Saturday, 10 December 2016

I went to Australia and became a backpacking wanker (part 1)

Earlier this year my personal trainer moved to Sydney and said I should hit him up if I'm ever in town. I think it were one of them loose invitations you're not really meant to take up, but off I flew regardless. A bit like when you bump into someone from school and they insist you must do 'catch up drinkies' soon. No thanks, mate. Before I made it to my main man Michael though, I thought I'd become a backpacking wanker and solo travel myself along the coast. And obviously document it all here for ya.



My first stop was Brisbane and as I arrived into the train station someone tried to sell me drugs, there was two homeless people having a fight and I went to Nando's. Home from home. The Peri Peri did please me, though. It was two busses, a ferry and little plane to Fraser Island next, where I made friends with some other sun-seeking travellers that had also escaped the mundane realities of real life for their own midlife crisis on the other side of the world. A decent bunch of people all chasing an adventure too.

Fraser Island is apparently the world's sandiest place or something like that? A tour guide did say but I weren't really listening because Hannah Montana had come on shuffle. It's also got a big fucking rainforest, wild dingo's roaming about like absolute lads on tour and a population of just 196. Not much chance of a holiday romance there. 

There's lakes to splash about it, creeks to also splash about it and a sea you can't splash about it. They take that last one very serious. A picture perfect paradise surrounded by sharks. I danced with danger, dipped a foot in and thankfully lived to tell the tale.


Moving on from Fraser Island, along with my new mates we then headed to the infamous Aussie outback. Not to be confused with bareback. Two entirely different things I've since learned. A lovely little family were putting us up on their 2,600 acre farm and promised we'd experience the raw realities of rural life. And it were sticky, sweaty and equally exciting. Please note I'm talking about the outback, not its unfortunate almost namesake - you filthy minded bastard.

The farm was situated in the town of Baralaba in Bananashie and ran by a one-eyed pensioner who had spent the day fighting a big fucking bushfire that was heading our way. What a lad. He made the British elderly look like the bunch of whiny, coffin dodging, Come Dine With Me loving, Brexit bashers they are. Also please note I didn't make up he ridiculous names of the location. I'm sure the Native lot were drunk when they were naming this shit? Hilariously we broke down in a town called ISIS on our way there. It was surprisingly quiet.

Aside from wanking off a cow, touching up some kangaroos, riding dirt bikes, horses, in the back of truck at sunset and completing a 5KM run across their land at 6AM (you're welcome lads), it was proper good to learn about their self-sufficient, slightly isolated, way of life and the history of Australia.

My favourite tale was about the infamous cane toads (big fucking frogs) and how some fella had a belter of an idea to bring 100 into the country in 1935 to kill off some beetles that were attacking all sugar cane crops. Except the toads had the opposite effect and helped the beetles, quickly reproduced and now there's two hundred million of them hopping about the place killing cats and foxes and fucking up all other elements of farming life. What a bloody helmet. He had one job. Talk about a bad day at the office. The locals now enjoy games including hitting them with cricket bats, obviously.

Don't forget to follow my Twitter and Instagram @Joshua_Fox so you know when part two is up!

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