Nimbin
Harry’s watch showed eleven as the plane landed in Brisbane but the stewardess on the speaker insisted it was only ten.
“They don’t have summer time in Queensland,” Andrew informed him. “It was a big political issue up here, culminating in a referendum and the farmers voted against it.”
“Wow, sounds like we’ve come to redneck country.”
“I reckon so, mate. Up until a few years ago long-haired men were refused entry to the state. It was banned outright.”
“You’re joking.”
“Queensland’s a bit different. Soon they’ll probably ban skinheads.”
Harry stroked his close-cropped skull. “Anything else I ought to know about Queensland?”
“Well, if you’ve got any marijuana in your pockets you’d better leave it on the plane. In Queensland the drugs laws are stricter than in other states. It was no coincidence that the Aquarius Festival was held in Nimbin. The town’s just over the border, in New South Wales.”
They found the Avis office where they had been told a car would be ready and waiting for them.
“On the other hand, Queensland has places like Fraser Island, where Inger Holter met Evans White. The island’sactually no more than a huge sandbank, but on it you can find a rainforest and lakes with the world’s clearest water and sand that is so white the beaches look as if they’ve been made out of marble. Silicon sand it’s called, because the silicon content’s so much higher than in normal sand. You can probably pour it straight into a computer.”
“The land of plenty, eh?” said the guy behind the counter, passing them a key.
“Ford Escort?” Andrew wrinkled his nose, but signed. “Is it still going?”
“Special rate, sir.”
“Don’t doubt it.”
The sun was frying the Pacific Highway, and Brisbane’s skyline of glass and stone glittered like crystals on a chandelier as they approached.
From the freeway eastward they drove through rolling green countryside alternating between forest and cultivated field.
“Welcome to the Australian outback,” Andrew said.
They passed cows grazing with lethargic stares.
Harry chuckled.
“What’s up?” Andrew asked.
“Have you seen the comic strip by Larson where the cows are standing on two legs chatting in the meadow, and one of them warns: ‘Car!’ ”
Silence.
“Who’s Larson?”
“Never mind.”
They passed low wooden houses with verandas at the front, mosquito nets in the doorways and pickup trucks outside. They drove past broad-backed workhorses watching them with melancholy eyes, beehives and penned pigs blissfully rolling in the mud. The roads became narrower. Around lunchtime they stopped for petrol in a little settlementa sign informed them was called Uki, which had been chosen as Australia’s cleanest town for two years running. It didn’t say who had won last year.
“Holy macaroni,” Harry said as they trundled into Nimbin.
The town center was about a hundred meters in length, painted all colors of the rainbow, with a crop of characters that could have come from one of the Cheech & Chong films in Harry’s video collection.
“We’re back in 1970!” he exclaimed. “I mean, look over there. Peter Fonda in a clinch with Janis Joplin.”
They slowly cruised down the street as somnambulist eyes followed them.
“This is great. I didn’t think places like this existed anymore. You could just die laughing.”
“Why?” Andrew asked.
“Don’t you think it’s funny?”
“Funny? I can see it’s easy to laugh at these dreamers nowadays. I can see that the new generation thinks the flower-power lot were a bunch of potheads with nothing else to do except play guitars, read their poems and screw one another as the whim took them. I can see that the organizers of Woodstock turn up for interviews wearing ties and talk with amusement about the ideas of those times, which obviously seem very naive to them now. But I can also see that the world would have been a very different
Harry’s watch showed eleven as the plane landed in Brisbane but the stewardess on the speaker insisted it was only ten.
“They don’t have summer time in Queensland,” Andrew informed him. “It was a big political issue up here, culminating in a referendum and the farmers voted against it.”
“Wow, sounds like we’ve come to redneck country.”
“I reckon so, mate. Up until a few years ago long-haired men were refused entry to the state. It was banned outright.”
“You’re joking.”
“Queensland’s a bit different. Soon they’ll probably ban skinheads.”
Harry stroked his close-cropped skull. “Anything else I ought to know about Queensland?”
“Well, if you’ve got any marijuana in your pockets you’d better leave it on the plane. In Queensland the drugs laws are stricter than in other states. It was no coincidence that the Aquarius Festival was held in Nimbin. The town’s just over the border, in New South Wales.”
They found the Avis office where they had been told a car would be ready and waiting for them.
“On the other hand, Queensland has places like Fraser Island, where Inger Holter met Evans White. The island’sactually no more than a huge sandbank, but on it you can find a rainforest and lakes with the world’s clearest water and sand that is so white the beaches look as if they’ve been made out of marble. Silicon sand it’s called, because the silicon content’s so much higher than in normal sand. You can probably pour it straight into a computer.”
“The land of plenty, eh?” said the guy behind the counter, passing them a key.
“Ford Escort?” Andrew wrinkled his nose, but signed. “Is it still going?”
“Special rate, sir.”
“Don’t doubt it.”
The sun was frying the Pacific Highway, and Brisbane’s skyline of glass and stone glittered like crystals on a chandelier as they approached.
From the freeway eastward they drove through rolling green countryside alternating between forest and cultivated field.
“Welcome to the Australian outback,” Andrew said.
They passed cows grazing with lethargic stares.
Harry chuckled.
“What’s up?” Andrew asked.
“Have you seen the comic strip by Larson where the cows are standing on two legs chatting in the meadow, and one of them warns: ‘Car!’ ”
Silence.
“Who’s Larson?”
“Never mind.”
They passed low wooden houses with verandas at the front, mosquito nets in the doorways and pickup trucks outside. They drove past broad-backed workhorses watching them with melancholy eyes, beehives and penned pigs blissfully rolling in the mud. The roads became narrower. Around lunchtime they stopped for petrol in a little settlementa sign informed them was called Uki, which had been chosen as Australia’s cleanest town for two years running. It didn’t say who had won last year.
“Holy macaroni,” Harry said as they trundled into Nimbin.
The town center was about a hundred meters in length, painted all colors of the rainbow, with a crop of characters that could have come from one of the Cheech & Chong films in Harry’s video collection.
“We’re back in 1970!” he exclaimed. “I mean, look over there. Peter Fonda in a clinch with Janis Joplin.”
They slowly cruised down the street as somnambulist eyes followed them.
“This is great. I didn’t think places like this existed anymore. You could just die laughing.”
“Why?” Andrew asked.
“Don’t you think it’s funny?”
“Funny? I can see it’s easy to laugh at these dreamers nowadays. I can see that the new generation thinks the flower-power lot were a bunch of potheads with nothing else to do except play guitars, read their poems and screw one another as the whim took them. I can see that the organizers of Woodstock turn up for interviews wearing ties and talk with amusement about the ideas of those times, which obviously seem very naive to them now. But I can also see that the world would have been a very different
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