Mackay is small town on the east coast of Australia. Jessie and I had stopped there for a couple
of nights on the way to the Whitsunday Islands.
When we first arrived on a bus in the morning the rain poured down in
sheets. We sloshed through the puddles
on the way to the hostel, and when we knocked on the door, water drenched our
backpacks and clothes. By the time we
settled into our room, the rain had stopped, the clouds had dispersed and the
sun was beating down heavily upon the earth.
Itching for a swim, inquired how to get to the beach and the woman who
ran the hostel stared at me as if I were seeking to go swimming during a
blizzard. You see for someone from New
York the mid-June air was plenty warm for a swim, but mid-June in Australia is
late fall and too chilly for a swim as far as the locals are concerned. After assuring the woman that I wasn’t crazy,
just an American, she drew a rough map indicating where I needed to catch a
local bus and where I should disembark for the beach.
The beach was deserted.
Not a single soul roamed across the sand or swam in the waves. Perhaps it was the water; perhaps the water
was too cold. I walked to edge of the
shore and dipped my toes into the surf.
The water was by no means warm, but it was not nearly as chilled as the
water at Robert Moses or Jones Beach in the middle of the summer. Despite the fact that there was no lifeguard
on duty, I could not resist the urge to dive into the water. The current was strong, stronger than I was
accustomed to so I didn’t venture in too deeply, which was fine since the tide
was high and the waves aggressive.
As much as I enjoyed my swim that afternoon, it was the
evening that stands out in my mind as one of the most memorable of my
experiences in Australia. After eating
dinner – grilled chicken and a teriyaki stir-fry – Jessie and I decided to go
out for a drink at one of the local bars.
It was mid-week and when we walked in, at a quick first glance, the
place seemed empty. Jessie and I sat
down at the bar and when the bartender asked us what we wanted Jessie ordered a
beer and I ordered my usual – a gin and tonic.
As soon as the words scrambled out of our mouths, our accents obvious to
all, four big rugged guys rushed forward from the back of the room screaming, “YANKS!” One grabbed Jessie’s beer and dumped it down
the drain and other snatched my gin and tonic condemning it to the same
fate. Stunned by their behavior, I stood
frozen unable to object. Never had I been treated so horrendously in a public
place by strangers, people who knew nothing about me except the country of my
origin. Then as my mouth slowly began to form silent words of protest, one of
the guys summoned the bartender, “Two bundies and cokes.” Within seconds, he pressed a glass into my
hand and another into Jessie’s. What we
initially perceived as an affront turned out to be a welcoming act of
hospitality.
“You’re not
in Yankee territory anymore,” a short stocky guy with a cast on his arm
announced, raising his glass and clanking it against mine. “And when you’re in my country you drink our
liquor.” Apparently, he was very proud
of his nation’s rum.
Those four
guys we later learned played on a rugby team together. For the rest of the night, until it was time
for the doors of the bar to close, we talked about life, travel, sports and
anything else that came to mind and while we talked, they kept our glasses
full. I was never much of a rum drinker,
and I still don’t care of coke, but I’ll always make an exception for
Bundaberg. An Australian neighbor of
mine, who does not share my affinity for the libation, once asked me if I liked
the taste or just the memories it calls to mind. I didn’t hesitate in my response; it is the
memories. All I have to do is twist off the cap, pour out a shot, add a couple
of ice cubes and splash of coke, and for a brief moment I return to the land
Down Under. And it’s not just that particular night I relive but countless
other moments – holding a koala, feeding a wallaby, scuba diving in the Great
Barrier Reef, camping and eating peanut butter and nutella sandwiches in the
Whitsunday Islands, learning how to throw a boomerang, watching a two legged
dog half run and half bounce down a beach as if having two legs was the most
natural thing in the world for a dog, wandering through the streets in Syndey
and many many more - that have absolutely nothing to do with Bundaberg but due
to the principal of free association coming rushing forth anyway.
Years ago, one of my spouse’s cousins went to Australia and
I asked her to please bring me back a bottle of Bundaberg. I was thrilled the day she gave it to
me. But a bottle full of memories
doesn’t last forever, and before long it was nearly empty. For ages, the bottle, with only one shot
remaining, has stood untouched in one of my kitchen cabinets. It’s like I was somehow afraid that if I
drank the last drop, swallowed the last bit, my memories would suddenly
evaporate. It was a silent subconscious
vow I made to myself not to finish it until there was a new bottle to take its
place, a new source to light up a plethora of vibrant memories that date back
more than a decade ago. So when my
parents announced that they were going to Australia and asked me what I’d like
them to bring back for me, they didn’t even complete the sentence before I was
enthusiastically answering, “ A bottle of Bundaberg!” Tonight, my son and I went to visit my
parents and when they handed me the bottle I smiled, excited and happy like a
child on Christmas morning.
Now, as I sit at my computer composing this blog the old
bottle of Bundaberg is empty. I sip the
drink sitting beside the mouse, close my eyes and memories that had begun to
fade are suddenly flushed with color. Ahhhh,
so good! I will take my time with this new
bottle of Bundaberg, drinking its contents sparingly, since who knows when
someone else I know will travel to Australia and be kind enough to remember me
with a bottle full of precious memories.
Thanks Mom and Dad!
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