Day 61 – 63 : Hervey Bay – “Place is a real shit-hole if you ask me.”
The train journey north from Brisbane to Maryborough, where we’re to catch a connecting coach to the coastal town of Hervey Bay, is an exercise in restraint.
What I can only describe as an inbred family has taken up a series of seats beside, in front of and, at times, around us.
They’re made up of a mother and apparent step-father who spend the next few hours slapping their children and laughing maniacally in the process. It reminds me of the saying: “It’s amazing how, if you want to own a dog, you have to get a licence, but any complete shithead is allowed to have children.”
Whether it’s the numerous toxins charging around my body or their corollary side-effects, by the time we hit the coach my head starts to pound as if pressure is being exerted from the inside out. My back is also acting up again and by the time the promised hour long bus trip expands into its second, I’m about ready to give up and die, or kill someone. I’d happily resort to either.
Eventually, we alight from the shadows of the bus and stumble around the Koala Beach Resort. It looks fine in the dark, and we’re eventually directed by what looks like a drunken taxi driver towards the rear and a bar where a fairly helpful barman takes our details – and strangely gives us blankets. I’m a little taken aback but maybe Aussies are of a more hardcore breed this far north and bury themselves in woollens when it’s over twenty degrees at night. All I know is that we won’t be mirroring the practice.
By the looks of things, despite Sheila having performed the exact same age-old sequence of registration steps with HostelBookers.com as before, we’re not booked in. He sticks us in a room where, after popping two painkillers and some weird Chinese herbal tablet that promises a restful night’s sleep, I happily collapse. As like most things regarding the Chinese, the remedy is suitably efficient.
We wake with sunlight assaulting the windows outside, our vaccination inspired sickness seemingly absent and a quest to sort out our accommodation hiccups from last night. Unfortunately, the bint behind the counter is about as helpful as testicular cancer, and just as welcoming. When she’s not blowing her nose at us or generally giving off a malevolent vibe, she’s asking Sheila to print out booking confirmation emails and other such random bullshit. After what seems like trying to teach a dog algebra, we eventually unravel the mystery and set about checking out Hervey Bay to see what all the fuss is about.
The sea-side town is deceptive in size with many of the town’s inhabitants living a little inland and away from the touristy beach. That said, the crux of the town’s focus is along a tree-lined strip that hugs the beautiful sandy coastline. We walk up along the beach and take a dip in the tepid waters, watching as children do the same while a film crew seemingly records a production just off the shoreline. From the setup (overturned boat with people in distress on top) I assume they’re purporting the illusion of being maritime victims of some tragic sea-faring event out in the middle of the ocean. Later on in the week and during another walk, we come across an odd gaggle of people dressed a little too formally for the sandy environment. With Ben Harper’s “Angel” playing on a nearby sound-system, a bride dressed in a soon-to-be sand-soiled wedding dress is slowly walked toward a make-shift altar by a teary father. In terms of wedding locations, you could do a lot worse than Hervey Bay.
Back at the hostel, and after another useless and condescending hoe-bag staff member practically tells a caller that she is, in fact ,the world’s stupidest woman, we decide we’ve had enough of Koala Beach and its temperamental prima-donnas and promptly check out. Through the wonderful use of the Internet we’ve found alternative accommodation up the road, and though it requires a 1.5km trek in about 30 degree heat laden with over twenty kilos of baggage, it’s a fair better prospect than suffering the whim and venom of two of the worst backpacker workers we’ve come across by far.
The Woolshed is pretty much what it sounds like: self-contained wooden apartments laid out amongst a series of vegetation and what appears to be early colonial buildings. We check in and lie on the bed with the overhead fan on full blast, frantically shedding clothing and taking on water to stem the onslaught of Extreme European Melting Syndrome. We talk to the helpful proprietor behind the desk and explain how our attempts to book an excursion to Fraser Island have so far proved troublesome, and, within minutes, he has us booked on the Fraser Experience for the next day.
We thank him and explain how our experience of Hervey Bay (pronounced Harvey by the way) has been less than spectacular thanks to the ineptitude and rudeness from the cows at Koala Beach. He responds with a knowing nod. “We get a lot of people coming up here after one night in the Koala,” he says without any sign of hubris or haughtiness, “place is a real shit-hole if you ask me.”
We rest up and prepare for Fraser the next day, having no idea of the adventure ahead of us.
Tags: Hervey Bay, Koala Beach Resort, The Woolshed, Trip
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