Mission Jellyfish

In the spirit of actually getting this done before I reach 40 and ensuring some sort of readership, I am going to attempt more bite sized entries from now on. Here's one of them.

So, where did I leave us last? Ah, the Jackaroo. Well, it was a genuine delight. A central wooden open decking area, which housed the kitchen and common areas, led to large, airy (-ish) rooms with bunks and mosquito-resistant mesh over the windows. Showers were downstairs, which nobody minded because it was pretty much unoccupied, and the place was just perfect for a few days' doing of nothing. Just writing this, almost a year ago (shame on me, when fellow traveller Hannah Sturdy has been so diligent at blogging) since I was in Queensland, has relit several memories. Not of specific events per se, but of how hot the sun and humid air felt on my skin, the huge swollen bites on my legs, getting a cold beer from the fridge and tasting it turning warm within 60 seconds, sitting on the plane from Sydney to Cairns looking down at the arid landscape below and wondering how anyone inland survived, looking across the balcony at the Jackaroo to the dense canopy of trees in the valley and enjoying, not for the first time, a huge private grin spread across my face and thinking 'Yeah, this is why you are here.'

Anyway, back to the meat of the blog: the facts. Other than sitting around the pool chatting to my new pal Kate, I passed the time drinking beer and attending a quiz night down at the local bar with the Jackaroo staff (with hilarious, though not entirely encouraging, results). At one point, Kate and I took a hugely adventurous leap from our usual post by the pool and hauled our bodies onto Mission Beach itself. After a record two minutes sunbathing (I don't sunbathe for reasons I am sure I have gone into already) I went for a swim in the designated stinger net area, where I struck up a conversation with a local man who wouldn't have been out of place at Dale Winton's tanning salon, judging by the colour of his skin. 

I should probably explain to the uninitiated that a stinger net area is a box of roughly 20 x 20m from the shore into the sea, which is cordoned off by nets that Irukandji, box and other hideous and highly poisonous jellyfish are unable, in theory, to get through. As I was steaming towards the edge, this chap piped up and warned me not to stray that far. Quite sensible advice really considering the likelihood of the huge numbers of jellyfish stuck on the nets but me being two sandwiches short of a decent picnic I hadn't thought that through, so I like to think he potentially saved my life.
He told me about the high cost of living in Australia (pretty obvious by that point), what to see in regards to the local area (Tropical Island) and how cheap dental work was in Thailand (very, by all acconts), as he flashed me an impressive set of pearly whites, which contrasted in quite a vulgar fashion with his skin tone. He seemed like a genuinely lovely man, but I couldn't help thinking that he may have been after more than just dental work in Thailand. We discussed the Thai sex industry in detail without me actually discovering whether he indulged, as British politeness and reserve took hold. Curiosity unquenched, I left the water and had my customary one minute 'drying off' sunbathe under a towel and sarong, became bored very quickly and hopped back into the 'town' (read: strip of three shops) to get the bus back. I agreed to meet Kate at a cafe and while I waited, ordered a giant ice cream float to replenish myself after my near death experience.

I ended my Mission Beach stay with an impromptu fishing trip, an adventure fraught with danger around every turn, as we were once again in a prime location all manner of sea dwelling nasties looking for a good place to shove a poisoned spine. Happily, we got away with it. The evening was passed in the following way: the boys fished and drank beer, while the girls only drank beer but looked on as fish were caught at a marginal success rate then returned gently back into the sea.

This worked really well until, 4 bottles down, I kept having to run to the beach end of the pier we were on to wee. Apologies for oversharing, but I couldn't stop – God knows what was in those beers but it was the most powerful diuretic I've ever experienced. Allie, my fellow woman-type, was having the same issues, and we laughed as we tag-teamed our way back and forth along the pier, warning each other which bits of sand to avoid. Ah, the fond memories created between backpackers - I hope Allie remembers this with the same nostalgic glow. 

I was sad to leave the relative quiet of the Jackaroo and all the subsequent fun of over-urination, but the next morning I had to get going – my time in Australia was pretty much limited by budget and my Greyhound bus ticket, as I was one of about two other people I met who were just travelling and not planning on working there.
On the way to the bus stop, I was surprised and excited, as a huge Southern cassowary stepped out in front of us, like something from The Land Before Time. If you have never seen or heard of a cassowary, let me elaborate for you:

They're big buggers, found in Australia and Papua New Guinea, with a dagger like claw on their inner toes that can be used to devastating effect if you get them moody. Fortunately, we were in the car should the cassowary have suddenly decided to take a dislike to us.
Unfortunately, my replacement camera was located in the bottom of my day pack, which was in the boot of the van. Such is life.