Creatures in Captivity

The following morning I struggled awake resisting the urge to screech to the heavens "put me out of my misery! Take me now!" (all that shouting would have hurt my poor head), struggled into some clothes and very large, very dark sunglasses, and headed off to meet the Melbourne girls for breakfast. They had just a couple of hours before they were due to return, appropriately enough given their moniker, to Melbourne.


The previous morning, before I'd met everyone at the Botanical Gardens, I'd had a bit of a wander around Anna's neighbourhood, so I thought I had my bearings and could easily enough walk to the hotel (we'd finished the previous night at their hotel with a bottle of vodka - 'nuff said). Anna lives on the north side of the river that snakes up through Brisbane, turns a U bend under the famous Storey Bridge and then heads back out towards the sea. The hotel, I was fairly sure, was just on the south side of the U bend, right next to the bridge, so - I carefully deduced - I could walk along the sea walk (a floating pathway that rather thrillingly bobs up and down when boats pass) and under the bridge and hey presto I'd be there. Panicked by texts that said "we're hungry" and "our plane takes off in two hours!", when I got to the other side of the bridge and saw no sign of the hotel, I jumped into a taxi and asked him to take me to the hotel.

"But --" he began.

But I insisted and he shrugged. He drove up the road, maybe 10 or 15 metres to a spot where he could pull a U turn, and, as we drove back down, on the exact same spot from which I had just stepped into the taxi, stood the Melbourne girls waiting for me. I know my hangover was bad, but I really hope I hadn't been standing right next to them when I hailed the taxi. Which charged me $5, by the way.


And so to breakfast, where we went over the previous night in detail, confirmed that yes indeed, Jon is a bit lovely; and I believe that I might have promised - bollocks to returning to London - that I would come to the Melbourne concerts. They are happening tonight, as I write, from London. Sigh. The girls very kindly gave me a Tim pic meaning that I now only have to wrestle Garry to the ground and empty his pockets before I have a full set (catching pics during a show is not going to happen for me - as I've said before I couldn't catch a guitar if it was thrown at me.) Then the Melbourne girls were off, and I was left to my own devices in Brisbane. It is odd the things that occur to you to do, alone and hungover in a strange city. Anna and Jack, I should point out, weren't just randomly ignoring me - they were on a walk to commemorate a local aboriginal man (which I will write more about when I have finished the trip itself it's a fascinating story) - they'd invited me to join them on the 30k walk and I had politely and vehemently declined. I wandered into the casino, out of random curiosity, and was startled to find it buzzing at 12pm on a Saturday; indeed it seemed more like 12am on a Saturday. With the complete lack of natural light it might well have been pitch dark outside and the people hunched, captivated, over pokies (which just sounds a bit rude if you ask me, but then I am not Australian) and around card tables had a night time air to them. The only other time in my life I have been in a casino (it's just not something that interests me at all) was the Mandalay Bay Casino in Vegas - for an INXS concert. If I develop a gambling problem one day, I will know who to blame. It is ironic actually, that INXS keep leading me towards ringing, flashing slot machines, because establishments such as the very one I was in, are popularly blamed for killing off the "pub rock" scene of the seventies and early eighties which was their original stomping ground. It's said that pub rock is slowly returning in Australia - and, when I was in Sydney, I did walk down a street in which all three pubs had bands playing (they were covers bands and mostly a bit crap, but I suppose they have to start somewhere) - and I do hope so. There is a creepy soullessness, not to mention an isolation - a slot machine is hardly a group effort, after all - to these places, that strikes me as curiously un-Australian.


I hadn't played any of the machines in Vegas, I kept meaning to as I dashed past as it felt like I should, being in Vegas and all, but had never gotten around to it, so I decided to rectify that now. I chucked in a dollar, pulled the lever and waited, wondering what was going to happen. Pictures flashed up and rattling sound announced the arrival of ten dollar coins. Rather pleased with this gambling lark, I wandered back out into the sunshine and bought a smoothie and a Brisbane fridge magnet with my winnings. The rest of the day brought a lovely wander around the shopping area (surprisingly posh shops - I hadn't expected to be able to shop for Ralph Lauren in Brisbane, but had my bank balance been amenable, I would have!) and a return the Botanical Gardens to see them in daylight, and sunshine. Lovely.


The following day, after watching the Brisbane River of Fire (a spectacular fireworks display) from Anna and Jack's balcony, and a gorgeous dinner (cooked very impressively by the lovely Jack), I set off to visit Australia Zoo. Ever since I spent a summer marooned in Massachusetts after being deported from Canada (the first time) and happily whiled away the evenings watching Crocodile Hunter with my then 11 year old cousin, I have been a huge Steve Irwin fan and have wanted to visit his zoo. I think that reptiles, in particular crocodiles, are brilliant: they are just so mysterious, and ancient and weird and… and… cool. Don't get me wrong, if an iguana was to walk into this room right now I would scream and run away (and also wonder where it had come from) but, from a distance, I like them very much. Steve Irwin, I also like very much: anyone with that evident passion, drive and utterly uncool enthusiastic zest for life is okay in my book. So, great guy, great creatures outweighed the slightly soul destroying realization that, having come this far, I had to drive north back up the Bruce Highway - from where I'd just come. I dealt with it, and duly arrived at Australia Zoo a couple of hours later.


I absolutely loved it. Some people had warned me that it was a bit over commercial and crass, but, while there certainly were plenty of pictures of the man himself and 'crikey' logos around, I didn't find that it bothered me at all. I loved that it had a sense of an animal sanctuary rather than a zoo - the enclosures were well camouflaged and very often the keepers were right in them, caring for and interacting with the creatures, thus avoiding that isolated captivity that is so uncomfortable to witness in other zoos. From my admittedly entirely ignorant observation, the animals seemed to have plenty of room - in stark contrast to that horrible tiger cage barely bigger than the room from which I type that makes me feel ill at London Zoo. I loved as well the continuous drumming of education - every where you turned, there were workshops and talks with little kids clustered around, goggle eyed, as a staff member lectured, explained and demonstrated. You literally could not possibly walk away without learning something: did you know, as a random example, that the only pure bred dingos left exist only in captivity? I headed for the exit, and on the way I passed a staff member holding a baby alligator along his forearm. It was, he informed me, 10 days old. Both his mum and dad were together at Australia Zoo, and this little chap would grow to around 12 or 14 feet long. As I stroked his back (the alligator, not the staff member) a couple of other visitors approached and asked where Steve was. The reply was that he was up at Port Douglas doing some filming. Apparently he's only at Australia Zoo doing the crocodile show on public holidays. Driving away a few moments later, I made a mental note that if I could possibly schedule my next Brisbane trip over a public holiday, I would do so in order to catch the man in action.