The Martlet

“Hi, I’m just calling about the mango picking jobs?”

“You need to get your name on the list.”

“Then can I put my name on the list?”

“Are you in Darwin?”

“No.”

“Come to Darwin and we’ll put your the name on the list.”

Voila. I had just solved all my financial problems. I’d use the last of my money and head to the west of Australia to pick mangos in Darwin. It would be fast money, a change of scenery and a humbling experience.

The night of my flight I was buzzing with excitement. Though I was sad to say goodbye to my friends in Cairns, I was ready for a new adventure; a fresh start. I would be a mango-picking phenomenon, plucking fruit from a tree the way Victoria Beckham plucks her eyebrows.

As we pulled into the airport the pilot informed us it was a warm 30 degrees. That wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t nine o’clock at night. What was it like at midday — 600 degrees? I began to worry.

Too tired to think much about it, I boarded the free shuttle to the centre of Darwin city. There, I grabbed my buffalo-sized bag and sweated my way towards the nearest hostel. But hostel one was full. So was hostel two. And three. By the time I reached hostel four (the last on the street) I was literally dripping with sweat.

They say the average person sweats four cups per day; in Darwin, you sweat about 10,000 times that. They must sell a lot of deodorant.

The following morning I headed to the fruit-picking office. I was eager to start work and finally make some real money. There, I was rudely informed that due to “unforeseen weather conditions,” the mango-picking season would be delayed by three weeks. Why did that not come up when I called? Bitter and unemployed, I was a complete mess.

Meanwhile, due to the severe humidity, I had developed an afro the size of a hula hoop. I looked like a redheaded Scary Spice. And because sun-tanning was completely out of the question, I spent my afternoons frolicking around the pool. You know how they say you burn more easily in water? I hadn’t heard. Three hours of frolicking later, and it looked like I had a flesh-eating skin disease. Patches of red littered my body. My face was swollen. I could barely sit down to pee. I’d been in Australia for five months for god’s sake. Did I have no base — at all?

After three days of nothing but sweating, burning and moping I decided it was time I got out and did something.

Malnourished and so dehydrated I was peeing orange, I set off for the botanical gardens. To the girl at my hostel’s reception desk who told me it was a 10 to 15 minute walk: I plan to find you and kill you. Forty-five minutes later, I found myself at the gardens, soaking wet, red-faced and in no mood for Darwin’s tropical paradise. 

Since I was there already, I figured I might as well go in. I was met with wall to wall green (shrubs, plants, trees, grass) and a series of paths to choose from. Could they make it any more confusing? Why three turns at every corner? Why not just the one direct path? I wanted a stroll through the gardens, not a frigging Rubik’s cube.

I gave it a solid 10 minutes before paying the $2 to take the bus straight back to my hostel.

That night, I decided to continue my ‘take charge’ approach and embark on another adventure. I settled on the famous Thursday Night Markets located at Mindilin beach. I made it just in time for the sunset where I sat on the gorgeous white-sand beach watching the sun descend, surrounded by kids and couples, plus some backpackers getting shitfaced and passing out.

It was lovely.

By the time the sun was down I was ready for the markets. Though there were the usual stands (the handmade jewelry, the artwork, the hippie clothing) they were few compared to the hundreds of food vendors: Thai, Indian, Chinese, Greek.

One sign did catch my eye though, and it was enough to make me puke up my 97 cent noodles: ‘Road Kill Café.’ The sign read, ‘you kill it, we’ll grill it,’ and it featured the likes of wild boar, kangaroo, camel and crocodile.

And it was packed! Aussies can be such weirdos.

I awoke Friday morning still slightly scarred from seeing a possum sausage, but excited that I would be going to the “Jumping Crocodiles” on the Adalaide River. I had booked in with a tour through my hostel, hoping it would give me a chance to meet some people during the long drive to the river.

Wrong.

Stepping onto the shuttle bus I was faced with two families, an elderly couple and one guy who was fast asleep. Looked like I’d be reading my book.

One hot, long bus ride later we arrived at the river and I couldn’t wait to see my first real live crocodile. As I stepped off the shuttle, I was startled by the seedy-looking tour guide who pulled me forward and thrust a giant python around my neck. What?

Instantly the massive creature began to writhe around my body, its tongue flickering the back of my neck. Where was this in the brochure?

“Does it bite?” I asked nervously.

“Yup,” he said deadpan.

“Is it poisonous?”

“Yup.” Again, not a blink.

Soon the snake began to tighten its grip around my neck. I was visibly in horror, eyes wide, legs shaking and —yup— I peed just a little.

“But don’t worry, they kill their prey by strangling them,” he assured me without a hint of a smile.

Who was this guy, the Antichrist? Luckily, the crocodile cruise was amazing. We were literally feet away from massive crocs jumping out of the water, baring hundreds of sharp teeth. I’d take them over the python any day.

The next 24 hours only added to my tension. Internet was costing over $8 an hour, and when I opted to stay in and watch a movie the reception lady called me a “loser.”

But it wasn’t till I woke up Saturday morning and headed to the communal kitchen to discover that my milk, eggs and bread had all been stolen, that I finally cracked.

That was it. I was going back to Cairns.

Screw the heat. Screw the massive snakes. Screw the lady who called me a loser. One quick call to my hostel in Cairns and I had my job back within seconds.

And, really, no one was surprised I was coming back.