WanderingJustin.com

Australia 2007 – Bleedin’ on Darwin, Tour de France Pee at Lewinsky’s

Tuesday, Aug. 21

The beach at Darwin. Watch for sharp underwater rocks ... and mud!

The beach at Darwin. Watch for sharp underwater rocks ... and mud!

Midafternoon

I was trying to keep calm, but I was kind of worried. Sarah was leaving bloody footprints all over the beach, and had also left a trail of red swirling in the water.

The beach two miles from the downtown area seemed nice enough, but there were lots of sharp rocks in the water. And Sarah was unlikely to slice her foot open on one. I tried to look casual as I sort of speed-walked up to the lifeguard. I mentioned that she had a little cut on her foot, and could he take a look.

Remember that Stereotypical Australian Bloke I mentioned? Well, this lifeguard – chubby; long-haired, laconic- was another. We started walking back to where Sarah was waiting a few hundred feet away, medical kit in hand.

“There’s no bleedin’ allowed on me beach!” he shouted as we walked.

Sarah cocked her head in confusion, looking puzzled even at long range.

“I said ‘stop bleedin’ on me beach!'” he yelled. This time, she heard him and was hysterical with laughter. Sarah asked him if he’d seen any crocs.

“Naw,” he drawled. “I haven’t seen one in hours!”

Let’s just say that he made a bad situation much more fun and memorable in a good way as he patched her up.

The day started off pretty routine: breakfast at one of the ubiquitous Coffee Clubs and some general walking around, scoping out didgeridoos, bush hats and last-minute items for the start of tomorrow’s adventure.

Darwin by daylight. This is Mitchell, one of the main drags.

Darwin by daylight. This is Mitchell, one of the main drags.

Darwin. What an odd place. It’s like a beachfront college town that collided with Tombstone, Ariz., circa 1850. It’s clearly a “what happens in Darwin stays in Darwin” hive of debauchery for the younger folks. And there’s just a hint of anything-goes lawlessness, along with four-wheel-drive trucks equipped with snorkels advertising it as a jumping off point to the wild lands to the south and east of it. Which is what brought us here, by the way. It’s also very diverse … I had more than a few startled moments when some young Asian woman would speak to me in a perfect Australian vernacular accent. Very odd, that combination.

A low center of gravity helps in lawn bowling.

A low center of gravity helps in lawn bowling.

On the march to the beach we stopped for a look around at the Botanical Gardens. It seems they were tearing down from a festival the previous night, and all I could think about was how much fun it would be to play a gig in Australia. The park had a lot of nice footpaths, and some of the vegetation was really nice and lush. It gave a good idea of what Darwin might look like without human influence.

It's cricket, baby!

It'c cricket, baby!

Then was our earlier-mentioned stop at the beach. After that, we started the trip home, but sidetracked a bit to watch some cricket. That was kind of fun. I still can’t make heads or tails of what’s going on, but it was fun to watch people watching it: Now, this was just a practice. But the practice had spectators, and they bananas when something happened. What that something is, I don’t know – but they seemed to!

We also stopped to watch the elderly enjoy their sport of choice: lawn bowling! It was like a cross between shuffleboard and bowling. I can’t imagine Jeff “The Dude” Lebowski approving. But hey, it’s better than golf.

We finally made it back and grabbed a shower. Then, it was off to have a nice, early dinner. This isn’t easy in Australia. It seems that you have a narrow window of opportunity at a lot of the restaurants. At just before 6 p.m., that window had not opened. We walked up to a place Hanuman, which locals insisted was some of the best stuff in town. We walked in, and the place was virtually empty.

Wicked Campers are popular, and they often have a German at the wheel. I think this was Borat's camper. Great success!

Wicked Campers are popular, and they often have a German at the wheel. I think Borat rented this one. Very nice!

“Do you have a reservation?” asked the maitre’d. Sarah and I looked at each other like he’d grown a second set of buttocks in the middle of his forehead. Nobody has asked us for reservations in Australia, and this is the Top End! We told him no, but he seated us anyway after methodically consulting his reservation book.

Despite that beginning, we actually really like the place. The baramundi curry was pretty amazing, and we had a vegetable dish in a masala sauce that was just as good. For an Indian-influenced restaurant, though, it amazed me that they didn’t have mango lassi.

After dinner, we decided to walk to a wine bar we’d seen the day before. The reason we picked this one is because it’s called Lewinsky’s, which we both found hilarious – as it turns out, the place sucks far less than its namesake!

Now, Lewinsky’s has a pretty cool schtick. You buy a little pre-paid card and they give you a couple of glasses. Then, you go to this wall with a bunch of fancy-looking fountains. You stick the card in the fountain of your choice, and it gives you a sample of the wine inside it, deducting from your card. It’s pretty laid-back and allows you to go at your own pace. They also have a bar, where you can order stuff that’s not in the fountains.

Sarah was curious about a wine she’d heard of that was made from mangos. She asked the bartender about it, and the manager overheard.

So the manager -a 40-ish character who seems a lot more cheery ad mischievous than the stereotypical wine bar manager- bustled over and said he’d had a few bottles in the cellar for a few years. He had more than a bit of the stereotypical Australian bloke (henceforth called an SAB) in him. The company had sent them over, he tried one, and “hoped nobody would ever ask about it again.” But since we were curious, he’d open another up with us to see if age had done it any favors.

He emerged a few minutes later, and poured a yellow liquid into each of our glasses. He swirled it around, holding it up to the light.

“Looks like a specimen from a Tour de France rider,” he said, smirking.

It doesn’t taste much better. It has this plastic-like taste that gives way to a pine flavor. I don’t mind the pine, but the plastic is just foul.

“Just like I remember,” he said.

If all wine bars like this, I think wine would be more fun. No pretense, no snootiness. Just a bunch of people enjoying an evening in the same place.

Though was it still early, we headed back to the MOM. Tomorrow is the big one, when our real Australia vacation begins. We just have to get some sleep to get ready for the 5:30 a.m. wakeup so we can be ready to roll into the Kakadu National Park with Wilderness Adventures.

I can’t overstate this enough – I have set it in my brain that this is going to be the highlight of the trip. A real taste of the Outback. Morning can’t come soon enough.

The crew at Mom wasn’t cooperating, though. We were just about 30 feet from the front office, and every X-swallowing, lovey-dovey, high-spirited young backpacker was making a ruckus. And there’s god-awful European techno being played on the bar on the second floor. God, it’s heinous! Sleeping is a challenge – if you plan to stay at Mom, try to get a room as far from the front as possible. Apparently, we arrived late enough last time to miss all this fun.

Eventually, we drifted off despite the racket.

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