Well twist my nipples and call me Pork Chops, at least that’s what an ex convict Biker was fond of doing whenever I came across him. This is the story of how I became stranded at a remote hostel in the Town of 1770, a place that has progressed little since that year. North-East England’s second most famous explorer James Cook once landed here which prompted the name. Mind you he probably turned the boat around pretty swiftly after getting hassle off the locals.
1770 is essentially a stop off to break up a horrendously long journey between Fraser Island and Airlie Beach (12 Hours in total). In the backpacker world most people are sent there by travel agents with the promise of becoming Dennis Hopper from Easy Rider. This is down to the famous scooteroo tours, where (through the medium of 125cc bikes) provisionally licensed drivers can unleash terror on deserted Queensland roads. With the Greyhound bus route disrupted by a tropical cyclone, we eventually arrive at the hostel. There are even some stragglers remaining from Fraser island with two the Dutchies; Babs and Melanie in attendance joined by the ever feisty Samira.
The hostel is shall we say… quite “rustic” in terms of facilities and has no running water, instead opting for a giant bucket to catch the odd millimetre of seasonal rainfall. Geckos line the ceilings and you’d think they would do their pooing on the ground like any respectable land lizard. Turns out they drop airborne turds that are of considerable size for such a small creature, a threat best avoided in a place where water isn’t wasted on washing clothes. Water can be found in the on-site swimming pool but this is guarded by strange middle aged bikers who pass the day by getting pissed, ogling new arrivals. It is these strange men who will educate us in the ways of the road.
The day of reckoning arrives and we walk nervously to the bike shed where we will be fitted with our steeds for the day. I’ve made the schoolboy error of thinking I’m cool with a $5 t-shirt I bought back in NZ bearing the slogan “Good Luck Pork Chop”. It’s the kind of thing you buy in Primark back in the UK, you don’t think anything of it but it’s cheap and cheerful. I’m greeted by Craig, the undoubted president and alpha male of the group who examines the shirt, says “Now then, pork chops” and twists both my nipples firmly. Thus the title of “Pork Chops” had been bestowed upon me, perhaps for the remainder of my life. With my tender nipples chafing against a newly acquired leather jacket we proceed to the practice lap. Apparently if you can ride a bike you can do this pretty easily. Turns out this isn’t the case for me. On top of the Pork Chops fiasco I’m also dubbed as the worst driver that these fine men have ever seen. How was I supposed to know that you don’t accelerate while your foot is on the brake?
After about 30 minutes practice and further abuse from Craig and Co I’m deemed fit to take to the roads. I’m absolutely shitting it. Aside from the usual threats of driving there are clusters of Kangaroos that loiter at the road sides, ready to pounce. I do the math. I’m about 16 stone but on a flimsy scooter with a helmet that’s probably just for show, I don’t fancy my chances of hitting one at 50mph. It’s all well and good for most Aussies who have huge metal roo-catchers on the front of their utes, they just get ’em on the bonnet and keep driving. I, on the other hand, would be rooadkill. After a few miles though I’d turned into a fearless speed demon, perhaps I have what it takes to become a prospect in Craig’s gang. I’ve already gone through the initial abuse hazing so I’m basically a patched member.
We spend the rest of the day cruising the roads and stopping at some scenic Agnes Water spots. I manage to get a bit of Craig’s backstory in exchange for another nipple fondle. It’s colourful to say the least. I make it back to the hostel unscathed and with a new found respect from these men of the road. We’re due to leave in the morning but the greyhound bus service has been pretty much cut off by a storm causing severe floods just up the coast in Townsville. There are even rumours of Crocodiles roaming the streets…
Morning dawns and we get dropped off at the bus station, as expected the bus doesn’t turn up and it’s back to the hostel for another night. Tail between my legs I have to ask if they have another room for old Pork Chops. We try to make the most of a day in a place with nothing to do apart from get on the piss. Some people even take the chance to do some laundry in town where there’s actually running water. In more positive news, our flood stranding means we’re at the hostel bar for the weekly party. This is attended by the who’s who of 1770 and people travel as far as 50 miles to take in the scenes (and the Goon). The downside of these extra nights is my ever depleting budget. I’m down to my last few hundred dollars and a bed for the night doesn’t come for free. It’s tempting to hunker down here forever, sweeping the floors and performing sexual favours for room and board, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.
Despite my limited budget the bar sells wine for 8 dollars a bottle so i’ve got that going for me which is nice. In the haze of a raucous evening Craig beats me at Pool using only 1 arm, if ever there was the definition of a pool shark I was looking at him. He even does entertaining tricks with a sparkler and a pack of cards but in an inebriated state he manages to set his beard on fire. This doesn’t phase him though and he carries on with the trickshots. 1770 certainly has its share of 70’s hairstyles and Colombian icons Rene Higuita and Carlos Valderama also turn up for the occasion. I can vaguely recall shotgunning a VB with the two of them but the night ended with me face down, sleeping between spews on a bench 100 metres from my room, great night. We manage to make it out of 1770 the day after, my head is pounding and there is a flood disrupted 400 mile journey to Airlie Beach to face. I regret nothing.