The Hobart Chronicles XXXV: Psycho

"O sinners, let's go down
Down in the river to pray."
- traditional / Alison Krauss, 2000

"You think I'm psycho, don't you mama."
- Beasts of Bourbon, 1990

Well, as far as I am concerned, the Terrortory consists mainly of four things in addition to 30+ temperatures. These are: a lot of pretty waterholes (both cold and hot), and a good proportion of beer, mosquitoes, and ants. I swam in a quite a number of the first, drank my share of the second, and was amply rewarded with encounters with the third and fourth.

When asked, I generally claim I am allergic to nothing. As far as I am aware, this is close enough to true as I have never undergone any formal allergy testing; however, I have for some time suspected I might be allergic to two things.

I was alerted to the first back in Tamworse when during a fit of gardening I was bitten by a green ant and my right calf swelled up so much and got so hard I couldn't wear jeans for several days, and later a nurse friend said I should have gone to hospital before the bite put me there. You can understand why I haven't been too keen to investigate this potential allergy by repeating the experiment.

To my great joy, the Terrortory experience has spontaneously allowed me to confirm that I am indeed allergic to ant bites. Sister K will be relieved to know that the two large bites on my thigh, while still a livid purple-black, are no longer feverishly hot and are starting to go down.

And the other allergy? Sunscreen. Yep. Just what you want in the land of perpetual sunshine. After two days of application my exposed parts erupted in a spectacular case of eczema. This forced me to lay off the sunscreen while visiting all these waterholes, so my spotty pebbly skin also picked up a mild case of sunburn. Sister K has recommended a sunscreen without the titanium and zinc ingredients, which I think may be the problem. Any suggestion you, dear Chronicle reader, may have will also be most welcome.

But enough about me... for a moment.

Is what we hear about the Terrortory, that it's a wild haven for misfits and suspect loners on the run from society, spouse or the law, actually true? After this week, I am sad to say I can't clear this up for you. I can only tell you what we saw and heard.

All this bucolic activity - waterholes, camping, meeting up with SK's housemates and them meeting up with friends, was disturbed one night at the Hot Springs campground on the Daly River. Sister K and I, arriving first, had ventured into the artesian-fed stream (singing, disturbingly, 'Down To The River To Pray') and found the water hot and fine. Then the rest of the Shepherd St contingent landed and the five of us, having managed a quite respectable campfire, were relaxing with Coopers and Tasnarnian pinot. A bunch of 30-somethings, we were easily the youngest and loudest people at the site - i.e., not very on either count. How's the serenity?, we remarked.

But at some indeterminate late hour, we heard the unmistakable rumble of doof-doof approaching. This materialised into no less than five 4WDs, which proceeded to do some circle-work around the site until in a cloud of dust they settled next to a campervan inhabited by a pair of old-timers and disgorged a seething mass of drunken youths. The youths proceeded to make merry at astonishing volume; the wooden platform I had set my sleeping bag on vibrated with the doof. And it's fair to say their demeanour was less merry, more anarchic with an aggressive undertone.

So when housemate Pete decided he'd had enough and was going to go and tell the kids to turn it down, we were all understandably concerned for his safety. I mean, hospitals were a long way away, and no-one had packed any triangle bandages. However, he was determined, and as it turned out managed to deliver his admonition without getting his head punched in. They turned it down - marginally.

During the patchy night's sleep I recall rolling over and in that half-conscious sleep state heard a loud conversation over the doof regarding violent pornographic activity - followed by the sounds of violent pornographic activity. Horrible. I rolled over and dived for blessed unconsciousness.

The next morning, our little contingent was up with the sun, and thus the first down to the river to loll about in the steaming spring water. After about an hour, two girls from the doof camp joined us. One was a hefty girl with filthy surfer-dreads and an enormous fresh scrape down one thigh; she was carrying a stubby of Toohey's Dry. The other was a tiny, mousey thing unremarkable except that she was carrying a can of Bundy and Coke. They were friendly enough - Dry girl said "G'day" and toasted us with her stubby before taking a swig.

But later we wondered, were we ever that bad? Sure we were loud, but were we so obnoxious (with such bad music)? Sure we drank, but did we ever drink before 7am (unless we were still up from the night before)? Who knows. As for the pornographic activity, let's not go there; I know I didn't get up to that.

What was gratifying when we returned to camp to dry off was to see the old-timers next to the doof brigade were up. They had their radio on, tuned to some AM talk station, full-bore.

The other weird moment happened as SK and I were driving to the Daly River site. Coming in the other direction was a pretty ragged-looking 4WD, all red dust and scrapes and flapping canvas. The driver flashed his lights furiously. We slowed down a little and began looking for cattle across the road or something similar. Nothing. He passed us - and no nod or finger lifted-acknowledgement, only the sunset reflecting ominously off his aviator sunglasses. SK and I looked at each other. Should we stop? Not on your nelly! That bloke looked like a backpacker serial killer! We drove far and fast before we had a giggle about our nerves. A nervous giggle.