Tully-A Pretty Wet Place

Towns and cities often give themselves a descriptive moniker, for example Chicago-The windy City or New York-The Big Apple. I have to say, tully's is probably the least impresive, yet funny, name that i have ever come across: Tully-A Pretty Wet Place.
With a huge golden gumboot in the centre of town, a contriversal ploy to horde tourists into town you can see by the height of the boot just how much rainfall Tully received in the year 1950, 7.9m!
With an average drenching of 440 cm a year (14 feet) we were pretty surprised to have to seek the shade of trees to hide from the glaring sun as we passed through to collect fuel donations so we could get to Townsville.
There are a number of farms in this area including bananas and sugarcane.

A suger cane factory

The trains pulling a never ending number of carts filled with cane can be seen around town on the rail lines which zig zag across the roads.

A Cane Filled Train



Fuel is donated to us in Tully
Our brief stop in the wettest place in Australia was extremely dry.

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Evil Kineval and the Migrant Turkeys

Like a Migrant Turkey Anne flew through the air… Anne's latest injury

Michael Davies runs a Palmetum nursery, he told us to get settled in whilst he went to town for the beers in the morning. In the meantime, he said we should "go for a swim at the Paradise Waterhole" and "make yourselves at home". After coming back from the Creek, Michal had organised our camp for us, which we were sharing with the two German guys Lander and Simon. We were to start work the next morning, working around the nursery, picking up palm leaves. Working in the golden palms

When morning came we had breakfast then Michael picked us up in his Electric Stretch Golf Buggy-cum-runaround, to take us to where we would be working that day. Promises of cold beer at the end of the day propelled our enthusiasm for the task ahead, which was to take the dead leaves from a dense row of potted palms. These were packed in two rows about 100m long, ten palms wide, and were ready to be carted off to Mount Isa, but beforehand needed to be tidied and rid of the dead leaves. We pushed ourselves into the thick of it and started to pick and prune.

We swiftly got into a rhythm, of pick and put, pick and put, trimming the dead leaves off, pushing them through the gaps to the side, moving along slowly but surely. We had the leaves trimmed before the morning smoko and afterwards cleared the dead, discarded leaves from between the rows, piling them up in stacks nearby for burning. It was during one of these forays into the undergrowth of the palm rows, raking, pulling and piling,that Phil noticed something winking at him as I bent over to pick up an armful of leaves – a pristine porcelain white buttcheek gleamed in the midday sun, my bald Albino stepchild blinking at the first light of day. He’d torn through the covering of my shorts again, and Phil found him endearing and so pointed and laughed, Anne insisted on taking pictures, and I tried to hide his fleshy white face from the scorn of the world and get on with finishing the work. Gareth splits his only other shorts

An aggressive buttcheek apart, the rest of the day was spent in a flurry of picking up and putting down (somewhere else), the job that we three have become so accomplished at. The things we’ve picked up (here) and put down (over there, in a pile) during our time on the road covers much. From horse manure, to rocks, alpaca poo, mulch, to sand and gravel, from leaves to tree branches to general household rubbish, if you’ve left it there, we’ve moved it. It’s not for everyone, this picking up and putting down, but if you have anything you want moving, give us a call.
Gareth, happy in his work like a pig in muck
Even with a ventilated arse, it was hot work in the sun, and we were dripping with sweat, but those beers were at the back of the forefront of our minds as we worked until we had put all there was to pick. Michael had left a carton of beer for us when we’d finished, back at the camp, and we sat, lathered in sweat, on the concrete platform in front of our van, and enjoyed the invigorating experience of a cold beer after a days work.

It rained all that evening, continuing most of the next day, but as we’d agreed to work over the weekend now, to take care of some fuel, we were in amongst it again, picking up and putting down the leaves from the larger trees on the property, piling them and getting soaked from the rain and slathered in mud. It was so much fun to be soaking wet, covered in mud and yet, because of the humidity, sweating due to the heat.

After another swim at the Paradise Waterhole to wash away the palm frond mess we heard the din of activity from under the roof of the giant porch by Michael’s homestead and went over to investigate, knowing that Michael was away for the weekend. It was Michael’s brother, Colin, his daughter Jody, her girlfriend Jenny, their friends CJ and Charma, her girlfriend Kat, and Brad, a friend of Jodie’s and Jack and Jye, two boys, along with Michael’s son, Jerred, and they sat around a plastic picnic table laden with empty and half drunk bottles, smokes and more beers coming as soon as they saw us. What could we do but sit and join them. And get drunk with them. Ridiculously, raucously, loudly, steaming drunk.

Jerred teaches us to shoot

They told us stories, the repeating of which would require your ears be kept in quarantine for six months afterwards. We were repeatedly warned of the Midnight Mission, an activity they have to engage in every Saturday night, an adventure, a drunken spree, but we weren’t worried – because we were so pissed we’d have agreed to anything. “Want to climb on the back of an orang-utang and go waterskiing through the cane fields?” Sure. “Hey, we’re going to go toad sniffing, want to come?” Of bloody course. So when they announced that we were driving to the beach, all of us in the back of the 4x4 Ute we weren’t even phased, just worried where the beer would fit, and who would have to be sacrificed for it. He then bangs his head on the fridge door, eager to get to the food
As the sober one, Colin drove us there, along the highway for a kilometre and then what seemed like eighty along a narrow, dirt road, so pockmarked with holes it made Bryan Adams’ face seem smooth as a baby’s behind, and so uneven it made Elton John seem straight, and with deep pools of water to traverse, and eight people crammed into the back tray, it was with screams and hoots, and not a little relief that we made it to the beach, where we were greeted by a quadbike offering rides up and down the sand.
Now it was dark, very dark, only the light of the quadbike, and headlights of the 4x4 and the dim illumination of the moon cast any light on the place, but as Anne took her turn on the quad, Phil and I stripped off and went for a swim. When I say went for a swim, what I mean is that we stripped off, then trod precariously, daintily even, like pregnant baboons, over the sharp rocks, intermittent stones, shells and other protuberances unseen to the drunken eye, but lying between us and the water, staggering there like dying men, our feet torn, our reasoning clouded, where we fell, wounded, and floated about a bit, before being called back to the 4x4. We ooh’d and aah’d back over the trepidatious terrain, like courageous buffoons, and made it to the van, buoyant by the sheer scale of our bravery, when someone pointed, just there, out to the left a bit, and said, ‘look, idiots, why didn’t you just walk across the sand, there’. Could we have answered her even if we had the power of speech?
Michael let's us try his home brew We are given the royal tour around the nursery grounds A tamarind. Michael was told by Jerrard's school not to give the kids this treat any longer as it makes them fart too much Michael
Waking up next morning pretty rotten and feeling very much as though a host of pigs had defecated in our heads, we were nonetheless offered a spin on Charma’s trail bike, a 125 Kawazaki, and before our brains reacted, said yes, ok then, why not. Phil went first, and all was good, he carefully eased the throttle and took off. Anne was next and in tribute to Evel Kineval decided, in her own mind, right before she even asked ‘how do you actually ride this thing’ to hit the throttle hard, to take advantage of the stunt-like bike lessons she never quite got round to and to take off like a cannonball, only to turn swiftly into a migrant turkey, realising it’s ability to fly is long departed, before collapsing in a heap a few metres from her attempted standing-start loop-the-loop. Laying there in a crumpled heap all fears of continuing the remainder of the trip feeding a paraplegic through a catheter tube were allayed as she laughed through a grimace, and had her badly scratched back seen to once it was ascertained that was her only injury.
The bike Anne very nearly destroyed Anne's wheely skid mark
We said goodbye to the crew then, and when Michael arrived later that day we had a quiet drink with him and set off early the next morning, with a donation to Book Aid, sore heads, wounded feet and a scabby back. Whoever said that alcohol was the cause of solution to life’s problems knew what he was on about. Next stop Townsville.
Charma
CJ




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Waterfalls and stars, a tropical paradise

Josaphine Falls
Phil and Anne enjoy the scenery at the peaceful Jaruma Falls


Driving along to the music sent to us by my friend in Wale Iestyn Lloyd, we were idly talking about how good it would be to tear open a carton and get stuck into it. Because, after all the activity of the past few weeks, from Upperstone, Ingham, to Walkamin, Yungaburra, then Cairns and down to Deeral, working, raising money, finding reporters, fuel, food moving from one place to the next, we were feeling the need of a good sit, a relax and ah, do nothing for a few days.
A guy makes the brave jump at devils point, Babinda
So we took advantage of the benefits to travelling in the Tropics. Coming up soon: the hot, arid, dry and relentless endlessness of the Australian interior. So, we took the urgency out of things for a few days and decided to take it easy.
Babinda
The Tropics is teeming with life. The area south towards which we were driving having left Deeral covers the Wet Tropics World Heritage Area, an ecologically important area, with a complex history of ownership and management. It is outstandingly beautiful. Covering a mere 0.1% of Australia’s total land area, the diversity and number of species living there is incredible, many plants and animals live there and nowhere else. 50% of Australian bird species are to be found in the Tropics, as are 36% of all mammal species, 25% of all frog species, 60% of butterfly species, 30% of all orchids and 65% of all ferns. It is incredibly dense and fertile.

This is an area that adapts according to two factors – the Wet and the Dry. Forget the seasons as traditionally viewed. The Aboriginals have six seasons – not wet, wet, very wet and not dry, dry, very dry. Usually, when it’s dry it’s drought. When it’s wet it’s floods. There are only extremes to be concerned about, the very dry or very wet, like a 9 metre rainfall from December to march, or prolonged aridity during the dry. As a rule, when it rains, it rains.

This, though it sounds extreme, and harsh, as to live and work, earn a living and prosper in such conditions is very difficult, and exacting, it is nevertheless spectacular. Everything flourishes, the soil is rich and fruitful, the rainforest advances more and more, even to the sea, the creatures within it abound and life spills over everywhere. It isn’t easy, but people have adapted too, and slowly got to grips with what it takes to conform to life here.

Sugar cane grows easily and well, and has been the primary industry here since it was introduced in the 1860’s, making Australia one of the world’s foremost producers of sugar. The area is also rich in fruit – bananas, oranges, mangoes, pineapples, coconuts, as germination is oftentimes as easy as throwing a discarded pip onto the soil. It is Australia’s garden, its salad bowl, and doing a little exploring was more than an excuse to idle for a couple of days – it was an opportunity too good to miss.
Phil and Gareth gaze at Josaphine Falls
We headed to Josephine Falls, down the road from Babinda, the town closest to Deeral along the Bruce Highway, through a town called Miriwinni. We arrived soon enough. Nestles at the base of Queensland’s highest mountain, Mt Bartle Frere (or, as the Aboriginals call it, Chooreechillum) which stands at 1622m. Almost perpetually ringed with cloud, this produces a steady stream, into Josephine Creek, which runs over massive granite boulders to form the beautiful falls. Wooroonooran National Park, the lush, mountainous area covering 79500 hectares of the Bellenden Ker Range is part of the Wet Tropics World Heritage Area, and is the traditional land of the Noongyonbudda Ngadjon-jii Aboriginal people. Josaphine Falls
It is easy to understand why this particular area is held in such high esteem by the native people. A real sense of timelessness nestles between the mesophyll vine forest veiling the falls. The pools formed by the ceaselessness of the tumbling water are deep enough to dive into even during the dry season. With boulders strewn around and large slabs of polished bedrock to sit on, it is a stunning and tranquil place.
We stayed all day at Josephine Falls. Josaphine Falls
We explored, rock hopped up and down stream, swam, floated, snorkelled, sunbaked and sat in silence. We needed this day of doing nothing, someplace where doing just that is a necessary act, where it’s enough to be there and let your imagination and thoughts flow away with the water. That night we camped at Babinda, by The Boulders, at the free campsite there, made a little fire and enjoyed the feeling of being out amongst it all. Next day we stopped by Josephine again, and had a swim for breakfast, a cup of tea, then headed towards Jarouma Falls, part of the Paluma Range National Park, just south of Ingham, passing through Innisfail and Tully as we went done the Bruce Highway some more. Jarouma was another beauty spot we lingered at. Cascading down from the hills above, the waterfalls and granite rockpools, were crystal clear. On a sweltering day the fresh, clear water was cooling and refreshing, and the only thing missing was a cold beer to make perfection possible.

But that was to come later.

After drying off and having lunch, we headed down the old Bruce Highway towards another waterhole, Big Crystal Creek at the Paradise Waterhole. At the base of the Paluma Range it offered an opportunity to relax some more. On the way there, we saw a sign about 10ks from the Creek, at Mutarnee, offering work. This wouls give us the opportunity to linger for a couple of days, earn some money for the charity and maybe, just maybe, a cold beer too.

We went onto the property and spoke to Michael, the owner of Crystal Oasis Palmetum, and as it happened he had just hired two people, Germans, only yesterday, so work was scarce. Give us some work for a couple of days, and we’ll do it for a donation to Book Aid and a carton of beer. Hmm, he thought, scratching his chin, do you like XXXX? he asked, we do, we answered. You’re on then, he replied. Read a cheeky bit more!