- Where's Monte now? Gympie, QLD

This is where you will find my blogs from the roads I travel around Australia taking the pulse of society and discovering what sights and stories our great land is hiding.

Keep in contact! - email me on info@monte.com.au and do visit my website www.monte.com.au

 

View Monte's map

 

Quick facts on Monte's trip 

• I will not be traveling with a camera crew.  I'll be on my own filing reports from the outback.
• I will shoot stories myself, edit them and send them back via the internet.

You can watch Monte's segments on Fridays on Sunrise.

Monte's Past Videos


2 Jan
12 Dec 5 Dec
27 Nov 20 Nov 13 Nov 6 Nov
30 Oct 23 Oct 19 Oct

 

Monte's flickr set   |  Sunrise flickr group

 

 

 

 

++ UPDATED 2.45pm January 8  monte.com.au

                                                            Backwaters

 

You meet some interesting folk in caravan parks, especially those a little off-Broadway in the less than fashionable places.

 

I’m told the town of Gympie has the highest rate of reportable violence-per-capita in Queensland. I don’t know about that but I do know one of the colloquial terms for it is The Land of the Gimp.

 

I quite like the place, myself – even owned a little property there once – but there’s no doubting its bona fides as an uncool town.

 

The man in the photo ended up living in the caravan park in Gympie after Cyclone Larry blew away his North Queensland home. As you can see by the way he dresses he hasn’t lost his sense of pride.

 

According to his friend he always dresses well. She told me he gets photographed all the time and once even got dragged into a Japanese wedding to get photographed with the bride and groom, who must have been intrigued by this diminutive man in the natty cowboy outfit.

 

When I first saw him he was standing outside the park toilets wearing a cowboy hat and holding an umbrella over his head. Though her caravan was no more than twenty metres away he was waiting to walk her back. He cut a dashing figure even in the rain.

 

We started talking and I decided to interview him the next day, but the video camera was too moisture-laden to play ball so I had to settle for this still photograph.

 

Just before I took the photo I went into the toilets looking for a hand dryer to dry the other camera and got abused by another one of the park’s residents. Not about anything worth crossing words over: just a bloke full of anger looking for somewhere to spend it.

 

When I found no hand dryer I came out and broke the news to my dapper friend. If he was disappointed to be missing out on an interview on national television he didn’t let it show.  The contrast between him and the bloke in the toilet made him appear all the more gentlemanly.

 

He rolled a cigarette and told me about their home Larry destroyed without once complaining of their ill-fortune, instead concentrating on the wonderful things they’d seen travelling the country.  I gave them a copy of the book and the CD and they humbled me with their gratitude.

 

Before I left he came up to Mother Theresa and gave me a smooth piece of smoked quartz for luck, telling me how I must put it in salt water or bury it in earth for a time to cleanse it so it erased his energy to adopt mine.

 

‘But you must believe,’ he said. ‘Believe it will bring you luck and it will.’ Then he touched the brim of his hat and was gone.

 

++ UPDATED 4.13pm January 4 monte.com.au

 

                                                    Lost and Found

 

He's walked the roads for thirty-odd years, the first twenty of those as a missing person. He set off as a young man with the intention of hitchhiking around Australia between jobs. After a while he stopped sticking his thumb out and just walked.

 

‘They call me the highwayman, the last swaggie, but they're just labels,' he says.

 

He carries all he owns in a backpack, hessian shoulder bag and bed roll and admits to being a hoarder in spite of the limitations. ‘I have a cleanout every eighteen months or so,' he tells me with a wry smile.

 

‘A garage sale?'

 

‘Nah, I just throw it in the bin. It's not worth anything, Just plastic sheeting and things I pick up along the road.'

 

He survives by what he picks up along the road: a few coins, food scraps, the generosity of passing motorists. I give him a few fresh-baked scones and some fruit but he tells me to keep the apples because his can't eat them. Most of his teeth are rotted away to the gums but he hasn't seen a doctor in thirty years.

 

He lights no fires and sleeps in the bush at the side of the road.

 

‘I've seen too many bushfires. I'd always be worried I didn't put my fire out properly. Besides, it's another thing to feed, to look after.'

 

He's a slightly built man with ginger-white stubble and freckled, sunburnt skin. He wears a newish broad-rimmed felt hat someone gave him in Queensland, tinted glasses and grubby khakis that don't smell offensive. (Either that or I smelled worse than he.) He walks slowly, methodically in soft walking shoes and takes in the sights around him as the cars rush by.

 

Since he's been re-united with his family he writes a monthly letter to his mum. I ask him how his writing is after so long out of practice and he admits the grammar may not be perfect but he can still manage. ‘I'm a reader,' he explains.

 

‘What do you read?'

 

‘I've learned to read whatever I find on the side of the road so my tastes are quite broad these days.'

 

I give him a copy of Red in the Centre; I fancy he'll enjoy reading about other Australians doing it their own way.

 

‘Do you think it's a simple thing, this life?' I ask him.

 

‘Mine is,' he replies.

 

I re-join the rush of traffic and leave him to it.

 

++ UPDATED 6.09pm December 30 monte.com.au

            Turkey Time

The turkey in the picture is not the biggest turkey I’ve ever seen. It’s not even the biggest turkey I’ve seen this Christmas. It’s a monster, to be sure; probably a size sixty on the scale of measure they use on birds – the turkometer? poultrometer? – but at this time of year you’ll find big turkeys lurking everywhere.

Besides myself – a turkey from way back who doesn’t limit his follies to the festive season either – you can’t open a newspaper without reading about some poor fool who’s efforts through the past year have been scrutinised by that cruellest of judges, hindsight, and made a turkey of them.

This year it’s the best of the ‘Hillary Clinton is a shoe-in’ and ‘the recession is a con’ quotes that seem to be getting the most treatment, but my personal favourite is the ‘real estate hot spots’ column by a certain well-known demographer.

Although only a turkey-in-waiting for now, this year he tips a couple of suburbs I hold property in. Now normally such an eminent endorsement would give an owner some joy, but since I’ve been trying to sell both properties (at a loss) for some time I’m wondering if the demographer guru knows something these markets don’t.

Both markets are officially dead and nothing short of Elvis moving in seems likely to improve their fortunes. Yet the guru says next year’s the year it’s all going to happen.

Does the guru know that every half-baked developer – a career in which I earned the coveted legion d’honor le turkey – that ever crossed the border with riches in his sights has thought exactly the same thing about these places? One in particular has been promising to boom for so long you can buy joke earplugs at the newsagents.

But now it’s about to go off. Property prices will rise, the guru says, because he knows a thing or two about property, he studies the signs, predicts the trends. And the two properties I’ve got that nobody seems to want at (almost) any price will suddenly become hot, hot, hot.

So call me a turkey if you like but apart from the world recession we weren’t going to get that now looks like it’ll get much worse before it gets better, what’s changed to warrant this new-found optimism? What clever thing is the guru seeing that means I should be able to offload my houses this coming year for a fair price?

Because I’m stuffed if I can sell them.

++ UPDATED 2.36pm December 21 monte.com.au

      Eyre from the Air

Some sights stay with you forever. I suspect this one will for me. I’ve seen a lot of this country over the years and many things I don’t expect to see again, but none so spectacular as water flowing into Lake Eyre at sunset.

Maybe it’s only because I know how rarely water flows into the lake, and that it almost never fills. My eleven-year-old daughter, for instance, didn’t think much of the vision. My seventy-five-year-old father, on the other hand, was moved enough to say he wanted to see water in the Lake before he dies.

 

 

There’s something about Lake Eyre, something mythical and iconic and uniquely Australian. She’s like an extreme example of the outback: a harsh and inhospitable salt bed most of the time, yet roughly three times a century she fills with water and becomes the most benevolent and nurturing of mothers.

Pelicans, alerted by what wonder of bird communication heaven only knows, come from all over to form one of the largest breeding colonies on earth. Flora and fauna of amazing diversity inexplicably appears as if conjured from the barren land by some grand miracle. The country comes alive.

The last good rain for the Lake was only as recently as 2000 when it filled to about 80%. I visited William Creek shortly after and the pub – there is only the pub and a couple of houses to its name – was crawling with stink beetles, you couldn’t walk to the bar without crunching them underfoot.

To drive the Oodnadatta Track that year was to marvel at how fertile the soil was, how lush and green was the land.

I drove the Track again last year on the Red in the Centre trip and the country was so barren my daughter and I saw only six kangaroos for the entire six hundred-odd kilometre journey.

Of course early rain is no guarantee that the Lake will fill, but it’s a good start. And it is enough to guarantee the country will be green again this year. Nearby Anna Creek Station, the largest working cattle property on earth, will re-stock, the tourists will come and the boom and bust cycle of this incredible country will start over.

And who knows? If more rains fall my father might just get his wish. I’ll join him for that one. And I’ll drag my daughter along. She may not know how special it is yet, but one day she will.

++ UPDATED 12.46pm December 17 monte.com.au

The Taste of Water

I’m sitting under the awning catching rainwater in a bucket thinking about water. It’s raining lightly so I’m only harvesting a bucket every hour or so, but it’s still a comfort to be able to top up the tank with fresh drinking water. Water quality varies greatly around the country and I prefer tank water when I can get it. Awning water should be just as good, though it might pick up whatever flavours the canvas has stored while it’s been rolled up.

My camp is half way between the Barossa and Clare Valleys in wine country, South Australia, and the location isn’t coincidental. I called in to Torbreck earlier to catch up with the wine maker there and he got me half-pissed sampling his wines, which are too delicious to spit. So rather than drive in a borderline state I thought I’d make a bush camp, light a fire and catch water while I finish the job off with another bottle. At this stage it looks like it’s going to be a job well done.

Watching the water drip into the bucket reminds me of the American and his vineyard on the Nullarbor*. He draws from the artesian basins thereabouts, but the water needs desalinating before it can be used on his grapes. He may be lunatic or visionary or perhaps a little of each but he reckons we’re the mad ones for not recognising the potential of the place. Personally I can’t see how the salts and minerals in the water won’t adversely affect the taste of the wine. By the same token I’m happy to be proven wrong with some hands on research.

I’m making my way to Roxby Downs to catch a lift up to Oodnadatta country with a pilot mate of mine. They’ve had more water than they can handle up there and the roads are closed and trucks are stranded everywhere. There’s even water flowing into Lake Eyre. I should have pictures for you for the next blog.

In contrast, Roxby Downs got very little of the rain and they’re complaining because Lake Mary, their recreational lake, hasn’t been topped up in several years. The township and the mine at Olympic Dam both rely on water from the Great Artesian Basin, and they draw something like 30 megalitres a day to keep everything going. I have my doubts about the long-term environmental effect of pulling that amount of water out of the resource, but there’s nothing more powerful than the mining dollar out in this country.

I’ve just sampled my awning-farmed water and my notes are as follows: sweet with a hint of campfire smoke and a long, clean finish. Now back to wine.

* Covered in Red in the Centre, still available from my website www.monte.com.au while stocks last. (Down to my last million copies now.)

 

 

++ UPDATED 9.11am December 16 monte.com.au

Decorating the Tree

People are nuts. All the time, not just at Christmas time. At least at Christmas time they’ve got an excuse to decorate a tree. But that doesn’t stop them the rest of the year.

All around the country you’ll see trees on the side of the road festooned with various things: shoes, bottles, caps, stuff.

 

I imagine someone starts it off with one or two whatevers and it catches on. Other people must say, ‘Look! What a great idea! A knickers tree. I reckon I’m just gonna peel mine off right here and now and hang ‘em up.’

I’ve even heard of a brassiere fence somewhere though I’ve not seen it. It pains me to think of all those poor puppies going without support. Makes me want to reach out and offer help with my own two hands.

Sometimes it’s hard to work out just what the theme is. There is a photo in Red in the Centre of an ‘Undecided Tree’ which looks like it started as a shrine to Bart Simpson then just got weird. It’s now got hub-caps, a badminton racquet, a car radio, some other crap. Mind you, Bart still looks cool.

People get so desperate to join the circus they’ll be any old clown.

Occasionally you even see dead foxes and dingoes hung up in trees but that’s for a different reason. That’s to say, ‘I got your mates; look out or I might get you too.’

Or maybe, ‘Look, I’m doing my bit; how about you?’

I’ve also seen a piano tree and sundry car trees but they tend to be one-offs. Seems there aren’t too many people prepared to stop and hoist their car up a tree on impulse, these days.

Driving across the Nullarbor you’ll see the well-established shoe tree and bottle tree within a short distance of one another. I took a photo of the bottle tree on my lap around last year and I cross-checked it this time for signs of change.

The one notable difference was the adult toy hanging up there like the naughtiest kid in the class –and which I didn’t discover till I scrutinised the picture once home – is now absent, presumably expelled by some sanctimonious killjoy.

Or maybe it was appropriated as a Christmas gift last year. Hey, why not? At least you’d know where it’s been.

Anyway, I suppose it couldn’t hang around doing nothing forever.

If I ever start a theme tree I think I’ll go for something like a money tree. It’d be nice to think we live in a country where something like that would flourish unprotected.

 

++ UPDATED 07/12/08 monte.com.au

    Hurry Up and Slow Down

 

In an effort to get around the country in the short time span allowed by this adventure, I'm going too fast and missing plenty. I know it, but I made the decision early and now I'm committed to the punishing schedule I've set myself.

 

I wanted to include every state and territory in sixteen weeks and that meant about two weeks per state. You need every bit of two weeks just to drive through Western Australia without seeing much beyond the road  - ditto Queensland - so sourcing, shooting and editing stories on top of this was always going to be a stretch.

 

I've received a few emails pointing out various highlights I've not included in the trip and they've been duly noted. If we - sponsors, the show, myself - all decide to continue the journey next year I'll be taking more time to include these places.

Though it should be noted this was never going to be a location-driven exercise. For me it was always going to be about the people, not the pretty scenery, and people you find everywhere.

 

Even so, it takes time to find the people with the stories to tell and rushing around like a loon doesn't make it any easier.

 

So I've made an error of judgement even though my intentions were honourable.

 

And I should have known better. For the Red in the Centre trip I took ten months to get around and still didn't cover half of what I wanted. Some people take twenty years to get right around the country. Others get waylaid and never make it.

 

She's a vast country.

 

The best story I remember hearing to illustrate this came from a friend of mine whose brother was making the long flight out from the UK to visit him in Melbourne. When the plane reached the northwest coast the captain made the announcement that they were finally over Australian land. Relieved, his brother stood up and took his jacket from the overhead locker and put in on in readiness for landing.

 

Driving you get an even greater sense of her size.

 

Ironically, driving faster probably does little to change that perception because you see less and therefore, like a wet holiday, the lack of variation tends to make it drag.

 

And there's always the risk of ending up like the wreck I photographed in the cage.

 

I'd better hurry up and slow down.       

 

++ UPDATED 03/12/08 monte.com.au

 

Missing The Original

 To be honest I missed the mark this week. Drove from Broome to Carnarvon and failed to get a good story. I got fragments and whispers, promising leads that went cold in my hands, but nothing I could weave into a yarn for you.

What constitutes a good story isn't always easy to define and is no doubt different for everyone, but I'm certain it always involves something original: an original idea or act or (especially) person. I've resisted using the word ‘character' here because there isn't a soul breathing air that someone doesn't think is a character. Everyone's best friend is a character. Yet everyone's best friend is not an original in the sense I'm meaning.

 

 

The fisherman in the picture is an original. He doesn't need an introduction. He doesn't need his mates telling you he's a ‘character'. It's plain to see the man does his own thing, thinks his own ideas.

I met him at Quobba fishing with his boys. It was late afternoon and they'd been fishing all day without success. I brought Mother Theresa alongside their 4x4 and got out. He did likewise, looking exactly as you see him in the photo except he was holding a can instead of a rod. The smile was the same.

‘How are you, mate?' I asked.

‘Yeah, pretty pissed,' he answered, meaning the Australian version, not the American.

I like a man who calls it straight.

That night I enjoyed a drink with him and his lads and told him I'd be filming him fishing tomorrow.

‘I hope you're not expecting me to be wearing all the flash gear.'

‘Wear what you're wearing now for all I care,' I said.

Which, of course, he did, was always going to do. In fact that's all I saw him wear the whole time: hat, briefs, thongs, smile.

Strictly speaking he's not a good advertisement for rock fishing - and yes I know it's Australia's most dangerous sport as I'm sure he does too - but he's not trying to be an advertisement for anything. He's an original

He even used his spinning reel upside-down and back-to-front.

In hindsight, if I'd been smart I'd have hung a radio microphone around his neck and just shot the breeze while he was fishing. He'd have given me all the originality I needed.

But I wasn't smart. I was too busy looking for a story. 

++ 01/12/08 monte.com.au

Paradise Arrest

I'm under arrest. At Coral Bay. The police pulled me over earlier today and told me to come here and stay till I'm rehabilitated. It might take some time.

There I was minding my own business driving around the corner from Karratha to God-knows-where and next thing lights are flashing and I'm pulled over.

‘Afternoon boys,' I said in my grovelling best.

‘Grant Denyer's the name. Just taking this little baby for a hot lap around the country to see if my back'll stand the pace.'

 

But they weren't buying any of it. They could see my picture all over Mother Theresa and even on the lowest-placed graphic I'm taller than Grant.

Actually they were fans of the show going back to Pannawonica after a quick tour of duty to Coral Bay, the southernmost town on their beat. They were also in a lenient mood.

Which is why I took them at their word when they told me I must stay at this place. I consider it a directive from the law. They didn't say for how long so I assume they meant till they tell me otherwise. I've had no word yet.

Problem is nothing happens here and my chances of getting a story are pretty slim. I'm going to have to manufacture one. My raw materials are a couple of hundred holiday-drugged tourists, a handful of locals happy to see the end of the season and a palm-fringed, inner-reef beach paradise. Very dull.

I intended doing a story on Karratha's accommodation crisis but it seems to be over. At one point a couple of months ago there were boys sleeping in camps in the bush, in shipping containers, anywhere they could just to be close enough to get to work to earn the big dollars on offer from the mining boom.

Now with the global economic downturn and China's demand for raw materials slowing the resource sector is starting to hurt.

So I moved on, only to be pulled over and ordered to spend my days in this backwater. They even turned around and chased me just to tell me.

I must remember to give to the Policemen's Benefit this year.