect base to work from because I had the use of shower facilities, a well stocked kitchen and even a key for the payphone up the hall.  We only camped in the boatshed for three days because I wanted to explore the rivers best fishing spots and get to know some of the  locals in the town of my birth.  Even after I had moved on the sailing club committee allowed me to store some of my gear in a corner of the boatshed which meant the dingy was no longer overweight and headed for a bust.  Once the weight problem was overcome the waterways police couldn’t touch me as you didn’t need a licence with a five horsepower outboard back then and everything else was pretty well ship shape.  I was given a true ocean drifters farewell by the Commodore before I departed and I thanked him for teaching me the value of well established seafaring traditions.  He said if I ever took up deep water sailing I could apply for membership at the club and we chuckled as I told him that a lottery win might very well make it happen.  My arrival in Port Adelaide was the best hometown welcome that any Gypsy of the waterways could wish for and it reinforced the notion that my adventures were blessed with good fortune.  The word magical seemed inadequate to describe the recurring coincidence and the strokes of good luck I was receiving were so well timed that it was almost scary.  I guess a charmed existence is a matter of personal perception and you don’t stand a chance of living the so called ‘Good life’ if you can’t see the opportunities that circumstance sends your way. When the new years eve fireworks exploded over the southern beaches Rufus and I were camping out on a little mangrove island, among fast moving backwater channels.  No party we could have sniffed out would have been able to compare to my grand entry to the port and I was more than content just hanging out with my dog and casting pilchard baited lines.  

The final starbursts from the fireworks faded in the distance and it was strange not to hear the familiar whistles and bangs.  I guess those moments of peaceful solitude are the reward that only comes to lone travelers and it magnified the fact I was living so far outside of the normal flow of civilization. The silence of the evening was suddenly interrupted by a bouncing spool in the boat and I landed a big fat bream which was grilled to perfection over the wind blown coals of the fire.  As I choofed on a scoob and downed the last of my overproof rum I became increasingly excited by the knowledge I was in the territory of my earthly beginnings. The fact I was so close to the place of my worldly origins seemed to hold a special meaning in an organic kind of way. Then from out of nowhere I was struck by the idea to look up my old man while I was in the area.  Our first meeting had been an absolute disaster due to the hair triggered impulses of youth and I was curious to find out how we would inter-react a few years down the track. When next I went into the port for supplies I stopped at a public phone and browsed through the book looking for names that were listed with a J.  My Hungarian family name is Jasko and I was curious to see who of my relatives still lived around the port.  The only listing under Jasko bore the initial S which I imagined might be my cousin Suzie.  She was the adopted daughter of my fathers younger brother Johnny and I hadn’t seen her in more than a decade and a half.  When the phone was picked up it was indeed Suzie and she greeted me with absolute surprise after so long without speaking.   She agreed to tell my father that I had phoned and we arranged to get in touch with each other in a couple of days time.  When next we spoke she said that he didn’t want to know about any uncomfortable reunions with a son who had once threatened his life.  It took all of my powers of persuasion but she finally agreed to receive a letter on his behalf.  I pulled the computer out of storage in the boatshed and drafted a realistic account of my reasons for wanting to get in touch.  I explained that I was a confused adolescent when first we met and my actions were driven by the mixed up thoughts of an angry young man.  I guess the old bloke must have liked the part in the letter where I called my mother a mind poisoning, old bitch because he left his home number with Suzie to be passed on to me.  I called the number immediately and the phone was answered by the Hungarian woman he should have married before he ever got tangled up with my mother.  When he came to the phone his tone was cautious and reserved but after the initial exchange of greetings he settled into a more relaxed mode. I told him that I would really like to see him in person while I was in town and a meeting was planned for the following day in a cafe near the Black Diamond corner.  He pulled up at the kerb about half an hour later than we had arranged and I recognized him straight away from the time we met before.  I jumped in the passenger seat of his late model Mercedes coupe and we entered the flow of traffic out of the central port area.  We engaged in all manner of smalltalk as we drove along and he eventually brought the car to a stop in one of the older neighborhoods that sits behind giant oil containers near the docks.  He pointed at one of the run down little dwellings on the street and told me it was sitting on the land where I had lived immediately after I was born.  I was fascinated by his commentary of my birth and origins but more so I was staggered by the knowledge that the street we were in was just around the corner from the public phone box where I had first called Suzie. My father and I spent about three hours together driving around the port and looking at places that featured in his early migrant days.  He showed me where he and his brothers used to drop dynamite in the river to catch the buckets of fish that sustained us as children.  When the conversation came around to angling everything clicked into place and awkward father and son discomforts were replaced by tales of great catches, with the occasional hearty laugh.  The old man dropped me off at my new campsite which was a little sandy beach in front the local Scout hall.  When he saw how I was living he said that I had inherited his adventurous spirit and we parted with a friendly handshake before he drove away.  I felt a new peace in my heart knowing I had healed old wounds and it occurred to me that at some subconscious level our meeting was probably the main reason for my return to South Australia.  A few days after the meeting with my father I was casting lines in front of the Scout hall when I was joined by an interesting couple who set up easychairs beside me. They instantly fell in love with Rufus.  Their names were Pauline and Graham and they lived just up the road in a suburb called Osborne.  

Pauline was a fat and happy Aboriginal woman and her partner Graham was a white bloke who looked a lot like the hippies I knew in Nimbin and Byron Bay.  It was easy to share tales of my adventure with the couple and before I had finished telling my story they offered to let me stay at their house.  Fuck Yes,  you wonderful people! The magic was still happening in a big way and everything pointed towards success in the quest for my Northern Rivers home.  My new camp turned out to be a stinking hot tin shed at the end of a concrete driveway but I loved it to pieces because it sat within an enclosed yard with a high wooden fence for my dog.  Graham and I loaded the dingy onto the roofracks of his little Datsun and it took a second trip to pick up the rest of my gear.  The following day he drove me over to the sailing club for the remainder of my stuff and by the end of the day I was comfortably settled with all of my belongings in one place.  The next most logical thing I could do was aquire a registered trailer into which I could load my stuff and plan for the journey North.  With a scan of the Trading Post I spotted a secondhand motorbike trailer that was registered for two more months and going at the achievable price of a hundred and fifty bucks.  I had no rent to pay or other pressing debts so I used the bulk of my next pension cheque to buy it.  I lived on fish and baked beans for the following two weeks but with each new day I grew closer to the point of departure.  Graham and I picked up the trailer and towed it back to Osborne where I set about making a four foot high frame constructed from PVC offcuts.  When the frame was glued at the corners and tarped over it held all  I owned and the boat was strapped squarely on the topmost  adjoining pipes. Graham and I were the only white inhabitants in what was basically an Aboriginal household.  The goings on around the place were as authentically indigenous as you might find in any remote Coorie settlement and we were often confided in with regards to ancient tribal wisdom’s.  Pauline and I hit it off in a big way and I found her to be one of the few people I could truly be myself with.  Not long after I moved into the shed a visitor to the house nicked a block of hash out of my dwelling and Pauline turned the place upside down until she disclosed the culprit.  A pow wow was convened at the kitchen table and the offending party was required to return my hash and make an apology.  When Pauline picked up the details of my relationship with my father she made it her personal business to act as our family councilor.  I told her about my half sister Annie Jones and it opened up a whole new vista of sacred family law that I never knew existed.  Annie or Annika as is her Hungarian name was the young girl who was trying out her new skates the first time I met my father.  I didn’t find out until many years later that she was a Logie winning movie and television star.  The first picture I ever saw of Annie was on a ‘Neighbors’ chewing gum packet and I guess that's about as worlds apart as family members can get.  Pauline was little impressed that Annie was a celebrity, instead she focused on the fact I had called her my “half sister”.  

My other sis. Annika Jasko.  (Annie Jones.)

In the Aboriginal culture there is no such thing as half anything and as penance for my indiscretion I was ordered to call my father and arrange another meeting before I left South Australia.  I called him that very day as Pauline waited by the phone to hear the result.  He said he would love to see me again and big fat Pauline danced like an ecstatic hippopotamus who had swallowed a magic mushroom.  When he arrived the next day I made Pauline come out the front and meet him.  He was thrilled to make her acquaintance and they recalled Aboriginal family names he had spent time with in his opal mining days.  Our drive was only a short one to the home of my uncle Biela and his lovely wife Jan.  My fathers wife came along as well and it turned into a full blown family, reunion under grapevine laden trellises.  I was treated to a chicken soup that was identical in every way to the dish I have always prepared and it was followed by authentic goulash the likes of which I may never taste again.  We drank wine with the meal and the initial emotional reserves were replaced by loose tongued, passionate chatter.  My father held the floor most of the time as he had a lifetime of stories to tell and the most intriguing one involved his escape from Hungary during the revolution.  It was like something out of a Hollywood action thriller.  The short version of the story is that two Russian soldiers asked to see his papers while he was walking to the shop and he couldn’t produce them as they were just around the corner in his home.  A group of his neighbors had been detained a little earlier and as quick as that they were unceremoniously shot before his eyes.  The military commander said, “This is what happens to people who don’t carry their papers with them”.   In a life threatened rush of quick thinking my father convinced the soldiers that he knew of a bombed out hotel where he could show them a cellar full of wine. He said he would guide them to the wine if they spared his life. Cautiously they agreed to his proposition and he led them to the underground wine cellar on the edge of town. After he had opened the doors to the cellar the soldiers looked into the darkened building but they couldn't see a thing.  When they moved in closer lighting matches my father claims he pushed them both into the flooded cellar and blocked the doorway before they could get out.  I was hearing this story from a man who I had once threatened to murder if he told me any lies so I figured it had to be true.  The outcome of his bravery was so close to my own aspirations of courage that it sealed the final bond between us.  Another fascinating story he told involved the famous Hungarian, movie star sisters Eva and Za Za Gabor.  Before the uprising in the homeland my father and his two brothers were sweet on all three Gabor sisters, but the young loves were never meant to be. The Gabor girls were Gypsies and my fathers clan existed outside of their tribe.  This story highlighted the most important question I had to ask the old man and when I did he displayed more fiery passion than I had yet witnessed.  I said that I have always pursued a nomadic lifestyle and I asked him if I had any Gypsy ancestry. Instantly he exploded in a barrage of curses that I was well familiar with.  As well as picking up his recipe for chicken soup my mother also adopted many of the traditional curse words and I learned them from her.  Once he had regained his breath and composure my father explained how the Gypsies are the lowest form of human garbage that have ever walked the earth.  They live on the edge of civilized communities and thieve their way to prosperity on the backs of hard working people.  He said that I was descended from pure Magyar citizens who are clean living people and the proudest race in the world. Gee! ... Thanks  Dad, ...  Just  asking. The levity returned to our family gathering when my wise cracking uncle Biela interjected with,“So Istvan you say that you are an Artist Eh?”. All of the alarm bells started going off in my head at once and I replied with a hearty smile,”I am indeed uncle and I promote environmental sustainability through the audio visual media” My father and his scallywag brother shouted out in unison,“Bullshit Artist”  and we all had a good laugh as my fragile personal vanities were cast aside.  All of a sudden the old man got serious again and pulled me aside for a private chat that the whole table could hear.  He said if my mother had of given me to him like he pleaded then I would have attended the best art schools in the country the same as my sister Annie.   I was dumbstruck by this snippet of information and without knowing it my father had handed me the key to the unsolved cosmic joke that was my life’s story.   My creativity had grown out of cultural desolation and hardship with a blood jealous brother and a mother who thought I was completely weird.  Annie’s path was lined with riches and love which no doubt led her to the heights of acclaim she achieved.  I had definitely received the raw end of the deal in most things, but I wouldn’t even contemplate exchanging my noble environmental pursuits for B grade soap opera acclaim. 

Everybody's a dreamer ... everybody's a star ... and everybody's in movies, ... it doesn't matter who you are. For those who are successful ... be always on your guard ... success walks  hand  in hand  with  failure ... down  Hollywood  boulevard.

As we fingered through old photograph albums I came across a shot of the old boy holding up a fully matured dope plant dripping with ripened heads.   I asked him about the picture and he told me that marijuana grows wild along railroad tracks in Hungary.  He thought the shot might get a laugh from some of his mates at the golf club.  He gave me the photograph as a token of our friendship and he also presented me with the watch he had worn since he arrived in Australia.  The gifts seemed like a most appropriate bonding ritual as we might never see each other again. For me the watch was the most significant present because time is the only thing keeping us from our graves.  After a bout of sincere hugs and kisses I said farewell to my Hungarian relatives and my father drove me back to Osborne.   We parted as friends and I waved him a final goodbye just a little more comfortable with my role as a man in the world.  

                                                                                                                                      

                                                                                                                                           

                                                                Funny bastard. Like me.

I planned my departure from Adelaide to coincide with the arrival my next pension payment and all going well I hoped to find some kind traveller in the backpacker district who would be willing to tow the trailer to Melbourne.  With only three days to go till payday Rufus and I set off along the pubic bike track into the city on a pushbike I constructed from parts scattered around the shed.  My converted golf buggy was fastened on just below the seat by a long, sturdy handle and the whole rig was so well balanced that Rufus and I could move along the bike track at top speed.  My bedroll was strapped across the buggy with food and water underneath it in a milk crate.  The ride was fantastic and on the way into the city I passed by many fondly remembered locations.  Seeing the Glenelg tram wabbling along the track reminded me of carefree childhood days where a summertime trip to the beach was everything.  Once in the central city area I set up camp on the banks of the river Torrens among a cluster of bamboo that was away from the view of a bitumen walking track.  The following morning I disconnected the bike from the buggy and Rufus was left tied up to guard our camp from intruders.  I rode into the backpackers hostel area and started putting up notices which stated that I needed a lift to Melbourne. I mentioned that I would be back in the morning to deal with any replies.  When I returned the next day there were no respondents waiting around for me but I got speaking to a couple of Israeli guys who were travelling North.  They spoke very little English but we managed to communicate in spite of it.  The guys were a bit hesitant when I acted out the towing of a trailer but the sum of one hundred dollars put a much relieved lid on the deal.  They were ready to go straight away and were only giving the board a final check in the hope of landing some passengers.  My bike was thrown into the back of their Holden station wagon among backpacks and food then we drove out to the River Torrens to my camp.  By the time we had driven out to Osborne and hooked up the trailer it was about two in the afternoon but we set off regardless all as keen as each other to finally hit the road.  My parting farewell with Pauline and Graham was teary and sorrowful and I even received a warm hug from the Coorie fellow who had nicked my block of hash.

Because of the language barrier there was little room for conversation between myself and my fellow travelers.  If ever there was a need to communicate it was only for things to do with the trailer and the toilet needs of Rufus.  He threw up within the first ten minutes of leaving but the guys were very tolerant as I mopped up their food box with a beach towel.  The box was replaced at the next stop and we all went into doggy watch patrol looking for any sign of bodily excretions.  About half way through the journey we pulled over for a rest beside a paddock full of ostriches and that was the most eventful thing that happened the whole trip.  The long drive to Melbourne gave me heaps of time to catch up on the ‘Once upon a Planet’ script and time also to process the reconnection I had made with my father.  Our time together was valuable as it had released me from a number of age old confusions, but with it the anger I had always felt for my mother was increased to new levels of simmering contempt.  The picture he painted of her was that of a lazy, self pitying religious fanatic who ate chocolates all day and left the welfare of the kids to him.  Too much of what he said rang true and I was left with the inevitable conclusion that I had been raised by the wrong bloody parent. 

I imagined how my life might have been if the old girl had of handed me over to my fathers care.  He was a retired Hungarian Theater Director who recognized and nurtured the talents of his offspring.  A hard working and devoted father who might have provided the ideal platform for artistic greatness in the world.  My wishful imaginings were dissolved by the sight of the Melbourne skyline and within the hour I was free of the Israelis with my trailer chained up to a roadside sign.   The hundred dollars we had agreed on was gladly handed over and I felt inspired by the knowledge I had completed the second leg of my journey.  This accomplishment signaled the fact I had become a fully bonified pioneer in the art of interstate hitchhiking with an abnormally large load.  To catch a ride with a dog is one thing but to get away with a boat and fully loaded trailer was nothing short of miraculous.  If the stars were still shining in my favor then some other understanding soul might allow me to hook up the trailer and haul me to Byron Bay.  The trailer stayed chained to the inner city street sign for two days with Rufus crouched near the axle guarding it from any thieves.  I did the rounds of the hostels putting up notices and every potential driver that I spoke to freaked out when they saw how much I had to take with me.  The Melbourne winter rains had started to make outside camping unbearable and I was getting a little desperate at the lack of response I received. 

I was at the ‘Friends of the Earth’ shop checking the board and I bumped into an old mate called Stewart who had served with me on the frontline during the South East forest campaign.  Stewart only needed to hear a few words before he went into action man mode and he fixed my predicament in a jiffy.  We hooked the trailer up to his Toyota van and then towed it to the driveway of his rented Northcote home.  I was given the use of a sun room near the back laundry which had been left unused for weeks by an overseas travelling flatmate.  The house was occupied mostly by people from Northern New South Wales and it was easy to celebrate my Northbound progress in such a groovy setting.  The girl who owned the sunroom wasn’t due back for two more months and I was told by Stewart that I could sit out the winter in Melbourne if I wanted to.  The offer was too good to refuse so I started paying rent for the room and dived back into my creative projects.  The trailer was pushed into the front yard of the house and gradually emptied of my gear.  I leaned the boat up against the outside wall and it sat there for most of the winter.  Rufus had an enclosed backyard to play around in and he grew more sturdy by the day on meat and bones from the Lebanese meat market on the High street.   From a life of bouncing adventures on rivers and sun drenched beaches his day was reduced to walks in the park on the end of a tight leather strap.  It drizzled and rained most of the time so I made him a shelter in the yard out of wooden planks and tarpaulin.  He was allowed to come inside during the heaviest freezing downpours but only into the laundry where he snoozed in the relative warmth of the open the kitchen door. My main focus as the endless, cold winter days passed was bringing the script to completion so I could get stuck into the recorded soundtrack and produce some kind of final product.  I guess my thoughts must have been somewhere else as an unheard visitor left the back gate open and set my doggy boy free.  By the time I realised he was gone it was too late and I spent the next five days trying to track him down in the wintry Melbourne suburbs.  I called every dog catcher and pound in the phone book but he had not been seen by any of them.  In a final act of desperation I put out a reward through the taxi radio but not one of the drivers had spotted a mutt that fit his description.  At the peak of my frustration I broke down and cried at the dinner table and was consoled by a virtual scrum of caring new friends.  The despair had faded slightly by the following morning and I started to resign myself to the fact I would never see my trusty companion again.  Then as luck would have it I answered a knock at the front door and was greeted by a woman who had my buddy on a leash.  Rufus knocked me for a six in his excitement and amid a slobbering, face licking wrestle I found out that the lady’s name was Katherine.  She was the person in the neighborhood who took in all of the local strays and she had sighted one of my lost dog posters on a wall near the tram shelter.  Rufus had been kept safe less than two hundred feet from my back door and it helped to explain those howls I heard in the night that were strangely non existent everytime I arrived on the scene.  I invited our friendly neighbor in for coffee and we spoke for ages about Rufus and his delectable canine ways.  An animal lovers dinner party was arranged for the following evening to which Katherine graciously accepted an invite.  Even though Rufus’s guardian angel was a vegetarian she liked to eat fish as did all of the other people in the house.  I spent the next day preparing a mostly vego feast which was grand in scale and tasty enough to satisfy all who pulled up a chair.   Along with my culinary delights the crew also cooked up a batch of marijuana cookies which were warm to the touch and ready to sample with desert.  The green wholemeal scones were washed down with home brewed beer and we talked into the evening as the THC in our veins enhanced the collective vibe.  By the end of the night we had covered every imaginable philosophical topic and personal truths were revealed which formed the basis of lasting bonds. 

Towards the end of winter Stuart and the rest of the crew went to the ‘Down to Earth Festival’ on the Murray River and we towed the trailer along in the hope I might catch a ride to Byron Bay.   The festival was held on the banks of the river near the New South Wales border and it was attended by people from all across the country.  With that many freaks in one place I figured I had to meet up with some sympathetic new age type who would help a fellow traveler get back home.  Stuart and I unhooked the trailer in the dusty festival carpark and I chained it to a tree.   No dogs were allowed inside of the festival grounds so Rufus had no choice but to spend his time in watchdog mode with my gear.  Not knowing how much I would have to chip in for my next ride I had to watch every cent and the price of a festival ticket was a little out of my range.  The crew lugged their camping gear through the security patrolled gates and I was left outside with my dog contemplating ways to smuggle us in.  A short walk around the carpark area confirmed that there were plenty of New South Wales number plates around and my trailer would look like a street legal fixture on any of them.  It would be far better however if I was inside the gate because I could talk with people in chummy festival settings rather than approaching them as they were preparing to depart for home. After less than one hour of just hanging around I was bored to tears so I made a decision to blow some of my cash on a ticket.   As I approached the entrance flicking through my wallet and doing quick sums in my head I bumped into some girls that I knew from Nimbin.  To my surprise they produced a ticket which had not been used as the woman it was bought for had gone into labour.  I scored the ticket for a token ten dollars from those beautiful nymphs who I am sure live the non materialist way every day of their sweet young lives.  Once I was inside the festival grounds all thoughts of dogs and trailers dissolved to quicksilver as my eyes embraced the colour and tribal majesty of the scene before me.  I passed by a group of young females who’s naked bodies were being covered in red ochre paint.  Unclad people swam in the cool waters of the Murray amid a village of tipis, tents and other temporary dwellings.  Live acoustic music and spontaneous theatrical displays were happening everywhere I looked and it felt like the perfect event to resume my association with the clan.  I found Stewart and the crew setting up camp a little way back from the river and they were blown away by how I had made it in so soon.  Their campsite was on the very outskirts of the tent village and there was a perfect mooring location just nearby. 

Rufus and I needed be as far away from the other festival goers as we could get so I scouted around a bit further along from Stuart’s camp and found a spot where we could camp without anyone knowing we were there.  A sweet, elderly gate keeper listened in a slightly amused way as I described my situation.  He not only agreed to my doggy smuggling proposal up the river but he proved most helpful in it’s final enactment.  There was a small inlet running alongside the carpark which passed under a bamboo and barbed wire bridge.  After getting the boat in the water the bridge was pulled to one side by a group of muscular young hippie guys and I putted onto the main river with Rufus’s nose poking out from under a blanket.  Smiles were exchanged by all as I departed the inlet and I stood up in a victory salute that was given a hearty cheer.  As I turned onto the main body of water I realized that the people on the opposite bank were not a part of our festival.  A gathering of pisshead, speedboat freaks were whooping it up on the other side of the river as I merrily putted by.  I was still standing up after my salute operating the throttle when I heard the roar of a V8 engine that sounded awfully close to my boat.  Fuck! It was that close and I didn’t even have a chance to sit down before his bow wave hit my stern.  The dingy toppled over and Rufus and I went into the drink along with all of my camping gear.  The spinning propeller of my engine was framed by blue sky as it did a sickening final splutter and died.  A group of quick minded festival people dived in and retrieved my belongings as myself and the dog scrambled for the bank.   The moronic boatie had increased his throttle to full stick on my port side and then shot off up the river at top speed.  His cronies were laughing their stupid heads off as they sucked on beer and made insulting hand gestures towards the hippies.  The dingy was turned the right way up in the water by my helpers and we set about filling it with my soaking wet stuff.  I had to row out to the campsite I had found and just as I got there the rain came down and turned our sunny festival into a quagmire. 

I threw a tarp over a fallen tree and got a small fire going to dry out my belongings.  I had just completed the makeshift shelter when a single speedboat came flying past on the river baring the infantile name of ‘REDNECK’.  The driver of the vessel must have spotted my tinny near the bank and I heard drunk, Neanderthal laughter coming from the vanishing speedboat.  The sun shone for about three hours the next day which allowed me to dry out most of my stuff and when that was done I left Rufus to go and have some fun.   We stayed at the festival for five days altogether and I got to meet a bunch of great people who were driving North after the event.  The ride that I eventually settled on was with a guy called ‘Mushroom Brian’ who was the owner of an old model ford wagon. His car was the only one there with a light socket that matched the trailer.  He was an easygoing chap who said he  wanted just eighty dollars for petrol and he made it quite clear that he would only take me on the understanding. I would not allow him consume any magic mushrooms when we got to Byron Bay.

‘Done  deal  Mr. Mushroom  Head’.