On the road

Yesterday I said goodbye to Pierre. I met him in Fremantle. He was smoking a cigarette in the common room of my guesthouse. I had been in Fremantle for four days and couldn’t wait to start moving. I looked at him and thought, “He seems like a nice guy, maybe I should ask him…” “Hey, are you by any chance going to Margaret River tomorrow?” I blurted out directly.

He seemed confused and looked around for help. I realized he didn’t understand what I’d said. Someone translated it into French, and I heard him reply, “Yes, maybe…” Now it was my turn to feel confused. “Sorry? Yes, maybe… or no?” I asked with a smile. “Yes, I think… yes.”

This went on for a couple of minutes until we agreed on 10:00 a.m. the next day.

We left 90 minutes behind schedule. Along with Pierre and me, three other Frenchmen sat in the second-hand 4x4 Jeep Pierre had bought the day before. We drove south. There was no radio, and I spent most of the trip regretting how little attention I’d paid in French class back when I was 13. But we were moving, and I was happy.

I sat behind the driver’s seat, opened the window, and let the wind hit my face. My long hair blew in every direction, getting into my mouth, nose, and eyes. It felt good. After two or three hours, we turned into a forest and had lunch. We took shelter under the trees and ate bread, canned vegetables, fruit, and some chips. I rolled a cigarette and thought how lucky I was: the sun was shining, the sky was cobalt blue, and the only sounds were crickets and the occasional bird.

We hit the road again. We still had a couple of hours to go until Margaret River. The sun was at its peak. It was hot and dry, and here and there along the burning asphalt, kangaroos lay dead. I had been in Australia for ten days, and so far, I hadn’t seen a single one alive.

We decided to stop in Bunbury and call it a day. We were all tired and longing for a dive in the ocean. Margaret River would have to wait until tomorrow. We were desperate. We parked at the beach in Bunbury, got out of the car, and went straight into the water. There wasn’t a soul to be seen along miles of white sand.

I stayed in the water for about a dozen minutes. The sun was about to set, and I enjoyed its softened rays on my face. I got out, sat on the sand, and let my body dry in the last light of the day.

Shortly before it got too dark to see, three of us collected wood while the other two set up the tent. Night fell, and we all sat by the fire. We had dinner, smoked, and talked for hours. The sky was marvelous. Constellations I couldn’t name were scattered across a pitch-black curtain. The moonlight was strong enough to see by. The waves broke the silence, filling the void with ambient tones. Eventually, we all went to sleep.

The next day, two of the Frenchmen took a bus to Manjimup in search of work. The three of us who remained continued our road trip to Margaret River. We arrived shortly after 4:00 p.m. I found a guesthouse, while the other two slept in the car. I showered, cooked some food, and went to bed around 8:00 p.m. I slept like a baby.

Pierre and the other Frenchmen (I can’t remember their names!) showed up at 11:00 a.m., and we drove around the district. Our first stop was Hamelin Bay, a beautiful stretch of coast on the way to Augusta. We saw several manta rays by the shore. Some people fed them fish, and the rays stuck around for hours. We were thrilled and talked about it for the rest of the day. We had lunch in a car park near Augusta and spent the afternoon at the beach—sleeping, smoking, and swimming.

On the third day of the road trip, another Frenchman left, this time heading back to Fremantle. I didn’t really understand why he would return to the place he had just left… Anyway, that left only Pierre and me.

We drove to Manjimup, a small farming town far from the coast. Pierre’s girlfriend had been working there for the last two months, and he was hoping to find work too. I could feel his excitement—he hadn’t seen her in five months. He had been traveling along the western African coast while she was in Australia.

The idea of getting a job sounded good to me too; I could definitely use more money in my pockets. So I joined him, asking at every farm we passed whether they had work available. “Sorry folks, nothing to offer.” “Sorry mate, I already have enough people.” “Bloody hell, there must be a thousand backpackers in Australia right now… no guys, I have no work for you.”

We didn’t get anything that day. We decided to try again the next morning, hoping that if we arrived at starting time, someone might not show up and we could take their spot.

We met Pierre’s girlfriend at the caravan park and had dinner together. I returned to the car and left the two lovers alone. I struggled to find a good position in the front seat, but in the end, I had a decent night’s sleep. Pierre woke me at 6:00 a.m., and within 30 minutes we were running around farms again.

We checked the same ones as the day before and added several more. Still nothing. Because of the floods in Queensland, everyone was looking for work in the southwest. Most farmers told us they were visited by 15 to 20 backpackers a day asking for jobs.

I turned to Pierre and said, “Sorry, mate. I’ll hit the road again. There’s nothing here for me.”

It was 11:00 a.m. when he dropped me at the bus station in Manjimup. I thanked him for driving me this far and wished him luck with work. At 2:18 p.m., I took the only daily bus to Albany. I was on my own again. But… still moving.