There's no dingo's down there, bloody dickheads

It's been a thorough six week's since we were free styling up the east coast of Australia, yahooing and boozing it up until the break of day with wild locals and mad hairy men. Actually, I'm telling lies. For the first week, with the exception of falling asleep at dinner in Newtown before 9pm, we were horizontal in our van, dead to the world by the time the sun fell behind the bushes, with nothing but the sound of the sliding door opening and shutting to go wee in the middle of the night keeping us up. As time went on we made it to 10pm quiet a few times and was once even awake until midnight. So there you go, times have changed and life really isn't all about hangovers and floozy's. It's about finding that perfect motorized cart to drive around on, with your fluorescent orange flag whipping around  behind you.

Glenn was dumbfounded at the amount of old bags and buggers riding the roads in their carts, stopping out the front of the newsagent's and pharmacy's talking it up with the next crazy old git, before riding of into the sunset to take their medication and watch The Bold and the Beautiful. Than, one day as we were driving with mum, she's telling us about the 'two seater' cart, as if on cue, the old girl pulled up at the traffic lights, what a beauty; the double whammy. Mum and dad, side by side in their love seat cart. We were in our glory when out jumped the old bloke from his seat, grumpily walked over to the traffic lights and pressed the walk button. I was sad when I didn't get a photo. Oh well, a variety of cart photo's to come in future posts.

Enough jabbering about geriatric transportation, let's get back on the road. Well almost. First you need to know about the time my hair dryer caught on fire. We decided that if we were heading to see my family the next day then we would need to shower at least once in four days. My hair is not beautiful nor likable, unless you're some furry bunyip creature from the southern hemisphere. 

Since I'm not a fury animal, sometimes I do actually need to attend to my hair and Nambucca Heads was the place I was going to do it. Nambucca is on the east coast of Aussie, half way between Sydney and Brisbane. Enough going on there to have a good night sleep and some awesome fresh food.

The feeling of a shower at this point is so painfully close that I was happy to pay $45 for a piece of land to park our ugly van on for the night. It was well worth the money until I attached my tiny travel hairdryer to my adapter, plugged it and was left with an explosive sound quiet similar to a fighter jet taking off. It only took seconds for me to register that I didn't have a really awesome hairdryer anymore, but one that was about to catch on fire from the sparks that were assembling around the outer edge. After I looked around to see if anyone that was showering had stepped out to see if I was still alive, they didn't, I slipped the useless machine into the bin and left with mad, wet hair.

Being no different from any other morning at this point, we were up before the sun and fussed about until there was enough light as to not have to dodge spun out kangaroo's at dawn hopping about on the road. We paid a ten dollar deposit for our toilet key and needed to get it back from the office. Thinking that there would be some night person that sleeps near by would be able to pop over and give it to us, I start banging on the glass door and ringing the bell, quiet obnoxiously, in hope that we could get on the road. Than a cranky man-boy opened his bedroom door adjacent to where I was banging and made me feel like a dickhead for being so rude at this hour of the morning for a measly ten bucks. Quiet true, but ended up paying $55 for a patch of dirt and blown-up hairdryer.

Not to far up the road, just south of Grafton, a place where my friend Heidi tells me, behind closed doors they're a different breed of people, hmmm, Glenn and I find our own special breed of dog. To this day we swear black and blue that we found our very own Dingo. We had been driving really slow for the last couple of K's through roadworks and were day dreaming and looking around at more bush land when we both saw a juvenile dog playfully jumping about. We were uselessly trying to get the camera to prove our discovery when cars started honking and frightened the dog off into the bushes. It may not have been a pure dingo as if it was shipped down from Fraser Island, but it was definitely some kind of wild dog/dingo, one that has us sounding like we were taking the piss. Either way, its was pretty beautiful and mysterious.

Bypassing about a thousand places I wanted to stop and take Glenn to along the coast, we were only a couple of hours from what would be our home for the next month, so we gunned it until we arrived at Byron Bay, where I was sad to find out my love for the place was lost with the past. A happy lost. However we did find our way to revisit The Rails Hotel for a coldie, with the absence of local entertainment boozing it up in the park next to the beer garden. The Rails is the old train station that was utilized into a mighty fine pub when the trains stopped stopping at Byron a bunch of years ago. Check it out if you're about there. Less skanky backpackers and more mangy locals. It's a ripper.

I'm pretty happy we've arrived in Kingscliff. It's been a fast tracked journey to get to this point, so now i'm going to settle back and enjoy telling you my story. There are many, so please keep coming back to see what happens next.