My first day of group travel was spent recovering from the previous night's debauchery. We decided to put our quiet day to good use. We embarked to the town lagoon for a while (skipping the pool on hot North Queensland day is not an option.), then researched snorkeling trips. Our day was truly made when we finally found a job. An ex-hostel manager from Cardwell heard our chatting and offered to find us work using one of his connections. One phone call later and we were happily employed!
"Hanani! We found a job!" I broke the news to my Jewish friend.
"Oh great! What will we be doing?" He enthusiastically replied.
I didn't know how to tell him that our job wasn't very kosher. "Uh, well Hanani, we will be shelling prawns."
"What's a prawn?"
"It's a shrimp Hanani."
"Oh, that's not good. Do I have to kill them?"
"Thankfully, they are already dead."
"As long as I don't kill them, I'll do it, but God won't be too happy about this."
Everything was set. We just had to be in Cardwell by Sunday. The trouble was just getting to Cardwell. Sandy the van was on her last legs. The half maroon, half white beauty just barely survived the trip from Darwin. Hanani too her to the shop to get fixed, but a couple days later on the way home from the shop, she died.
Although I had not even traveled in her yet, I already felt a strange affinity for her. She was beat up, old, broken down, kinda ugly, the exact vehicle I imagined myself backpacking Australia in my dreams. Her passenger seat is a lime green lawn chair tied by red nylon rope to a hole in the van. There are no back seats, just a naked mattress sitting atop a wooden bed frame we stole from another abandoned can. Instead of seatbelts, we have steel hooks that jam into the point where the wall meets the tinfoil and cardboard ceiling. There can be no better way to travel.
A jump start brought her back to the hostel, but once there, she would not revive. Our plan to see the heavenly Daintree Rainforest and Cape Tribulation were scrapped. Instead, we hung out, prayed, partied, and hoped Sandy would have enough in her to take us the 200km to Cardwell on Sunday. Terry had faith; upon his inspection, he found we merely had a dead battery. We slept Saturday hoping for the best. We awoke early Sunday morning, chowed down the hostel's free cornflakes and coffee, then prepared for our seemingly epic journey. First stop was the local supermarket. Cardweel, a tiny farm village has quite inflated food costs. We loaded up with bags upon bags of food, ignoring the possibility that Sandy would not start and we'd be forced to load up the Greyhound with half a supermarket. Next was a couple of cans of petrol. If Sandy starts, we'd be unable to stop for gas along the way in fear that she wouldn't start again. Loaded and gassed up, Sandy was ready for the moment of truth.
We enlisted the help of various hostel dwellers to help us push start the van. Sandy was our Little Miss Sunshine that day, bringing smiles to all those who got the see the sight of six backpackers trying to breathe life into a dead can. Chug Chug! But no go. Faster we pushed, Henani pushed the two wires together again (the only way to start the van is by hotwiring). Still no success. We then pushed as fast as we could, hoping to reach second gear. Sandy felt the wind in her...windshield. She tried to start, mustering up all of her willpower into a giant chunk, but fell silent once again.
We parked her on the side of the road, defeated. As we sat, figuring how we were to convince Greyhound that $100 worth of food constitutes one item of luggage, the owner of the neighboring car arrived. "Hey mate, could you try and give us a jump?"
The man agreed. Sandy still would not turn over though.
"Maybe you could just jiggle the cables around while you try?"
At that point, even smearing peanut butter and rice on the battery would have seemed like a good idea. I jiggled the cables. Eline and Mirte uttered some sort of Dutch incantation. Hanani brought the two wires together. Suddenly, Sandy sprung to life!
Minutes later, we were cruising to Cardwell, cars passing us ever thirty seconds. Sandy can't go to fast and with an unresponsive speedometer, we have no clue how not fast Sandy goes. With the wind from the broken window in my hair, book in one hand, hook in the other, I let the Northern Queensland scenery pass me by. Finally, I put the depressive waste of my two weeks in Cairns behind me.
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