The Native Life, and Leaving/PERTH

Now that my body was finally back to its original state of unblistered perfection, my time in Oz was coming to an end.  I was to leave the day after next for Vietnam, and honestly I felt relieved.  With great respect to the efforts of Jessie and her friends, it seemed I was not designed to enjoy Australia.  My spirits were being sapped more and more every day by the nonsensical government regulations, crushing exchange rate, and a nightlife filled with such preening over-tanned fight-crazy douchebags as would put even Jersey to shame.  And have I mentioned the prices?

Remember, 4 days a week, for one hour, you can get a drink for $6.  Happy Hour: Australian for "Fuck You"

If that wasn't enough, internet users here still have download quotas.  My personal theory is the Australian government believes the internet may actually run out, and thus conservation is necessary.  And what's the deal with being a country and a continent at the same time?  Does it make you feel like a big man?  Enough already.

Still, with a day and a half left I wasn't quite finished with this sunburnt country.  For one, I had yet to see a kangaroo.  Sure, I'd feasted on their flesh and all, but I wanted to see one up close and hopping.  I could go to a zoo, but then I could go to a zoo anywhere and see one of the be-pouched bastards.  Instead, I was told of Heirrison Island, located in the middle of a bridge over the Swan river, and home to enough kangaroos that they have to fence them in, away from traffic.  Perfect.

Well, I followed the riverfront to the bridge and hiked all over that goddamn island for hours, finding nothing but dust, scrub brush, and a dirty water trough.  The afternoon sun was burning my shoulders where sunscreen had been neglected, and in my desperate thirst I wondered whether the murky water was intended for kangaroos or people, and if I couldn't just chance it this once.  However, reason prevailed.  As much as an Australian longs to fight their fellow man, I knew they hated the 'roos even more.  Surely, the water must be poisoned.

My thirst unsated, I began the long trek back to the city.  While I had been told people don't often spot the kangaroos on the island, I thought the universe would just let me have this one.

Pictured: Not Kangaroos, Probably

Although the powers that be were insistent on throwing up this kangaroo cock-block, I did get a sort of existential consolation prize.  And that would be seeing a Dr. Doom vanity license plate.  That's right, Perth.  I found him.

And he drives a Subaru.

Chuckling at supervillain-owned hatchbacks wasn't the only action on my docket this night either.  Earlier in the week, I had found a flyer for some sort Goth club night in Fremantle.  Ordinarily I'd keep my distance, but my time here had confused my brain into thinking a $10 cover was a bargain, and who out there doesn't want to know what Australian goths are like?  Moreover, there was something special about this event, something that spoke to me.  Maybe it was the badly drawn furry art on the flyer, and promises of "Burlesque Performances".  Maybe it was the fact that one of the bands was called Matty Trash and the Horrorbles.  Come on.  The Horrorbles.  I told Jessie we had to go.

This flyer is a master class in how to get me ironically excited.

"Creature of the Night" turned out to be everything I hoped for, and more.  Girls in corsets hawking awful handmade purses and pillowcases, bands whose music ranged from mediocre to nu-metal, and people playing beer pong with lone glasses of beer and actual ping pong paddles.

I didn't want to say nothin', but...You're doing it wrong.

The burlesque performance was a couple of girls strutting their stockings to Marilyn Manson's version of "Personal Jesus", and it confirmed my belief that girls cannot watch other girls striptease without claiming they could do better.  Sure it may be true, and these ladies were definitely amateurs, but I'm of the opinion that some burlesque is better than no burlesque, and uh, shut up.

But you can form your own opinion:

After I'd had my fill of $6.50 beer and $8 whiskey cokes, we managed to catch the last train back to Perth. Turns out, this was the party train.  After stepping over a pile of puke to board, Jessie and I took some of the few seats not covered in trash, or worse.

Luckily I had the designated Cigarette Butt Seat between me and the vomit.

We started a conversation about the show, the music, the distinct lack of furries despite what the topless tiger-woman promised, when a man lying across three seats in front of us growled, "Shut the fuck up or I will kick your fucking ass."  He then groaned loudly and muttered something about feeling sick, while I began talking even more loudly and distinctly, because Fuck Him.  While I respected his throw-up prowess, if indeed the puddle on the floor did belong to him, I wasn't about to give this fetal-curled bully the satisfaction of backing down, not after I had seen the last third of the film classic Never Back Down.  If there was one thing those 25 minutes had taught me, it was to not Back Down.  Never.  Jessie and I continued to talk, louder and louder, while he groaned and cursed me out more, and eventually flipped over onto his other side.  FIGHT: WON.

With the next day being my last here, I check out of Grand Central and drop my bags off at Dan's.  In the morning I meet Jessie to go see Rango, an animated movie about a confused outsider lizard in an acupulco shirt who finds himself a small desert town filled with people who want to fight him.  More or less.  Something about the film seemed oddly resonant.

Now, I hadn't seen any kangaroos, and it didn't seem likely to happen in the few hours I had before my flight that evening, but I did see something.  As chance would have it, the least likely animal I would expect to see in Australia.  On my last afternoon, I went to...Penguin Island.

Like Skull Island, but not quite.

It took a train and a bus, but I made it to the dock in Rockingham exactly one minute before the last ferry left at 3:00.  I was the only person on the ferry not counting the captain, and I've never been very comfortable as the only person on a boat ever since a particularly stressful experience in Bangkok, and I briefly considered walking to the island (which is actually possible, on top of a 1km sandbar).  However, the ferry ride was more pleasant than terrifying, and I made it to Penguin Island fine and dry.  My expectations were low after Heirrison Island, but finally timing was on my side.  I present to you...the Little Penguin:

Yes, these are the smallest penguins in the world, and yes, they are native to Australia and New Zealand.  Somehow Australia is home to both the deadliest creatures in the world, and the most adorable.  How?  Life Finds A Way, I guess.

Pictured: Life Finding A Way (Not Pictured: Sniper Support)

Once I had my fill of the critters so cute that Australia calls 'em Fairy Penguins, I had about an hour to kill before I needed to get back to the ferry.  And that's how I learned about my new hero: Seaforth McKenzie.

This guy.

Seaforth was a Canadian man possessed of just the right combination of money and crazy that he actually lived in the caves here for years, squatting illegally until the government basically gave up and leased him the land, presumably wary of offending a voluntary cave-dweller with a name like Seaforth.  And before you go thinking he was just another lonely penguin-obsessed hermit like all the others, he actually operated a store out of a cave to serve visitors, and offered lodging.  He also threw the most mind-blowing parties you've ever seen (citation needed).

Party Central

Penguin Island was also home to a massive Pelican mating site, so to protect their eggs and those of the penguins and other birds, you can only walk around on the island on raised wooden walkways.  These walkways are, of course, covered in birdshit.

If, like most of my audience, you're into pelican orgies, have I got a treat for you.

It was on these walkways, surrounded by thousands of surly, screeching birds, that it started to feel like I was in a Hitchcock movie.  They lined the railings, flapped overhead, and covered all the terrain surrounding.

The mood soon changed from feeling like The Birds to actually being in the movie when one gull decided I was being too uppity and started screaming and attacking me, forcing me to flee.  A goddamn bird had made me Back Down.  Shameful.

The bus ride back to the train station was something special, as if on my last day Australia had just decided to open up all her spoils to me.  For one, I spotted an ultra-rare Australian Juggalo on the bus, complete with trashy rat-tail haircut.  He sure was a long way from his natural habitat.  Second, I finally got a picture of a Black Boy plant (kind of):

Flora doesn't get much more blurry or offensive than this.

I meet Dan that evening at a Belgian beer cafe, to spend the last hours before my flight sipping on crispy Stellas.  The way this classy joint operated was they steam-cleaned your glass just before serving the beer, and then cut the head off with an implement called, funny enough, a head cutter.  The whole operation is all sorts of classy, although it's up to you if feeling like you're in a European commercial is worth a 10 dollar Stella Artois.  After guzzling a couple down and a cherry beer called Bellevue, I said my goodbyes to Jessie and caught a cab to the airport.

I left Australia feeling much more positive than I would have expected, and only some of that was the Belgian beer working.  I have a layover in Singapore, and my mood is brought down somewhat by the realities of budget airline travel.

Or "Hell", as Dante famously called it.

After I've picked up my bags and gone through Customs, I notice that my Puma shoes are missing from the side pockets of my backpack where I usually keep them.  I find the Lost and Found, but no one's working.  I wait, and finally an employee comes that I'm able to talk to.  They tell me to talk to a representative from the airline, and I'm pointed to a booth where...no one's working.  Finally someone shows up, and I'm told that after passing through Customs, I can't get my shoes back.  Oh.  Wait, what?  According to this guy, and the shitty email I got later from Tiger Airways, once you pass through immigration you basically give up any right whatsoever to anything you may have lost, and they're not going to even bother and look, because fuck you and your fancy new shoes.

Now down to just my flip flops, things were looking a little dark, and cynicism was beginning to creep through my usually sunny outlook.  Then I dropped my MP3 player in a toilet.  Maybe it wanted off this sinking ship, I don't know.  Now I had Vietnam to look forward to.  At least I had my health.