The alternative GTD approach to life

It was a warm Saturday morning in Northern New South Wales, Nimbin to be exact. The air was fresh and clean and my bags had been packed. It was time to leave the green fields of Nimbin and return to the big smoke of Melbourne. The method of transport was to hitch myself back down to Melbourne for my flight home to the UK…time for a quick checklist;

 

• Rucksack
• Tent
• Money (all of $100)
• Supplies – including a massive bag of Nimbin’s finest buds and enough hash to keep me flying well back into Victoria!

 

The family I had been working for kindly drove me out to the Pacific Highway just south of Ballina, where I would begin my hitch south. As I watched the back of their pajero jeep drive off into the distance I knew I was alone; so time to make Kerouac proud.

 

I was just me and my make shift sign signalling ‘MELBOURNE’ for a long time at the side of the highway – at least 2 hours. I had the pleasure of listening to some advice from passing cars (mostly teenagers)

 

• “Get your own car you bum”
• “Wanker”
• “Dickhead”

 

Well not so much advice as abuse! They didn’t stop so I could not tell them my financial situation and how it might have stopped me from procuring a vehicle, or how I still believed that in this day and age it was still possible to hitchhike.

 

Eventually a car beeped and pointed up to the road where a truck had stopped. It was one of those gigantic Aussie trucks with a double carriage on the back. I have never before been in a truck and did not realise the effort it took to reach the heights of the cab! After launching my bags in and climbing the steps I was on my way south. I cannot claim much knowledge in the art of hitchhiking but any lift is a good thing right? (just as is any offer to get laid!) As it turns out this truck was going around 6 hours south, so I couldn’t complain.

 

As Sal Paradise says; making small talk is indeed tiring and boring, but it is part of the deal, so I was happy to try and keep the conversation flying. The driver’s name alludes me now but he was a stereotypical truckee; bald, loud, extremely overweight (wait why am I being polite? He was fucking obese!), world against him, family in Adelaide, internet sex with an English woman, you know an overall good guy! So good in fact you are thankful you can spend 6 hours in a confined space with this guy, without the luxury of alcohol.

 

I learnt after this that it is risky to pick up hitchhikers as a truck driver, as they risk forgoing their insurance. But also risky was the bag of weed I had on me so I guess we were both living on the edge abit!

 

I could not be entirely sure where I was dropped off, (we had defiantly passed the big banana at Coffs Harbour!) it was at a service station in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in the 50km stretch between Macksville and Kempsey. I know a lot of people often speak of ‘the middle of nowhere’ but honestly the only thing around this service station was fields surrounded by further fields. So with the light quickly fading and the realisation that without a torch my tent was rendered useless, I prayed to the gods of pacific highway that someone might pick me up.

 

My prayers were answered in the form of Renault Clio and its 4 passengers, so I launched my backpack into the boot and jumped in behind the driver. I realised that I had jumped into some white Australian’s worst nightmare – a car full of Aboriginals, who to be honest were certainly enjoying life and all its rich substances! They were a friendly and welcoming bunch and could not have been happier to give a ‘brother’ a lift, and I even had a comment regarding my hair! (although I am not sure if it was positive or negative!)

 

I was dropped in Kempsey where I had some decisions to make:

 

1. Risk hitching at night in hope for an overnight ride.
2. Find somewhere to sleep for night.

 

After a quick cigarette by the river I decided to set up camp for the night. As I had no guidebook or prior knowledge of Kempsey, where better to seek directions to the nearest campsite than the local bottle shop? The welcome I received in the bottle-o was as cold as the Victorian ocean, and got worse upon my request of the proximity of the nearest campsite.

 

“Is there anywhere to camp around here please?”

look of distain from owner “camp? No mate its not safe, better off to sleep in your car. Make sure you lock the doors though”

“oh right…well I don’t have a car! Why is not safe?”

“Aboriginals – they’ll mug you for everything you have. Better off carrying on outta town”

“Ah I see…well thanks anyway” I don’t recall my exact thought process at this time but it probably went along the lines of ‘oh shit.’

 

Fate however decided to step in when a man wearing a bright orange t-shirt advertising ‘Kempsey Caravan & Camping Park’ stood next to me whilst purchasing some beers. I quickly explained my situation and asked if he did indeed work on a campsite, and to my surprise he did indeed work on a campsite down the road. We jumped in his ute and went to the campsite where I decided to splash out $15 for a sort of mini dorm, complete with kitchen and tv room all to myself. I suppose Kempsey is not the sort of place that attracts visitors on mass. I consumed about 6 pre-made chicken sandwiches and promptly went to bed.