What’s the Story?

By John Burgess

At the end of his first book, Life Luck and Liaisons, it was becoming apparent that sailing and travel were going to be essential ingredients in the life of John Burgess. In his teens, he had travelled the length and breadth of his homeland, New Zealand. Aged eighteen, he had travelled with a friend to Australia, hitch-hiking from Sydney to Mossman, north of Cairns. There followed a two-year sailing adventure across the Pacific and Asia. He knew that such an experience would not be his last. The seed was sown.
This second book is a series of travel stories. His time spent in London in the swinging sixties and yacht racing in the English Channel and then discovering outback Australia after he finally settled in Sydney. There were excursions to fish for Barramundi in Kakadu and a camping trip with his son in the Kimberley. He travelled from Perth to Broome and on to Darwin as well as exploring Cairns to Cape York and Thursday Island.
In the nineties, a sailing holiday in the West Indies reunited him with his English friend from sailing days in the UK. However, the most challenging sailing experience came later, as crew on an Australian yacht, sailing from the Maldives to Egypt.
There were other travel experiences including driving around Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula at the time of the Chiapas uprising.
In John’s view, Cuba offers a travel experience not to be missed, although game safaris in Botswana, with a train ride through South Africa thrown in, would rank equally.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Apr 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664104679

John Burgess

Professor John Burgess: Director, Employment Studies Centre, University of Newcastle, Australia.

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Copyright © 2021 by John Burgess.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 04/19/2021

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CONTENTS

PART 1     MY FIRST TRIP TO AUSTRALIA WITH JOHNNY MCBETH—THE ORIGINAL PRANKSTER

The Voyage

Discovering Kings Cross

Heading North

Adapting to the Australian Way

Heading North and West

PART 2     MY TIME IN ENGLAND

Making the Most of Living in London

Yacht Racing in the English Channel

More Sailing on Matchless

Sailing to Cowes Week Regatta

PART 3     ADVENTURES IN NORTHERN AUSTRALIA

A Fishing Safari with Dick Perry

I Return to Fish the Daly River for Barramundi

We Join Peter on His Leg from Broome to Darwin

Returning to the Daly River—Dick Perry’s and Carol’s Vision

PART 4     MORE SAILING ADVENTURES

Sailing in the West Indies

Sailing from the Maldives to Egypt

Serious Fishing Commences

Returning to the Shipping Lanes

First Port of Call—Salalah, Oman

We Make It into the Port of Salalah, Oman

Preparing for Pirates

Sailing Tactics to Tackle Pirates

Sailing as a Threesome

Sailing Through the Gate of Tears

Making Massawa After Male—A Contrast

Suakin and Sudan

PART 5     MORE RECENT TRAVELS

Travelling in Mexico

The Yucatan Peninsula

Chichén Itzá

Palenque and Back to Palenque

Rethinking the Plan

West Coast Resorts

Oaxaca to Mexico City

Visiting Cuba—December 2006/January 2007

Old Havana

Testing a Tour Group

Crossing the Mountains of Sierra Maestra and New Year’s Eve in Trinidad de Cuba

Camaguey and Meeting Maradona

Baracoa at the Eastern End of Cuba

Santiago de Cuba

Our Final Taste of Havana

Sydney to Cairns—

Cape York and the Long Way Home

Travelling around the Atherton Tableland before Heading for Mount Isa

Bound for Mount Isa Then Travelling South to Sydney

Africa Beckons

Familiar Names and Unheard-of Places

Dr Livingstone Country

The Safari Begins

The Blue Train

Catching Up with the Commander in Cape Town

PART 1

MY FIRST TRIP TO AUSTRALIA

WITH JOHNNY MCBETH—

THE ORIGINAL PRANKSTER

August 1960 to December 1960

The Voyage

After leaving my job as a ploughman and before I caught a ship to Australia, I stopped for a few nights in Kimbolton, north of Feilding, with the McBeth family.

Johnny McBeth and I had become close and trusted friends during the previous year when I worked on a property in Feilding. It was my intention to travel to Waikaretu to visit my parents at their farm in the Waikato, then to travel back to Wellington to catch the Wanganella bound for Sydney. While in Feilding, I discreetly convinced Johnny’s father, George, to agree that it would be a good idea if Johnny joined me on my first overseas sortie. Johnny and I could watch each other’s back. Johnny was surprised by his father’s enthusiasm; he could not back out.

I stayed for a short time with my parents and then caught the train back to Feilding, where Johnny’s parents drove us to Wellington to board the Wanganella. (Coincidentally, my mother as a young woman had sailed to Australia on the Wanganella to attend the Melbourne Cup in 1934—also her first overseas excursion.) We had 100 pounds between us and a mutual regard that lasted until Johnny died in October 2015. He was always loyal, while still being a practical joker and a larrikin, the latter defined as ‘a person with apparent disregard for convention, a maverick’. That was Johnny.

As the ship headed out into Cook Strait Johnny and I went exploring. Our cabin was in steerage where the horses which were headed for the upcoming Australian Spring racing season, including the Melbourne Cup, also resided. This was long before horses were transported by aircraft. You could smell the urine and manure and hear the horses comforting each other, which in some way gave us a sense of familiarity as it was associated with our previous day jobs but it proved very unsettling for other landlubbers on board.

On deck there was a fresh breeze. The ship was quite stable. We went up various staircases and ladders, exploring, and we approached the bridge, unsure whether it was a prohibited area. By now the ship was in the open sea but we felt it perceptibly slow down. We asked an officer what was happening, and he pointed to an elderly gentleman who was being escorted to the side of the ship as the pilot’s launch came back alongside. The old fellow was struggling to secure his feet in the rungs of a rope ladder that had been dropped over the side of the ship to the pilot’s launch. The deck officer told us that the man had a wooden leg and had been drinking—not a good combination at any time, let alone on the ocean. He was a stowaway and appeared to be enjoying all the fuss being made of him as passengers lined the rail to bid him farewell. In return, he boisterously wished us all bon voyage, waving to us in the royal manner.

Soon it was dark, and the throb of the engine could be heard throughout the ship and its vibration felt. Spray was coming aboard in increasing density. Australia, here we come!

While working at Drummond, I had become friendly with a young farmer named Wiltshire. When he heard that I was off to Australia, he said to keep an eye open for his female cousin, who was also making the trip on the ship. I told Johnny, and we went on a hunt to locate her. The next thing I knew, he was making amorous approaches, and I was left standing on my own in the corridor. Some mate!

Back at the bar, a party was well underway so I joined in, and soon Johnny was alongside. He had been knocked back, but his ego was still intact. He was deciding whether to drown his sorrows or investigate other prospective talent—of which there seemed to be an abundance. I decided to bide my time, more to preserve funds than from a lack of desire. We had a long way to go.

It was to be a three-day crossing, and the weather was turning nasty. We maintained our position at the bar on the premise that if one were a bit tipsy, it would compensate for the ship’s motion and we would be OK. It seemed to work, and I have practised this philosophy ever since. A few passengers appeared at breakfast, even fewer for lunch and almost zero for dinner. One attractive woman, about my mother’s age, had graced our table at mealtimes but did not generally stay for long. On the last night at sea, I explained to her my theory relating to the ship’s motion and my own instability and how the consumption of alcohol worked as an equilibrium enhancer, ensuring that I was not sick. She agreed to try it and it worked a treat. She was soon happily inebriated, and I treated her as I would my mother, making sure she made it safely to her bunk for the rest of the night.

Johnny and I went on deck early as we sailed through Sydney Heads on a calm and cloudless morning. We collected our swags and descended the gangplank. On the dock, frantically waving to me, was the woman from the night before. I waved back, thinking it was an exuberant farewell, but this was not the case. She had a young man in tow. It was her son, and she wanted to introduce me and again thank me for giving her such an enjoyable evening the night before. I wondered what he must have thought as he hesitantly shook my hand, then quickly withdrew his and escorted his mum in the opposite direction.

Discovering Kings Cross

Johnny and I were travelling light, with only the bare essentials. We hailed a cab, threw our swags into the boot and headed for Coogee Beach, where a wealthy relative of Johnny’s was believed to be staying in the Oceanic Hotel. The driver dropped us at the door and drove off. We realised he still had our swags—our only possessions, other than what we were standing in. Fortunately, he made a U-turn, jumped out laughing and said, ‘This is Australia, mate. Be careful!’ After retrieving our swags, which would have been worthless to any other being, we assessed the early morning Sydney scene.

We were hungry, so we approached a shop that made sandwiches. We ordered a couple of dozen. The woman raised an eyebrow and told us to return in quarter of an hour. We presumed that she was just busy, as by now it was nearing lunch hour. On our return, we were given two huge packages. A sandwich was two full slices of bread (she called them ‘two rounds’) stuffed with enormous fillings, not the delicate quarter slices of bread with skimpy fillings that we were expecting. They each had to be held in two hands. Two days later, we were still working our way through this first lesson in Australian cuisine. We liked the food in general, especially when we discovered king prawns that were nearly the size of crayfish. Over time, we ate them in every manner thinkable, from curried to crumbed, sautéed to seared. For the first time, we heard the expression don’t come the raw prawn, meaning to attempt to deceive or treat like a fool.

When we returned to the hotel, we found that the relative of Johnny’s—the one we hoped might be able to provide us with a roof for the night—had not yet checked in. It was August, and although cold for the locals, it was a delightful temperature for us, having left frosts and snow back home. We walked to the end of the beach, found an upturned boat and spread out our swags under it. Australia already had a friendly feel about it.

Next morning, we were awoken by someone turning over the boat that we were sleeping under. He was going fishing. He yelled to his mate in a half panic, ‘There’s a bloke under the bloody boat—shit, mate, there’s two of ’em!’ We put him at ease—just a couple of Kiwi country lads finding their way around the big smoke. Could we sleep under the boat again tonight? We still had some sandwiches left, and we would not disturb anybody. He, in typical Aussie style, said, ‘No problem.’

We spent the day in the city and visited Dalgety’s to pay our respects to the pastoral house which held the mortgage on my family’s farm back in New Zealand. We never let on where we were spending the night. As it got dark, we headed for Kings Cross. We had never seen anything like it, and I imagine that we were also a novelty to many of its inhabitants. The girls seemed to think so, and the spruikers got back some of the repartee that they gave to us, with interest. There was an assortment of delicacies on offer, but we reckoned we would stick with the prawns and avoid the crabs. We caught the trusty tram back to Coogee, and sure enough, our new mate with the boat had put it in a prime position for us, upside down on soft sand and facing in such a way that we were completely sheltered from the ocean breeze. We retrieved our concealed swags, spread out our sleeping bags and settled down for what was left of the night.

By the third night, we had located the all-important contact at the Oceanic Hotel. He and his wife were Feilding farmers, and the wife was a relative of Johnny’s. The local polo field, where Johnny played back home in New Zealand, was on their property. They insisted on shouting us a night in the hotel, with a hot-water bath and all the trimmings. Perhaps the early morning swims had not really been doing the job.

That night free beer was served in all bars of the hotel as one brewery company emptied its kegs in readiness for another brewery to take over the hotel’s franchise. Bar flies and blow-ins came from everywhere, making the New Zealand six-o’clock swill look like a child’s birthday party. This was more like a grown-ups’ party at the zoo, with many of the animals behaving badly.

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Johnny and me with Ron (second on left) and Glady

Brown (far right) at the Oceanic Hotel, Coogee

Heading North

Not wanting to wear out our welcome, next morning we hit the road. Our overnight host and hostess had told us that there was a polo tournament coming up at a place called Goondiwindi on the New South Wales and Queensland border. They thought that we might fluke jobs as grooms. A wink is good as a nod to a blind horse.

When hitch-hiking, getting out of cities is always a problem. Nobody wants to pick you up, whether you are spotlessly clean and shaven or not. In time, we cleared the suburbs and started making miles—all the way to Goondiwindi, 450 kilometres from Sydney. We found the racecourse where we had been told that the polo tournament would be held. The straw was dry in the stables, and the smell was familiar. In due course, the horse floats arrived and unloaded their equine contents. Many of the strappers and grooms accompanying the horses were attractive young ladies, however we were somewhat handicapped as we had limited funds, no job, no motor and dubious prospects. Then, a stroke of luck.

A wealthy Sydney polo player, Hector King, desperately needed a groom. Johnny and I had previously agreed that we would share any work that was available and also the rewards. We told Mr King that he would have to employ both of us. He baulked at this, but we stuck to our guns until, through his desperation and our determination, we reached an agreement. We went to great lengths to ensure that he had the best-groomed ponies by the most efficient grooms at the tournament. Consequently, he invited us to visit him in Sydney, which I eventually did and was treated royally.

These days there is a polo tournament named after Hector King (1919–1968). It was instituted so lower-rated players could gain experience by playing alongside better players in medium-goal polo.

Polo tournaments take on a carnival atmosphere and the participants adopt sophisticated postures, but they also provide a place where the well-heeled city-based participants and their country cousins let their hair down. Both Johnny and I had been involved previously in such events back in New Zealand, where we had been asked to join as full-playing mallet-wielding participants. Johnny had accepted but I had declined. Johnny became a top exponent of the game. He was a good horseman and a tough competitor with a good eye and nerves of steel. Our current employer did not know how much we had ridden prior to attending to his horses. This included riding to the hounds, competing in the full gambit of horse-riding events at shows and gymkhanas, riding on trails and treks, riding racetrack work, assisting with breaking in horses for riding and training them for playing polo.

At this polo tournament we were initially regarded as a couple of hobos and we decided it was to our advantage to let the landed gentry treat us so. Better to be treated like a yokel than an accomplished performer. It meant that, if we did make any errors, they would be passed over as ignorance. If we performed better than expected, we might earn a bonus for being a couple of triers. The scheme worked beyond our expectations. We were viewed as being a bit out of the ordinary, being a couple of young Kiwi drifters sleeping in the stables with the horses, mixing it up with the girls, not complaining and taking no offence at being humbled by moneyed men whose horse skills did not necessarily match our own. We considered some of them to be simply show ponies.

The tournament finished, the polo circus departed, and we were left to our own survival resources again. Goondiwindi was a bustling town, and most of Australia’s stock and station agencies had a presence there. We knocked on doors, offering our services for the utilisation of any of their clients. No job would be too humble or degrading. We would be happy plucking wool from maggoty dead sheep if need be, although livestock rather than dead stock would definitely be our preference. We were told that a large cattle sale was imminent across the border in Boggabilla. Were we capable of assisting with the drafting of cattle in the yards while we were on foot? We had no horses, so no options, so why not? Both Johnny and I had had plenty of experience drafting Angus, Shorthorns, and Herefords, the Bos taurus British breeds of beef cattle, as well as European Charolais and Simmentals, plus the full range of dairy breeds. Yeah, why not do some drafting on foot?

What we had not been told was that many of the cattle that were coming in under the care of drovers, were untamed Bos indicus breeds, standing as high as an elephant’s eye, many up to seven years old. This was prior the days of road trains. These were big station cattle and not your small farmer hand-bred and -fed variety. They were Brahmans, Santa Gertrudis, and the various cross-breeds such as Charbrays and Droughtmasters.

Dust, dung, dogs, drovers, big hats, broncos, heat and hollering, and swarms of flies—the scene was complete. Aussies enjoy baiting Kiwis as a sport, and we were easy meat as far as these trail-hardened horsemen were concerned. No pity for the pitiful. I have attended bullfighting in Spain; how tame is that sport, with the bull’s neck muscles weakened by a picador even before the matadors take to the bull ring. In our case, there was no killing of the bulls, just the running of them. Athleticism, agility and timing were all involved, but we survived the day and earned our cheque. We did not have to pay for a drink that night, having won our spurs, so to speak. We were so exhausted that those who shouted our drinks got off lightly, as we were virtually out on our feet.

Early the next morning, we laid the dust by wetting the yards as we watered the cattle. They seemed friendlier, or perhaps it was that our growing experience was improving our skills—when to push, when to jump, when to turn and when to shout. In any case, the cattle had settled down overnight, and they were no longer being stirred up by the dogs.

Mid-morning the sale got underway. The yards’ rails were occupied by the sellers and the buyers, drivers and drovers, wheelers and dealers. The auctioneers were in full voice as several thousand head of cattle were dispensed with.

One of the property owners wandered over to us. He said that he had seen us at the polo tournament and liked the way we had treated the horses under our care. He had also seen us working cattle in the yard. He was impressed and was curious to know what we were doing at the cattle sale. We explained that we had picked up a few days’ work and were looking for more. He said, ‘You’d better come home with me after the sale.’ That night, we bedded down in the jackaroo’s quarters at Mundine. Our new boss was Walter Gunn.

Adapting to the Australian Way

Grazing properties were usually fully-fledged communities in their own right; Mundine was no different. Apart from the shearers’ quarters, which comprised several rooms in the style of a cheap motel, there was accommodation for the jackaroos, jillaroos, a cook, a cowboy/gardener, a ploughman, a couple of governesses, contract labourers such as gum bashers, timber cutters/post splitters, fencers and an overseer. The overseer at Mundine, Reg, was a very genial type in a huge sombrero style of hat to protect his very fair skin from the scorching sun, which aggravated his severe eczema. He had a tendency to scratch his private parts, so Johnny and I used to tease him by saying that he must be allergic to rubber, ergo he must have had an encounter with a lady the previous night. His grin was that of a bloke that knew it was no good taking offence or going into denial, rather ‘Let the silly young punks think I’m still up to it!’

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At Mundine with Wally Gunn and family,

Jim, Robyn, and Donald

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The very capable and good-natured Reg

Johnny and I were told that we would be eating our meals in the boss’s house, along with one of the young jackaroos, Edwin, called Eddy.

We were told that we would start work next day, cleaning out the water tanks, which, on their stands, were elevated about thirty feet off the ground and contained heaven-knew-what in the way of inhabitants, aquatic and otherwise. ‘Just be aware of the blades of the windmill if the breeze comes up.’

I had no problem with the height as I scaled the flimsy ladder. Johnny and I egged each other on and gradually dredged out the detritus of many years from the tank’s bottom. Live wildlife was minimal and harmless—a few frogs, many small aquatic insects we had never seen before in the safe New Zealand countryside and which we treated with respect. There were also plenty of rotting bird carcases and those of unfortunate possums. No sign of snakes or lizards.

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Eddy saddles up, ready to muster

The boss was pleased with our efforts, and we were asked to join a hunting party to go feral pig shooting through flooded country on horseback. The river was the McIntyre, which has subsequently become one of the major areas where cotton is grown. The boss wore a pistol at his hip and, in his oversized Mexican-styled hat, reminded me of an old picture I had seen of the Mexican bandit Pancho Villa, but I would never have dared to say so. His elder brother was Sir William Gunn, chairman of the Australian Wool Board, which, at that time, made him the country equivalent of royalty. Their father, whom I met, had pioneered sheep farming in the region.

The shooting was successful, although at one stage Johnny had run out of ammunition and had elected to try and pursue his quarry on foot, wielding a clump of wood like a club. Once the pig saw the menace in Johnny’s eyes, it faltered (or so Johnny reckoned), a large black tusker, and then decided to make its escape back into the wooded area where it had the advantage over us. Johnny remounted his horse. We were both reasonable shots and used to handling firearms and had now shown these capabilities to the boss, who gave us the task of finding and shooting as many feral pigs as possible across his property. We were given free ammunition and paid a bonus for every pig snout that we handed in. This was over and above a basic wage. It was Boy’s Own stuff.

The Queensland stock saddle has to be one of the most comfortable saddles ever designed, for man and beast alike, and I vowed to import one when I got back to my shepherd’s role at home in New Zealand. It beats the cowboys’ Western saddle and the cavalry saddle, hands down.

We turned our next task into a serious competition. The Gunns wanted a tennis court built, but first, we had to prepare a surface. The most suitable soil for this was a patch of clay that had been identified near the back of the property. It would compact and not wash out during the floods, especially if mixed with ant hills. Johnny and I started quietly enough, becoming used to the equipment. One of us would get aboard the front-end loader and load the trailer with clay. It was hitched to another tractor, and the other person would then take the load of clay back to the homestead and dump it at the designated spot, then return to the clay pit with the now-empty trailer, ready to repeat the process. We started taunting each other who was the better tractor driver and who was dropping their load at the most preferable site back at the homestead. The challenge was on, not only to see who could do the best job but also to see who was the fastest, without dropping any of their load along the way. That night, the boss, who had no idea about the challenge, told us he had never had two guys work as hard for him as we did. We did not let on about our competitive natures.

The man who milked the house cows was called a cowboy. Our cowboy was no Gene Autry or Hopalong Cassidy, but a wizened, toothless, midget ex-jockey called Burt. He could literally swallow his nose—a gruesome sight. One moonlit night, we heard a yell for help. Burt had gone to the outside toilet, dropped his trousers and then felt something slip between his legs. It was a huge carpet snake, but in the moonlight, Burt thought it was one of the venomous varieties. He had bolted across the yard with his pants still around his ankles, a remarkable achievement that he could not repeat for us the next day in the daylight, without falling head over heels.

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Burt the cowboy, at Mundine

Evenings were very sociable. Chubby Checker had just released ‘The Twist’ record, and Mrs Gunn was a willing student, her husband a not-so-keen observer. As a horsewoman of long standing, she had a reasonable-sized seat and her movements were certainly not as smooth as Chubby’s, but she was a good sport.

The generator was turned off at 9 p.m. Prior to that we would discuss around the dining table the differences between farming in New Zealand and Australia, the differences and preferences in livestock breeds, livestock handling procedures, shearing practices, politics and so on. After dark we would retire to our quarters, lie low for a while and then rendezvous with the girls. We knew it was risky and could not last, so Johnny and I decided to hit the road again before we caused any trouble in the camp.

We had invited Eddie to come and stay with us in New Zealand, should he ever wish to make the journey. What a surprise it was when he turned up in Auckland many months later. As we walked together up Auckland’s main street, Queen Street, he turned to me and said, ‘Why is everybody staring at me?’ I guess his broad-brimmed Akubra hat, white moleskin trousers, blue denim shirt, tan suede jacket, elastic-sided boots and his over-six-foot stature may have had something to do with it.

Heading North and West

Johnny and I had no idea what we were about to encounter. The outback had laid-back connotations; presumably you could drift into a town from the bush on the back of a truck and pick up casual work. We had imagined that rides on the backs of utility trucks, or utes, would be easy to get. Try sitting at the side of the road, as we did, for two days on the outskirts of a small country town in western Queensland in forty-degree-Celsius heat, with minimal shade and seeing only one car—going in the wrong direction. This tested the resolve of both of us, let alone our patience. We stayed close to the town to ensure we had access to water. Things have changed since then because of the mining boom, but there are still some lonely stretches, which I discovered again recently when my wife and I drove over 9,000 km, as far west as Mt. Isa and through many of the outback towns in between, the same ones that Johnny and I had travelled through all those years ago.

As we sat in the shade of a bush, Johnny picked up a dry berry and passed it to me, saying that it had a great and exotic taste, wondering which of the surrounding dried bushes it may have come from. He said that when you bit it in half, it had an interesting seed pattern inside. I bit. Johnny convulsed. It was dried goat dung.

We made our way to St George, then Charleville, Blackall and Longreach, but there was no work available. We were sleeping rough, which meant that we did not present very well, and that may have explained some of the reluctance of prospective employers.

An elderly grazier pulled up in a spanking new Dodge truck. It was green. ‘Where you boys headed?’

‘North.’

‘How far north?’

‘Cairns—maybe farther, depending on where there’s any work.’

‘Jump in. I can get you along the track, but one of you will have to sit outside on the back and the other will have to drive. You can swap any time you like. I have just picked up this truck from the dealer, so take your time. No speeding.’ And obviously, no conversation.

With that we were once more on our way—here we come, Cairns! Little did we realise that Cairns was over one thousand kilometres away, nor we did we have any idea where the old guy was going to bid us farewell. There was a case of oranges sitting in the back. I used my wharfie experience, and as the old guy nodded off, passed a peeled one through the back window of the cab to Johnny on more than one occasion. Not the way I had been brought up, but this was part of our current survival tactics. Vitamin C was essential to healthy living. Everyone knew about that from experiencing half-time during a footy match.

The day was drawing to a close. A beautiful sunset was lighting the horizon as the old guy gave the instruction to pull up. We were opposite the entrance to his property. There was no sign of the homestead as it was some miles off the road. We were not offered any further hospitality or alternatives. We thanked him and laid out our swags in readiness for the fast-encroaching night.

The road ran alongside the railway line, and I wandered back on to it and noticed a smudge of smoke on the horizon. A train gradually came closer, so I thumbed it. It stopped and a fellow stepped down from the engine and asked us if we needed a lift. Extraordinary! He even asked if we would like a cup of tea and apologised for only having tinned sweetened condensed milk. He sat on the engineer’s step of this steam train while he explained that it was a cattle train and was headed for Winton. We were welcome to ride in the caboose—just be prepared to share it with an old guy he had already picked up. It was Queensland hospitality beyond the normal bounds, and it is doubtful that it would happen today.

Sure enough, there was an old codger perched on the closed lid of the toilet seat in the caboose. We introduced ourselves and commenced the usual social verbal procedures. It transpired that he had recently met up with his daughter, who suggested to her father that he really should go home and see his wife. ‘How long have you been away?’ we asked. ‘Seven years,’ was the response.

Our train started rolling, building up steam, and we were on our way. Alighting at Winton, we found a bar. Little did we realise that we had picked the wrong bar. We were put straight with a minimum of fuss, so we picked up our swags and crossed the road into what was designated ‘white territory’ and settled into the bar for a couple of large cool beers, confident that we would find a place to roll out our swags when closing time arrived.

Then we saw him again, the old guy from the train. He was sitting at the other end of the bar, alone. We were not game to ask him if he was still building up courage or if he had already been home and was now drowning his sorrows. We began to relax, but suddenly it was all on.

I’m an old John Wayne buff, but this bar-room fight was the real McCoy, with nothing staged about it. Chairs were not partially sawn through so that they easily disintegrated when struck on heads. Glass windows were not made of the non-cutting variety that guys dived harmlessly through on the big screen. No time to be scared and even less time to get out of there. It was a racial stoush, which we thought we had no part in. Johnny turned to retrieve his glass of beer from the bar, and as he thrust forward with his arm held high as a protective measure, he unintentionally knocked the publican’s well-proportioned wife on to her backside. The publican brought down his lead-loaded baton on Johnny’s noggin with full strength. Blood streamed as Johnny staggered into the street. I encouraged him to run, as it was getting nasty and several police were approaching from the station, batons drawn. I did my best to melt away down a back street.

Sometime later, we teamed up. He was not a pretty sight, with what appeared to be a nasty head wound, his hair matted with drying blood. He was left with a permanent lump on his forehead and told his parents when he got home that a bull ant had bitten him while he slept. The police picked us up for questioning—no sign of a job and no income, no fixed abode, no references, no chance. Rather than lock us up, in which case we would have had to be fed and watered, one said, ‘We don’t want to see you in this town in the morning. Get going.’ There was only one way to make a fast exit out of the town, and that was to jump the next train.

We crouched beside the track. Out of the dark, a long train eventually crept through the town. As it rolled past, we threw our swags aboard and followed them, dropping down out of sight into the open bin. The train appeared to be empty—at least it was not carrying any coal, ore, or grain. It crept along for a short while and then stopped, hissing steam. Suddenly, lights were being shone on to the train. Hobos were scrambling out into the dark in all directions and then being rounded up en masse by police and rail guards, including us. There were about twenty fugitives, and we had thought that we were on our own! We had no idea where these other train jumpers had started their journeys. The fine was stiff, and neither we nor the others could pay, so our penalty was to be placed under guard at a railway work camp and made to work as gangers for a few days. Afterwards, we were able to get on our way through Hughenden and Charters Towers to Cairns. The more we saw, the more resilient we became. Vast distances became the norm, and we were starting to take isolation in our stride.

Cairns was welcoming, but we headed farther north to Mossman, hoping to find work cutting sugar cane. But there was more experienced itinerant labour available for farmers to draw on at that time of year: cutters making their annual pilgrimage, escaping the colder weather in the south. I was reminded of the play Summer of