Free Beer & Sex



My wife and I established one of Australia's first backpacker hostels in Townsville,

North Queensland, and ran it for fifteen years. During that time over 100,000 people

passed through our doors. Many were out for a bit of adventure and some got more

than they bargained for. The stories in this book are based on real incidents: some

frightening, others amusing .

By Mike Dixon

Copyright 2012 Mike Dixon

IBSN 978-0-9871172-7-4





Contents

1. Free beer and sex

2. Toy boy

3. Eric's fatal mistake

4. Mud wrestling

5. Beach boys

6. Nightclubs

7. Spiked drinks

8. Jobs on trawlers

9. Hippy communes

10. Ingrid's new friend

11. Veronica's dad

12. Sea change

13. Lesbian vampire killers

14. Dangerous company

15. Feeding frenzy

16. Heat exhaustion

17. Humphrey's narrow escape

18. Jinxed

19. Narrow Escape

20. Spooked

21. Panic

22. Missing persons

23. Homicidal holiday safari

24. Sean's missing uncle

25. Awesome holiday jobs



26. Ordinary holiday jobs

Mike's blog and author web site: http://mikejkdixon.com





1 Free beer and sex



A friend of mine once claimed that all good backpacker advertising should

include the words Free, Beer and Sex. The order wasn't important so long as

you squeezed them in somehow.

He wasn't suggesting that the backpacker circuit is a great place to find sex. His

point was that the expectation of sex is enough to propel most young males on round-

the-world trips.

When I was a young guy, growing up in England, people who ran holiday camps put

out a similar message. Some of my mates fell for it and, like other young guys, didn't

have the courage to own up to the truth when they got back home. They fantasised

about their exploits. The legend lived on and the holiday camps prospered.

Others of my mates hit on a better tactic. They joined a local tennis club or youth

fellowship group and met girls there. Their next trick was to get the girls to go to the

camps with them. Jive sessions were also highly rated but nothing could beat the

peace marches.

To my loss, I never saw the point of trying to "Ban the Bomb". I was too naïve to realise that the marches were about something far more attainable. They provided

unparalleled opportunities for getting to know the opposite sex. Big distances were

involved and there were overnight stops. So long as the weather was fine, nothing

could beat snuggling down in the long grass with a fellow peace activist.

Later, the flower-power thing took off. Making love became a moral imperative that

would banish the urge to make war. In Australia, it reached its climax in the alternative

lifestyle movement. Groups of young people occupied abandoned farmland and

formed communes. Thirty years down the track, some are still with us. It's interesting

to see how they evolved and I'll tell you about them elsewhere.

Here, I'm concerned with the young male's universal (or almost universal) quest for

physical fulfilment with persons of the opposite sex. Mine was hindered by a

fascination for the heavens that caused me to seek fulfilment in the study of

astrophysics and other erudite subjects. While I was thus occupied, some of my mates

were training as skiing instructors.

They had noticed that a certain sort of female is physically attracted to the sort of

male who teaches physical pursuits. On holidays in the Alps, they had seen how

people with names like Fritz and Wolfgang were scoring highly in the sport of "après

ski" and they saw no reason why they shouldn't join them.



Becoming the sort of male who excites lust is the key to success. Locating a lusting

female is all that remains. There is a common belief that foreign women are more

susceptible to amorous advances than the girls back home. Unless you come from

Saudi Arabia, Yemen and certain parts of the High Himalayas, I'd scrub that idea. If

you do come from the aforementioned places, bear in mind that girls who show a bit of

bare flesh above a bare knee are not trying to excite male passions . It's the way they

dress and normal; healthy males are not unduly excited by it.

A mate of mine got round the problem of finding lusting girls by letting the girls find

him. He's now gone to fat but was once slim, bearded and handsome . He was also a

diving instructor and an enthusiast for the sport of "après dive". He used to stay in a private room at my hostel when he was not on the dive boats and usually had a

companion with him. As he said, it was a matter of numbers . About one woman in fifty

found him irresistible. There were so many girls enrolling in the dive courses, he could

forget about the remaining forty-nine.

The strategy worked well but had its down side. He began to tire of the sort of

female company he was keeping and developed a desire to settle down. Trouble was

his fame had spread too far. The sort of girls he wanted as lifelong companions found

him entertaining but spurned his advances. In the end, an older woman took him

under her wing. He left the diving industry and joined her in the antiques business.





2 Toy boy



It's not a role that would appeal to everyone and not all young guys are cut out

for it. Sufficient to say that a demand exists for the sort of company a younger

male can provide for an older female.

Strictly speaking, it's not a job but it does have many similarities. There is no formal

contract and remuneration comes in the form of financial support . Your companion

pays for your meals and accommodation and may even finance the odd plane trip. As

with mud wrestling, no work visa is required and you don't have to report gifts to the

tax office.

From time to time, we had a toy boy staying at our hostel. They were usually well-

spoken young men in their late teens. Most came from English speaking countries but

that's not a necessary requirement. Don't worry if you hardly speak the language. No

one is going to ask you to give English lessons. Other requirements are far more

important.

Getting employed is largely a matter of chance . There are recruitment agencies

specialising in male escorts but the job description is different and the title is "gigolo".

Gigolos are experienced professionals who provide a service. Toy boys are

inexperienced amateurs who receive one.

Most of our toy boys were Australian but a spattering came from the UK and

Canada. The typical candidate was bronzed, athletic and unworldly. They gave the

impression of having lived a life of total innocence until picked up by a thirty-plus lady

from the other side of the world. The term to describe her male equivalent is sugar

daddy. I like sugar mamma but will stick to modern terminology and refer to the ladies as cougars ... after the big cat of the same name.

The most memorable of our cougars was Renata. I became aware of her presence

when a worried mum from Melbourne phoned to inquire about her eighteen-year-old

son, Robin. Mum was unhappy about the company he was keeping and it was a while

before she disclosed that Robin had gone off with an older woman whom he'd met at a

schoolies party.

At this point, I should explain that schoolies parties are held for school leavers.

They are an annual event and of great concern to parents and teachers who worry

about older males that gatecrash the parties and prey on young girls . I wondered if

anyone was keeping a lookout for older females.

Renata and Robin were on a scuba diving trip when mum phoned. I assured her

that they had gone out with a good dive company and were in competent hands but

that did little to calm her fears. In the end, I agreed to speak to Robin on his return.

I cornered the young man in the hostel garden, sipping a coke and sarsaparilla and

looking totally at peace with the world . There was no sign of Renata.

"How was the diving?"

I asked to get the conversation going.

"Awesome!"

"How did your friend like it?"

"Awesome!"

It wasn't much of a reply and I decided that Robin was a man of few words . But I

needn't have worried. He was soon waxing lyrically on Renata's charms . At thirty-five

she was almost twice his age. That didn't worry Robin. He was clearly flattered by her

attention.

He told me that his friend was a company accountant from Hamburg and she was in

Australia for her Christmas break. Renata lived in a fabulous apartment and knew lots

of famous people. They'd had a fantastic time together and he'd learnt a lot from her.

The last remark came with a touch of shyness and I didn't ask for details.

It seemed that his dream encounter was coming to an end. Renata would soon be

returning to Germany. Her company was negotiating a big contact and her financial

skills were needed. She boarded a plane a few days later and Robin returned to

Melbourne in good health and apparently no worse for wear.

I thought I had seen the last of Renata but I was wrong. She'd enjoyed her stay with

us and turned up at Christmas two years running . The hostel was a fruitful hunting

ground and she managed to find a young companion on both occasions . Her

preference was for fresh-faced young men from sheltered backgrounds.

Not all cougars share Renata's tastes. Some like their young men tough and

brawny. Others go for a more delicate model. There are opportunities for most young

guys so long as they remember the two golden rules of cougar hunting.

1) Don' brag about your conquests (real or imaginary).

2) Don't pretend to be older than you are.

Remember that the last thing a cougar wants is age and experience.



PS. A friend from Japan tells me that a different sort of cougar stalks her country.

The Japanese version goes after adolescent boys but otherwise displays the same

features as its Western cousins.





3 Eric's fatal mistake



Many years ago, when I was a student in England, one of my friends joined a

golf club. He saw it as a way to meet the right sort of people and advance his

love life. I listened with envy as he told me about his progress. On occasions, I

even wondered if I should give up rock climbing for a more socially rewarding

activity.

The golf club's president had a beautiful daughter and my friend lusted after her.

Weeks passed and everything went according to plan. He was invited to the

president's home and met the young lady. They struck up a relationship and it was

proceeding well when he forgot the basic rules of the game . I never fully understood

what happened but it had something to do with "teeing off". As far as I can make out he hit the ball when he shouldn't have . Anyway, the offence was unforgivable and he

fell from grace.

I recently encountered something similar at my local surf club . A handsome young

fellow arrived from Scandinavia. I'll call him Eric. He was a champion surfer and got to

know the club president. In time Eric met the president's daughter, the lovely Natalie

(not her real name).

He went to stay with them. There was talk of marriage. Then things went pear-

shaped. Eric was out in the surf one day and the perfect wave came along. It rose up

and he launched himself into its seductive curve ... forgetting that he didn't have

precedence. Another surfer was there before him.

Worst of all, the other surfer was the club president. Perched on her surfboard,

Natalie saw what happened and was horrified. Eric and stolen her dad's wave (the

technical term is "drop in"). What sort of husband would he make? She revised her opinion of him and gave Eric his marching orders. He ceased to be a live-in boyfriend

and is staying in a backpacker hostel again.





4 Mud Wrestling



In another story (Holiday jobs), I describe two sorts of female dance acts. One is

performed with the clothes on and the other ends with the clothes off. Mud

wrestling provides a halfway house between the two. I was introduced to the

sport by some young ladies at my hostel.

The wrestling took place in a local beer garden and was open to female contestants.

Prizes were awarded to victor and vanquished alike and preference given to buxom

girls in floppy tops.

The prizes came in the form of medallions that could be exchanged for cash at the

bar. As the girls said, no work visa was required and there was no need to disclose

anything to the income tax office. Before long they were part of the regular act.

One night they invited me along to watch. I arrived at the appointed hour and was

shown to a table beside a large plastic paddling pool. I ordered a beer and watched as

a woman in black leotards tipped dark powder into the pool. It came in sacks with

writing saying it was good for the complexion and removed wrinkles.

The leotard lady smoothed the powder, sprinkled it with water and sloshed it around

until it had the constituency of wet toothpaste. By now a large crowd had gathered and

more people were streaming in from the street. I was hugely impressed. The hotel

had gone bust a few months earlier. The new owners certainly knew how to get things

going.

"Ladies. Your attention, please ..."

The leotard lady picked up a microphone and announced that a bath of health-giving

organic balm had been prepared for the night's contest.

"The challenger is Helenna from Helsinki!"

She pointed to one of my girls: a big lass, called Joanne, who came from Perth.

"She will be fighting last night's champio n ... Priscilla from Paris."

Neither girl was using her real name . That's important in this sort of contest. The

aim is to entertain and you shouldn't care a sod whether you win or lose. If you do



lose, just tell yourself it wasn't you but some chump yo u were impersonating at the

time. That's one reason. Another is unwanted fame.

In this age of rapid communication, images flash around on mobile phones. That

could cause unnecessary angst when you arrive back home. The mud is there to

provide cover for your activities. Don't give the game away by telling people who you

really are.

"Ladies. Prepare to show us what you're made of ..."

The crowd went mad with excitement and the girls took up positions on either side

of the pool. They crouched like sumo wrestlers then launched themselves at one

another. Bodies clashed and mud spattered . They squirmed around, displaying the

odd glimpse of nipple but not much else . The bout ended when Priscilla wrapped

Helenna's T-shirt round her neck and forced her to concede defeat.

After that everything went smoothly. More of my girls presented themselves and

were joined by girls from the crowd . Some were rejected as unsuitable. Others

dropped out when they discovered they had to remove their bras . The contest ended

and prizes were duly awarded to all contestants.

As far as I know, a good time was had by all. That didn't stop the local women's

rights organisation from protesting. One well-known lady picketed the hotel to the

embarrassment of some of its older patrons but was ignored by most.





5 Beach boys



In my last story, I wrote about mud wrestling and the young ladies who fought

one another for medals that could be exchanged for cash at the bar. The

wrestling took place in a local beer hall and was a great success. Strictly

speaking, the girls were not employees. They were competitors. That didn't

stop them from earning a steady income ... until the women's rights people put

an end to it.

The girls were followed by a group of young guys called The Beach Boys. They

were local lads, recruited by the lady who managed the mud wrestling and trained by

her. They had well-honed physiques and wore the briefest of briefs (known as jock

straps in some parts of the world).

The boys flexed their muscles and pranced around on a small stage beneath

flashing lights. Bodies oiled and hairless they hung onto their small item of clothing

and looked bashful when female voices shouted for a Full Monty.

Despite the wild acclaim showered upon them by some members of the audience, I

can't say I was taken by the Beach Boys' act. That, of course, is a personal view. The

boys undoubtedly had their admirers and were very well paid.



If you are planning to travel round Australia and are thinking of putting on something

similar, I would advise you to get a manager. A work visa will be required for non-

Australian residents and it may be necessary to join an appropriate union.

I'm told that sex is not involved. Indeed, it is strictly out. The aim is to create an

image of masculine virility that will excite the ladies in the audience and make them

more amenable to the advances of their male companions. The mud girls' act was

there for a similar reason.





6 Nightclubs



Some friends once invited me to become a partner in a nightclub. After a careful

look at the proposal I decided it wasn't for me. In the process, I learnt a lot about

the nightclub scene. In another article, I talk about the sort of competition

people can face from rivals who are prepared to take extreme measures to force

them out of business. That's one of the hazards of owning a nightclub. Here I'm

going to talk about the hazards faced by customers ... male customers.

I don't want to put you off. Some of my friends own nightclubs and I'm sure they run

them well. But not all clubs are well run and unfortunate things can happen in the best

of places.

As a customer, you meet your first hazard at the door. The posh term is security

personnel. Most people know them as bouncers . Some are well qualified. Others are

not. It was a problem in the past and it hasn't gone away. I'm amazed that the

industry hasn't done something to smarten up its act. We are still hearing stories of

undue force and frightening injuries to patrons who refuse to take orders from

overweight oafs who think they have a licence to punch and kick. Don't argue with the

sods and don't think the problem is confined to Australia. Other countries have an

equally bad record.

Incidentally, if you get a job as a bouncer and work in Townsville (where I had my

hostel) or any other garrison city, avoid fights with guys with short hair. There's a

chance they're in the army and trained to kill. While we were researching our

nightclub, a fight broke out in a local club and spilt onto the street . The bouncers

fought the army and came off second best. The military police were called in to

prevent serious injury and the club was declared off-limits to the troops. That was a

disaster for the owners. The boys spent freely and without them the club went bust.

My next remarks are addressed to males in search of female company. Some strike

it lucky and find a lonely lady who shares their desire for a harmless one-night-stand.

Most don't. The lucky ones return to their beds disappointed but unscathed. The

unlucky ones fall victims to a sting ... and that's something to be avoided.

Three basic rules apply:

* Don't let your hormones rule your head.

* Beware of fascinating women.

* Avoid group sex.

One poor guy failed to follow the third rule and found himself at the mercy of a pack

of lesbian vampires (see Story 13, below). If you don't believe me, surf the net using

lesbian, vampire, killers, Australia as tags and see what you get. None of my guests succumbed to that appalling fate but some fell victim to a lesser sting, which went

something like this.

Imagine that you and your mates go off to explore the fleshpots of a new town. You

fancy a bit of excitement and are drawn to the bright lights of a nightclub. You make

your way past the bouncers and reach the reception desk. There's an entrance fee for

men but women are let in free. That's encouraging. The club clearly wants to attract

unaccompanied girls and you see a group at a table. You join them and soon get

talking. Everything goes swimmingly. They're just the sort of chicks you've dreamt of

... no inhibitions and out for a bit of fun.

After a while, they invite you back to their place to watch porno videos and get to

know one another better. It's too good a chance to miss and, half-sloshed, you and

your mates pile into their cars. After a drive into the depths of suburbia you arrive at a

small house. Videos go on and bras come off. The girls start to undress you. One of

your mates is preparing for action when headlights appear in the driveway. Vehicles

screech to a halt. The front door bursts open and a mob of guys bursts in. They

accuse you of raping their wives. Fists fly. The girls flee and you're beaten up.

I was aware of three incidents of this sort when I ran my hostel. There could have

been others. It's very humiliating. Definitely not the sort of thing you want to talk

about. The victims were usually in their late twenties and stayed in private rooms in

the hostel. They were always robbed and their injuries were sometimes severe. I

informed my contacts in the local police and was told they knew what was going on but

could do nothing until someone was prepared to lay complaints. As far as I know that

never happened.





7 Spiked drinks



We had our hostel for fifteen years and, during that time, several of our female

guests fell victim to spiked drinks. I can think of five cases but there could have

been more. The so-called rape-drug was used on each occasion.

I'm not talking about an aphrodisiac. The girls weren't plied with dri nks to break

down their inhibitions and make them feel sexy. They were given a drug that rendered

them senseless. Worse still, they were so confused that it was impossible for them to

work out exactly what had happened. All they knew was that they had been violated

and could only guess who had done it. To avoid such a thing happening to you

remember the three golden rules:

* Don't accept drinks from people you can't trust.

* Don't leave your glass unattended.

* Avoid getting drunk.

And remember that you can be handed a spiked drink anywhere ... not just in bars.

I know one young lady who fell victim to spiking at the office party of a leading

international company. The incident occurred in Sydney but could have happened

anywhere. Her drink was spiked by colleagues. They were out to humiliate her and

succeeded. The problem was to discover exactly what had happened and gather

proof. There was a lot of circumstantial evidence but nothing that couldn't be denied.

The case would make a good background plot for a novel. Maybe I'll have a go at it

one day.

This brings me back to the point I made earlier. Victims are always befuddled. So,

if you suspect someone is the victim of a spiked drink, take care of them and make

sure the police are called. Bar staff are often reluctant to do this so you may have to

do it yourself. Insist on a full medical examination and do your best to see that blood

and urine samples are taken before any drugs are discharged from the body.

Girls are particularly vulnerable but guys are not immune. Shortly before we sold

our hostel there was a strange incident that took several days to unravel. I was woken

in the early hours of the morning by yelling and screaming from one of the private

rooms. I pulled on a pair of shorts and went to see what was happening.

As I left my house, three figures emerged from the main hostel building and ran into

the street. I figured they were part of the disturbance but had no time to investigate .

The yelling was still going on and something had to be done about it.

I entered the hostel and was pleased to see my friend Sean in the corridor . He

worked as a geologist's assistant and stayed with us when on leave . Sean was



outside one of the rooms and a torrent of foul language was coming from inside. We

banged on the door and told them to "Open Up". When nothing happened, I unlocked

the door and threw it open.

We were confronted by a woman I recognised as a local prostitute. She pushed

past us and fled, leaving a fully-dressed young man on the bed. He was making a

heap of noise and appeared to be hopelessly drunk. We did our best to calm him but

without success. In the end I called the police and the guy was taken away.

I thought that was the end of the matter but it wasn't. The next day the young man

reappeared claiming I had robbed him of hundreds of dollars. He was in a hysterical

state and I had no doubt he believed what he was saying . Inevitably, the police were

called again.

Days passed and the young man's mother became involved. With her help, we

were able to piece together what had happened . It seems her son was a shy lad who

had just finished work on a farming property out west. He arrived in town with his

pockets bulging with money and went into a bar where he met some new chums.

They spiked his drink and amused themselves at his expense. Their final act was to

accompany him back to his hostel room, finding a prostitute on the way. When Sean

disturbed them, they fled with the young man's money.





8 Jobs on trawlers



One day a glossy poster landed in the hostel letterbox. It arrived in a cardboard

cylinder with a note asking me to display it in the female toilets. This sort of

request generally referred to sexually transmitted diseases and came from the

Department of Health. On this occasion, it was from the Department of

Transport.

I wasn't totally surprised. As a former government officer, I knew that government

departments are forever muscling in on one another's territory. Communicable

diseases are transported and that was probably how the transport people got in on the

act. I unfurled the poster and found that my suspicions were unjustified.

SCREAM !!!

A banner headline yelled at me from above a picture of a young woman cowering on

the deck of a boat.

No one will come to your aid!

Other words spelt out the horror of her situation.

It was a warning about jobs on trawlers.



I've had friends who owned trawlers. I got to know them when they cashed in their

fishing licences and switched to dive boats. Their behaviour was always impeccable.

Sadly, the same cannot be said for everyone who goes to sea to catch fish. The

Department of Transport knew there was a serious problem and acted responsibly.

Girls were being raped!

I encountered two incidents in which young women took jobs on trawlers (as cooks)

and regretted it. One swam across to a boat on which I was working as a dive master.

The other returned to my hostel in a state of distress.

And it's not just the girls who are at risk. Guys are vulnerable too ... usually in a

different way. Imagine you hear about this great fishing job . You can go to sea, get

free food and board and have a share in the profits when the catch is sold. The guy

who owns the boat said you'd have an awesome time and get rich in the process. It

sounds too good to miss. But is it?

First, there's the risk you won't be paid. Working on a trawler is not a fun job and

you'll feel more than a little upset if you find your boat had vanished into the great blue

yonder when you go to collect your money. As one guy said when booking back into

my hostel: "All I got from two weeks at sea was fish-handlers' disease and a badly cut

arm.". He was particularly vulnerable because he'd been working without a visa. That

can get you deported so there was no question of going to the police. Unscrupulous

operators know that.

Second, there's the risk you won't get along with your new mates. There are many

tales of crewmembers jumping ship or being abandoned. One poor fellow was

rescued by a friend of mine who has a cattle ranch in the northern gulf country

(Carpentaria). He found the man up a tree surrounded by dingoes. The guy could

have died of thirst or been torn to pieces by the dogs.





9 Hippy communes



Okay. You've joined a commune and people are telling you it's run by a bunch

of criminals. They are making out that it's not much different from the motorbike

gangs you've read about in the newspapers. Of course you don't believe them.

The commune is about saving the planet. You are trying to stop the rainforest

from being destroyed by developers who don't care how much damage they do

so long as they make money. You set up road blocks and sabotage machinery.

It's not surprising the greedy arseholes are telling lies about you. All they want

is profit.

I first got to hear about the communes in the Daintree rainforest when I went to visit

friends who had built a backpacker resort there. The Daintree is on the coast, between

Cairns and Cooktown in Far North Queensland. It is an area of great environmental

significance and large parts have been declared World Heritage . I didn't doubt that

there were people who wanted to develop the bits that had not yet been scheduled for

preservation. I knew some and had heard their boasts of chopping down any tree tha t

stood in their way. But that didn't mean the protesters were squeaky clean.

As a new development, the resort came in for a lot of flack. The protesters had tried

to stop it being built and were harassing people staying there. That didn't deter them

from using its facilities when they managed to sneak in undetected.

A couple turned up one evening when I was there and hung around the bar chatting

up the girls. They weren't my idea of the average tree hugger. Suavely dressed in

dark trousers, silk shirts, medallions and religious charms, they reminded me of the

sort of young men who drive fast cars and frequent nightclubs. My friend told me that

their usual attire was sarong, headband and little else.

They lived in a makeshift commune in the nearby forest. The leaders were male

and Australian. Their followers were predominantly female and many came from

overseas. My friend painted a picture of free love, drugs and squalor. I asked how he

knew and he said some girls had fled the commune and warned people to keep clear

of it.

I returned to my hostel in Townsville, which is 500 kilometres to the south, and

forgot about the Daintree for a while. Then I started to hear reports of a battle being

waged by environmentalists who were opposed to the construction of a coastal road

that would link the Daintree to Cooktown. I could understand their concern. The road

would cut through pristine forest.

Soon, the whole thing became highly politicised and accusations began to fly. The

protesters were allegedly growing marijuana amongst the trees and trading it. The

accusations were vehemently denied. Anyone suggesting such a thing was labelled

an environmental vandal in league with the most evil and reactionary forces in the land

... then bodies started to be found.

They were cropping up beside roads and the evidence pointed to gang warfare.

Drug trafficking was evidently involved. I guess the police had the commune under

surveillance and were waiting to gather further evidence. That's normal in drug

operations. If you dash in too early, you get the small fry and the big fish escape.

When the bodies appeared, they were forced to act.

I might have forgotten about the episode if a young woman had not come to stay in

our hostel. She came from Canberra and I'll call her Joan (not her real name). She

worked for us while staying in one of our apartments . One day we had a problem with

a girl in the female dormitory. She was hysterical and Joan managed to calm her

down.

The next day she told me that the young woman was suffering withdrawal

symptoms and she'd taken her to the drug rehabilitation clinic at the hospital. It was

then that I learnt about Joan's involvement with the drug scene in the Daintree four

years earlier.

At the age of nineteen, she'd left stuffy Canberra for a life of freedom in a commune

in the rainforest. The noble thought of saving the planet had helped her overlook the

failings of her companions who were preaching conservation while chopping down

trees to grow pot. She'd told herself the crop was solely for personal use, despite its

huge size. She'd ignored the other drugs passing through the commune and she'd

been intimidated by the threats and physical abuse that were a way of life in the

commune.

Like everyone else, she was detained for questioning when the police raided the

place. She convinced them she was not a person of interest and returned to her

parents in Canberra. They advised her to enrol in a social welfare course at the

university, arguing that her wayward experience would help her save others. It didn't.

Drugs had impaired her ability to concentrate. She found it difficult to study, fell out

with her lecturers and quit. For the past year, she'd been wandering around trying to

find herself.





10 Ingrid's new friend

Ingrid came from Denmark and was travelling with a young man who went out of

his way to say that they were just good friends. His name was Rolf and he acted

as her minder. Why he should have assumed that role was never clear to me.

The pair spent several months with us and worked for their beds. Ingrid helped with

the cleaning and Rolf did odd jobs . He was reserved. She was decidedly outgoing.

One day a young man arrived at the hostel. He registered under the name of

Nickolas and claimed to be Polish. According to Nickolas, his passport and credit

cards had been stolen and he couldn't get money until they'd been replaced. He

produced a valuable watch and said I could have it as security. In return, I gave him a

loan of $50 and said he could work for his bed.

Not surprisingly, Ingrid took Nickolas under her wing . He told her the story of his

unhappy life and secured a sizeable loan. Several days passed and Rolf came to see

me.

"Do you know Nickolas is borrowing money?"

I said I'd loaned him $50 but didn't k now about anyone else.

"He's got over $600 and he's writing cheques ... telling people they can cash them

when the bank opens tomorrow."

I said it was Thursday and the banks stayed open late.

Rolf grinned. "Okay! I'll take him there right now."

Rolf was a big guy and could be physically persuasive despite his mild nature . He

collected Ingrid and they went down into the pool area where Nickolas was sitting at a

table, busily writing cheques. A crowd gathered. People got excited and there was a

lot of gesticulating. During all of this, Nickolas remained his usual nonchalant self and

didn't seem put out when Rolf insisted they go round to the bank immediately.

What followed went something like this. Nickolas arrived at the bank, under escort,

insisting it was closed and they were wasting their time. Needless to say, he got a bit

of a shock when he discovered the doors still open. The bulk of his escort remained

outside and he entered flanked by Rolf and Ingrid. They marched him to the counter

and stood beside him as he presented a cheque.

After that things started to heat up . The cashier examined the cheque and said she

would have to see if some transfers had been made. Nickolas said they would come

back the next day and the cashier said they should wait. Nickolas started to argue and

the cashier signalled to a security guard . The look on the man's face said they were

not going anywhere without a fight.

They were shown to a bench in the main hall. Rolf hooked an arm round Nickolas

and sat down. Ingrid took a place on the other side and held onto him. A minute

passed and Nickolas tried to get up. A struggle ensued and customers moved away.

The security guard glanced at his watch but made no attempt to intervene. Finally,

after twenty minutes, three police officers arrived. Rolf got up and was immediately

arrested along with Nickolas and Ingrid.

They were taken to a police station and questioned individually. It went on for

hours. Finally, Ingrid and Rolf were released when CCTV footage arrived from the



bank. The confrontation with Nickolas was clearly recorded and bore out their version

of events. They returned to the hostel leaving Nickolas in custody.

I never saw Nickolas again. He was found guilty of various offences and deported .

I still have the watch he left me as security. I handed it to the police and it was

returned when no owner could be found.

When the wheels of the law finally turned full circle, Ingrid and the other lenders

received their portion of the money retrieved from Nickolas. They have Rolf to thank

for that. As Rolf said: "Be streetwise. Don't fall victim to confidence tricks and scams.

Smooth talking people aren't always what they seem.".





11 Veronica's dad



My daughter, Mel, once knew a girl called Veronica (not her real name). They

met at uni and shared a student flat together. One weekend, Mel went to stay

with Veronica's folks. They lived in a posh part of town and had a beautiful

house.

Mel got on well with them. Dad was always joking and telling tales. But a dark

cloud hung over him. He had competitors who were jealous of his success and

determined to wreck his business. That weekend, one of his nightclubs was

firebombed and two of his laundrettes were trashed.

I had problems reconciling nightclubs with laundrettes. The hostel laundrette gave

me endless trouble and I could think of no good reason why a nightclub owner would

want a string of them. A malicious thought entered my head. Perhaps the laundrettes

were laundering money. I put the idea to Mel and she was horrified. Veronica's dad

couldn't possibly be doing anything like that.

At this stage, I need to say a few words about money laundering. It's something I

didn't give much thought to as an academic and my work with the Australian

Government didn't expose me to its complexities. Money laundering is what happens

when dirty money from illegal operations is fed down one channel and made to

reappear, lily white, at the other end. There are many ways of doing it and the thought

of dirty money being laundered in a laundrette was too good to miss.

I made the money laundering remark as a joke and soon forgot about it. Mel didn't.

Veronica was a nice girl but that didn't mean her amusing father wasn't up to tricks that

ran foul of the law. Mel made enquiries and learnt he was facing criminal charges,

which was very distressing for Veronica. I don't know what her dad was doing and

didn't follow the case. Maybe he was using laundrettes to launder money. That could

have appealed to his sense of humo ur.





12 Sea change



So you are fed up with your boring office job and want a change. Wouldn't it be

nice to live in one of those fabulous tourist destinations where it's summer all

year round? How about going into the diving industry? You could buy a boat

and take tourists to the Great Barrier Reef. Or you could establish a yachting

business in the Whitsunday Islands. You might even set up a backpacker

hostel.

Many of my friends in the tourist industry had professional qualifications . Some had

worked as accountants. Others had escaped from government offices. Some were

failed academics. Most were wandering souls. Few of us realised we could be

competing against hardened criminals when we left our cosy middle-class jobs for a

more eventful lifestyle.

I'd heard of money laundering but had never given it much thought . Put in simple

terms. Money laundering is what happens when dirty money from illegal operations

(e.g. drugs) is processed to make it appear legitimate . Just imagine that you set up a

business and find yourself competing against people who don't care if they make a

profit. Their sole concern is to launder money. They'll undercut you at every

opportunity and intimidate your staff.

I got to know a couple who had escaped the stress and s train of the big city for the

peace and tranquillity of North Queensland. They'd earned enough as financial

advisers to buy a backpacker hostel located in a veritable tourist paradise. Rainforest,

tropical islands, scuba diving ... everything you could wish for.

It didn't take them long to realise that all was not well in paradise. Like other

hostels, they had a backpacker bus which called at the central bus station. There was,

of course, competition for customers. They expected that but what they enco untered

came as a shock. Hostels were competing to offer the lowest price. One was a huge

resort and it was prepared to put people up for free!

Nothing made sense. The resort's previous owners had gone bust. They'd spent a

fortune and had failed because there weren't enough tourists to support their lavish

project. My friends started to make enquiries. With their professional background, it

wasn't difficult to discover what the new owners had paid and how they had raised the

finance. A considerable bank loan was involved. There was no way they could

service the debt from their takings . The logical conclusion was that they'd soon be

bankrupt like the previous owners but that didn't happen. Even with a ridiculously low

bed price they stayed afloat.

What about restaurant and bar taking ... could they be sufficient?

That seemed unlikely. If you want to make money from booze and food it doesn't

make sense to put up your customers at a give-away price. My friends went round to

have a look. They discovered a lot of activity but not enough cash flow to satisfy the

bank. While sipping drinks beside the bar they were recognised by one of the owners

and told, in no uncertain words, that they should stop snooping around and clear off.

Months went by and the situation got worse. Fights were breaking out at the bus

station and one driver was injured when he was hit by a backpacker bus. The region's

reputation as a tourist destination was under threat and the local authorities took steps

to calm things down. They called a meeting of the warring parties and picked a hotel

as a suitable venue.

The day of the meeting duly arrived and the participants turned up at the appointed

hour. It wasn't difficult to tell them apart. The shire council people wore suits and the hostel owners were dressed in the smart casual attire that was fashionable in the

tourist industry at the time . They contrasted with the partners in the big resort who

wore silk shirts, gold medallions and expensive watches that dangled ostentatiousl y

from their ample wrists. The meeting got off to a bad start and ended abruptly when

one of the hostel owners had a beer glass smashed in his face.

The attacker was a senior partner in the resort. A charge of assault was brought

against him and he was summoned to appear in court. But, before that could happen,

he fled the country to avoid arrest on drug -related charges. Interpol entered the act

and he was extradited back to Australia.

As far as I can make out, he and his partners were working a scam that went

something like this. The resort was purchased at a time of high inflation with money

loaned from the bank. Black money from the sale of drugs was passed off as hostel

takings and used to service the debt. Interest payments are tax deductible so nothing

was lost to the tax office. If everything had gone according to plan, the black money

would have reappeared as legitimate capital gain when the property was sold.





13 Lesbian vampire killers

Okay. There's a movie with a similar name and you don't believe anything like it

could happen in real life. So did a friend of mine and she has regretted it ever

since.

She was working for a regional TV station and received a telephone call from a

colleague. He had a bizarre story about a pack of lesbians who beheaded a man and

drank his blood. Some women had been taken into police custody and were being

questioned about a headless corpse in a riverside park. He couldn't vouch for

anything but she would have a fantastic scoop if the story turned out to be true.

This was back in 1989. I had just opened a backpacker hostel and my friend knew I

had contacts in the police. Could I make some enquiries and see what I could come

up with?

I phoned around and failed to discover anything . My friend wasn't surprised. The

story was too good to be true. It was the sort of false lead that media people give to

others as a prank.

Two days later the story broke. It was true and very nasty. Five young women,

embroiled in a lesbian relationship, had lured a forty-seven-year-old man to a park on

the banks of the Brisbane River with promises of sex. Having got him there, they

stabbed him 27 times. The attack was so brutal that he was almost decapitated .

Uncorroborated testimony alleged that the ringleader of the group, Tracey Wiggington,

drank the victim's blood.

The way in which the police solved the crime was as bizarre as the crime itself . The

victim had undressed and a bankcard was found in his shoe ... but it was not his. The



card belonged to one of his killers and that is how they were traced. It seems the man

found the card lying on the ground while preparing for the sex romp that never came .

Thinking it was his he placed it in his shoe.

I last heard of Ms Wigginton when she applied for early release from a life sentence.

Previous parole applications had been turned down. She was, at the time, living in a

prison farm near me.





14 Dangerous company



Back in 1987, three people were taken by crocodiles in northern Australia ... two

of them tourists. It was the year we opened our hostel and we were deeply in

debt to the bank. The thought of tourists being scared off by the attacks was

alarming but we needn't have worried. The publicity did marvels. Australia

joined Africa as an exciting place where people get eaten by wild animals. Of

course, no one expects that to happen to them ... being eaten is what happens to

others.

We lived in Townsville, which is in croc country, and our hostel was next to the

harbour where the dive boats were moored . When I was in the scuba diving industry I

spent a lot of time there. Our customers came on board in the early evening and were

briefed for the trip out to the Great Barrier Reef. We then hung around on deck until

midnight before putting to sea. That way we could cruise out slowly and arrive at the

dive site towards sunrise. I could often be found leaning over the rail, having a beer or

two with my mates, while we waited to leave port.

During the day there was never much sign of life in the murky waters of the harbour.

Night was different. Big things came to the surface and moved around in the dark .

Huge gropers (giant wrasse) lived beneath the wharves and we saw them in the

beams of our spotlights. Telltale fins betrayed the presence of sharks. Sometimes the

creature in the water seemed more reptilian than fish.

Crocodiles were once common in the harbour. Early settlers talked about them.

The evidence suggested they were back. We couldn't be sure and it didn't matter.

Gropers and sharks had a sufficiently sinister reputation. If work had to be done on the

hull of the boat, we waited until we were out in the clear blue waters of the Coral Sea

and did it there.

When I set up the hostel, I forgot about the crocs . Then a commercial diving

academy opened nearby and some of its students stayed with us . They told me about

their course. One part involved underwater navigation in zero-visibility conditions. The

academy was near the harbour and its muddy waters were ideal. I mentioned

crocodiles and the students consulted their notes. Currents and tidal conditions were

discussed in detail but not crocs. Weeks passed. New students arrived and I

continued to talk about the big reptile. Nothing happened and I was beginning to feel

alarmist when everything changed.

"Take a look at that!"

A photograph was pushed under my nose. It wouldn't have won a prize in a

photographic competition but its message was clear. A huge crocodile had plodded



through the upper reaches of the harbour and its tracks had been recorded with an

underwater camera.

Months passed and the evidence was irrefutable. A 3-metre specimen was

photographed on the water beside a jetty. At that size they are seriously dangerous,

not just scary. Warnings were issued and a team of wildlife officers arrived to relocate

the animal.





15 Feeding frenzy



People say that something is dangerous and you don't take them seriously.

You've done it so often you're blind to the dangers.

When I was in the diving industry we used to feed the sharks. It was part of our

service and very popular with customers who craved an adrenalin high and wanted

some stunning photographs to show the folks back home.

The sharks liked it too. They enjoyed a free meal and soon caught on. When they

heard the sound of our engines they would congregate around the feeding stations.

We'd arrive and find them waiting for us. It was all very convenient and predictable ...

or so it seemed.

The regular diners were reef sharks of the white-tipped variety with fine physiques

and good table manners. They didn't crash in for a quick bite. The white tips took time

to assess the situation and decide when it was safe to take the tempting morsels that

we were handing to them. It wasn't difficult to see why they had survived the Permian

Extinction and gone on to see the demise of the dinosaurs.

Admittedly, they got a bit agitated on occasions. That was when bronze whalers

and tiger sharks appeared. We got used to the whalers but the tigers continued to

spook us ... so, in a sense, we got it half right.

Reef sharks are safe but whalers and tigers should be treated with caution. We

should have worried about the whalers and we should have worried about the

hammerheads. One day a mob of the weird-looking sharks appeared and went on the

rampage.

Bags of fish were snatched from our hands and a leisurely dinner party degenerated

into a feeding frenzy. Divers panicked and fled for the surface (dangerous) . Others

froze (wise). One guy received cuts to his hand . Blood streamed from the wound and

that was scary.

We left the scene and got back to our boat, relieved that no one was seriously hurt.

After that, shark feeding was dropped from our list of activities. Other operators

continued to offer the service and it still goes on despite the occasional mishap.

My advice is to avoid shark feeding unless you are well out of reach of the sharks.

Shark viewing is quite different. Sharks are usually around and will be keeping an eye

on you. There's no need to ignore them.





16 Heat exhaustion

The posh name is hyperthermia and visitors to hot climates need to be aware of it, as I found out when I arrived in North Queensland from chilly Canberra. I was

a keen diver and looked forward to diving on the Great Barrier Reef.

My previous experience was in the cold seas off the south coast of New South

Wales. I had a thick wetsuit and didn't realise it was totally unsuitable for the tropics. I wore it on my first trip and soon discovered my mistake.

My dive buddy was slow to kit up and I hung around waiting for him . The sun shone

down from a clear blue sky. I stretched out on deck and was suddenly overcome by a

wave of nausea.

It was like being in a steam bath. The wetsuit was clearly at fault. I struggled to get

out of it but was too weak and befuddled to manage the simplest of tasks. Fortunately,

the skipper recognised my predicament and came to my rescue . The wetsuit was

pulled off, water was thrown over me and I was fanned with a towel . My temperature

dropped and I was soon well enough to go diving.

In the past, my fear had been of hypothermia, which refers to the body having too

little heat. That usually comes on slowly and with plenty of warning . Hyperthermia is

different. It can rush in and leave you so weak you lose control of what is happening.

Hypothermia takes time to overcome. The effects of hyperthermia usually go away

swiftly once the body is given a chance to cool.

When you are in a hot climate you need to be aware of hyperthermia. Small

children are particularly vulnerable. I came upon a panicking family in a Townsville

park. Their toddler looked as if she was about to die. The infant was overdressed and

badly dehydrated. The problem was soon corrected . The child was given a drink,

undressed, doused with water and fanned . One wonders what might have happened if

someone had not been there to give advice.

Stay cool and keep drinking. Pay particular attention to children. Small bodies

loose liquids fast.

One of my bushwalking friends is a National Parks officer. One day when driving

down a remote track she came upon a group of walkers . They were lost and in a state

of confusion. All were suffering from hyperthermia. They'd drunk the last of their water

and were near exhaustion. None was capable of rational thought. My friend bundled

them into her vehicle and took them to hospital. But for this chance encounter they

could have wandered off and died. One of the symptoms of heat exhaustion is an

inability to think clearly.





17 Humphrey's narrow escape

Humphrey was a rock cod who lived on the Yongala wreck just south of

Townsville. He had a huge mouth, built for suction, and would have weighed in

at about forty kilograms. Humphrey was big, spotted and friendly towards

people who fed him ... and there lay the root of his problem.

The Yongala was a passenger ship that sank during a tropical cyclone (hurricane) in

1911. I used visit it as a dive master. The wreck lay in deep water. That meant we

could allow no more than three well-spaced dives a day. The last was usually after

dark, following a light evening meal.

Night dives are fun. You see things that aren't around during the day and the

colours are different. I'll tell you about them in another story. Here, I'll stick to

Humphrey and the trouble he caused.

It wasn't his fault. The blame lay with the delinquents who thought they could feed

him. As I explained in my pre-dive briefs, fish feeding is strictly out. It's bad for the fish and could attract sharks and that could be bad for the divers.

The delinquents never listened. While I was explaining the importance of safe

diving, they were stuffing dinner scraps into the pockets of their buoyancy vests and

hiding them about their persons . I confiscated those I found but rarely had time for a

proper search. The odd chicken scrap usually got through. One night the greater part

a cooked chook escaped my search.

Humphrey must have smelt us coming. He arrived the moment we hit the deck and

made straight for one of my female charges. She was a buxom girl with a bulging

wetsuit which she began to unzip. Divers with cameras gathered round, evidently

aware that something spectacular was about to happen. Lights flashed. The zip went

down and a plastic bag popped out, followed by two pendular breasts ... sucked from

the suit by Humphrey.

Fortunately, he lusted for the chicken and not the girl. The camera lights continued

to flash as bits of chicken vanished down his huge gullet and the wetsuit was zipped

back up. We continued the dive and returned to the surface in good spirits. The

camera shots were first class and proved to have excellent publicity value.

The following night, I took extra precautions to ensure that nothing was taken down

for Humphrey. His exploits were entertaining but involved an unacceptable level of

risk. If I'd stopped to think, I might have realised that failure to satisfy his lust for

chicken could also raise problems.

The big cod was clearly delighted to see us . He arrived with a rush and fastened his

huge mouth onto one of my female charges before any of us realised what was

happening. The terrified girl panicked and inflated her buoyancy vest in a frantic

attempt to break loose. She would have rocketed to the surface if I'd not managed to

grab her ankle. Over-rapid ascent can be fatal. Air expands and lungs can be burst.

The other divemasters agreed that the whole thing could have ended very badly.

Sitting around after the dive, drinking beer, we decided that Humphrey had to go. We

had powerheads to deal with sharks and had used them to protect our di vers. We had

no inhibitions about shooting Humphrey, even if he was a lovable character.

At this stage, I should explain that a powerhead is an explosive device that can be

fitted to a speargun. It's as lethal as a 303 bullet and is definitely not the sort of thing to be used at night after a couple of beers . We decided to go down and get Humphrey

the next day. By then, a storm had blown up and we were forced to return to port.

Warnings about Humphry's dangerous ways were issued to other divemasters but

no one had the heart to shoot him. Cods can live to a ripe old age . For all I know, he

is still on the Yongala cuddling up to divers.





18 Jinxed



Some people have a run of bad luck that defies rational explanation. When I was

working in the diving industry I was asked to pay particular attention to one of

the divers on our boat. She was a woman in her mid-twenties who had suffered

a particularly traumatic experience at sea.

A few years earlier, she and her husband had been taking part in a yacht race round

the Palm Islands, which are located at the inner edge of the Great Barrier Reef to the

north of Townsville. They were negotiating a passage beside a whirlpool when the

yacht hit a submerged rock and broke up . Her husband was thrown into the water and

swam to safety. As he was clambering out, he saw debris from the yacht going round

in circles. It moved to the middle of the whirlpool and was sucked under. He waited

for his wife and the skipper but there was no sign of them.

Distress calls went out from other boats in the race and some of my diving mates

were called upon to mount a rescue operation. Everyone knew that "rescue" was a

term used when no one wanted to talk about retrieving dead bodies.

They reached the site of the accident and recognised it from previous visits. One of

my friends had explored the whirlpool area and knew it well. He figured the missing

people could have been washed into a cleft in the rock platform that ran beside the

pool. He dived down and found bits or wreckage jammed in the base of the cleft but

there was no sign of any bodies.

That night he couldn't sleep. The thought of failing to do a proper search weighed

on his mind. There was an outside chance the missing people were alive and waiting

to be found.

He returned to the scene of the accident at first light and made a determined effort

to penetrate the debris. This time he broke through and found the two people trapped

at the top of the cleft, just clear of the water. The skipper was dead but his female

companion was still alive. He thrust his air supply into her mouth and took her to

safety.

Not surprisingly, the young woman was deeply shocked by the ordeal . Her husband

continued to dive and it was a long time before he managed to convince her that it was

safe for her to go to sea again. When she went out with me it was her first diving trip

since that fateful day.

The weather was fine and the sea was calm but murky when we reached the Great

Barrier Reef. The skipper anchored well away from the reef for safety reasons. He

took two buddy pairs across in a small rubber boat then returned and handed the boat

over to me. I went out with the husband and wife and a novice diver for whom I was

responsible as dive master.

We checked that the boat was properly anchored and began our dive. After a

couple of minutes my buddy began to show signs of anxiety. I wasn't surprised. There

were sharks everywhere. In all my years of diving I'd never seen so many in the same

place at the same time. And they weren't harmless reef sharks. They were bronze

whalers and some were very big. Diving in murky water is not advised when sharks

are around. There's a risk they might mistake you for a seal and take a bite . I decided

to abort the dive and we returned to the rubber boat.

The other divers joined us, evidently spooked by the sharks. The young woman

was particularly unnerved. The water was no more than waste deep and she stood

beside the boat, struggling to undo a strap.

Without warning, a baby shark appeared and attacked her. The small creature was

so slim it was almost snakelike. I grabbed its tail, whirled it over my head and hurled it

away. Moments later the little shark was back, gnawing at the woman's leg. This time

I wasn't taking any chances. I sliced off its head with my dive knife and dumped the

pieces in the boat.

By now we were in a state of considerable apprehension. There were sharks all

around us and they were agitated. As dive master I had to remain calm and collected .

I did my best. There was room in the boat for six people and there were eight of us. I

called for a volunteer and we hung onto a rope at the rear while the woman's husband

skippered the boat back. In my brightly coloured wetsuit, I felt like a lure on a fishing

line.

If I'd had time to think I would have done things differently. Scuba tanks float. They

could have been trailed behind the boat. There would then have been room for all of

us on board.





19 Narrow escape

Sod's Law doesn't reign supreme. It has a rival and it goes something like this:

You can't lose 'em all ... sometimes you gotta win.

When I worked in the diving industry I lived in Townsville which is conveniently

situated for trips to the Great Barrier Reef. The weather is fairly predictable. Most of

the time it is fit for diving. When it's not, a tropical cyclone (hurricane) is probably

brewing and it's too dangerous to go to sea. You rarely get those in-between days

when you can't be sure whether to stay out or return to port ... but they do happen.

On one memorable trip the weather was totally unpredictable. Squalls were going

through. By good chance, I had some highly professional guys with me. They were

commercial divers on leave from the North Sea oil rigs and we were anxious to give

them a good time. They were the sort of guys who can dive under conditions that

would be unacceptable for sports divers.

A couple of squalls interrupted diving during the day and the shipping forecast was

still sending out warnings when night fell. The commercial divers had brought

expensive cameras with them and were keen for a night dive. I consulted the skipper

and we decided it would be safe for them but the other divers should remain on board.

There was a strong current and we devised a safety plan, which involved a line with

a buoy on the end. We would make our way down it to the dive site and pull ourselves

back at the end of the dive.

All went according to plan. We reached the dive site and anchored the buoy. I was

learning a lot from the professionals. They knew how to get things right and they were

highly disciplined. No one moved far. Everyone stayed together, taking photographs

and checking their dive instruments.

Then a squall came through. It arrived without warning and the buoy danced madly

above our heads. Suddenly, the line tightened and the buoy was dragged below the

surface. It stretched to breaking point and the commercial divers were quick to act.



My buddy propelled me to the line and one of his colleagues cut it free from the

anchor. If he'd not acted quickly, the line would have snapped and we'd have been

parted from out boat in a violent storm.

We'd escaped that awful fate but were far from safe . The boat was dragging its

anchor and was in danger of running up onto the reef. The anchor caught before that

happened. We reached the boat and clambered on board, only to find that the skipper

was missing.

He'd left in a dinghy, with his thirteen-year-old son, to put out a second anchor. I

saw them in the beam of a powerful flashlight. They had successfully laid the anchor

and were coming back. As I watched, the dinghy's motor began to splutter. I heard it

stop and saw the small craft caught in the current. The thirteen-year-old struggled to

get the motor going but without success.

We now faced the prospect of losing the skipper and his son. I snatched a buoy

from the deck, swung in on the end of its line and hurled it at the dinghy. I'm a

hopeless shot but it reached its goal. I still retain a vivid mental image of it hitting the boy in the chest and landing at his feet. He grabbed the line and we pulled them to

safety. After that, the trip was uneventful.





20 Spooked



I've not often been spooked by marine animals but I must admit to a few

occasions when that happened. One was on a dive trip to Myrmidon Reef.

Myrmidon is one of the most spectacular dive spots on the Great Barrier Reef . It is

perched on the edge of the continental shelf where the up-welling, nutrient-rich waters

support an amazing variety of marine life.

The water is crystal clear. Sometimes you can see well over a hundred metres. If

that doesn't impress you, jump in at one end of a fifty-metre swimming pool and take a

look at the other end.

One day we arrived at Myrmidon and anchored in the lagoon. The tide was about to

turn and we separated into groups for our first dive. I took my group to a spot where

you can peer down into the depths far below. I chose a slender coral pinnacle as an

observation platform. I'd been there before and the view is stunning.

On this occasion, it was particularly impressive. The coral pinnacle was alive with

brightly coloured reef fish and pelagic fish could be seen swimming lower down.

A small shark caught our attention. It was surrounded by a shoal of tiny fish and

was heading towards the surface. They rose together and got bigger and bigger ... it

was amazing how big they got!

When diving, there is a tendency to judge distance by clarity. Things that look clear

are assumed to be near. In the ultra-clear water of the outer reef, we had hugely

underestimated distance.

The shark wasn't small. It was gigantic and the fish accompanying it were far from

tiny. As they got neared, we recognised the shark as a bronze whaler. The fish were

barracoutas. The shark took no interest in us but the barracoutas began to circle the

pinnacle on which we were perched ... and that was a bit scary.

The barracouta is a Halloween fish: the sort you dream about in nightmares. Its

head is a third the size of its body and vicious teeth protrude from its gapi ng jaws. Our

barras were about half-a-metre (20-inches) in length and there were hundreds of them.

I'd dived with barras before and wasn't particularly put out by their presence. The

same couldn't be said for some of my companions . One or two looked on the verge of

panicking and, as dive master, I had to calm things down. I gave the signal to ascend

and, when we reached the surface I signalled to the dive boat for a dinghy to come and

pick us up.

No one signalled back. There was some sort of disturbance. The crew evidently

had a problem and I'd have to cope without them. The sensible thing was to make our

way back to the boat on the surface. I figured that the barras were fascinated by the

coral pinnacle and not by us. We'd soon get clear of them.

But we didn't. The fish came with us. We tried swimming under the water but it

made no difference. They kept coming, beady eyes staring, mouths gaping, always

circling.

By now I was starting to get a tiny bit apprehensive . I'd never heard of barras

attacking divers but there could always be a first time. It they did, the wounds would

be horrific.

I told myself there was nothing I could do about it and my first duty was towards my

charges. The risk from the fish was minimal. The risk from panic was far more serious

and, from the look on some people's faces, that seemed on the cards.

We kept going and the dive boat came in sight. I saw it through a swarm of fish.

They were mainly barras but there were other pelagics amongst them, including the

bronze whaler. For some reason the fish had been drawn towards the boat and were

congregating around it.

Divers were in the water trying to get on board. I guessed we were not the only

ones to be spooked by the fish. There were barras everywhere and some were huge.

I'd never seen any so big before ... at least a metre-and-a-half from tail to snout ... and they were making aggressive plunges at people.

Suddenly it was all over. A crewmember jumped into the water with a speargun and

shot one of the big barras, which took off like a rocket. Seconds later there was hardly

a fish in sight. The bronze whaler was gone and so were the barras. The only fish that

remained were the tiny reef fish that lived amongst the corals.

When we came to look at the spear, which had been fired at the barracouta, we

found that the end had sheared off. The pronged tip had lodged in the big fish's skull

and its violent movements had snapped the metal at the joint.

In all my many years of diving, this is one of the very few incidents in which I saw a

speargun used effectively in defence. I remain of the view that fish pose very little



threat to divers. I was never happy about the use of spears fitted with the explosive

device known as a powerhead. I've seen them used and they are deadly ... not the

sort of thing you'd want to see in the hands of an inexperienced operator.





21 Panic



When I was in the scuba industry we undertook a special study of inquests into

diving accidents. We soon learnt that it is a mistake to ask: "What was the

cause of the accident?"

The question assumes there was a single cause. Experience shows that most

accidents have multiple causes. Something goes wrong but nothing untoward

happens unless something else goes wrong. One thing leads to another. All too often,

panic sets in. Panic is the big killer because when you panic you lose control.

You can even panic when nothing goes wrong. In diving that's most likely to occur

when you don't feel at home in the water. My advice is simple: "If you don't feel at

home in the water ... don't dive." You are the best judge of how you feel. Don't let

anyone tell you otherwise.

Good dive schools allow you to have a familiarisation experience in the pool before

you enrol for a full scuba course. There is usually a small charge which is subtracted

from the cost of the course if you decide to go ahead. If you decide that diving is not

for you then you have found out without putting yourself at risk.

I vividly recall one incident when a couple of my divers panicked when everyone

else was having a carefree time . We were diving on a small, pyramid-shaped reef

near Townsville. The reef is one of the many hundred that make up the Great Barrier

Reef.

We left the dive boat and swam across to the reef, which sticks up abrup tly from the

sea floor. Once there, we encountered an extraordinary congregation of batfish. I'd

previously seen them in ones and twos. Now, I was seeing them in thousands.

Batfish are roughly the same size and shape as the business end of a tennis racket.

They have small round mouths and look anything but threatening . But, on that

particular day, some of them clearly resented our presence . They milled around and

bashed into us. I found the whole thing amusing. The fish were almost certainly

congregating for a sex orgy. The aggressors were probably males, overcharged with

testosterone and programmed to attack anything that got in their way.

Then, I saw that two of my charges were showing signs of panic. I should have

been keeping a tight eye on the m but there seemed no reason for concern. I grabbed

one as he was speeding for the surface but was unable to prevent the other from

making an over-hurried ascent. To my relief, he had remembered to breath out on the

way up and seemed to have suffered no injury. I signalled and a dingy came and took

the two frightened divers back to the boat.



At that time my dive master activities were taking place on a part-time basis. My

main income came from public relations and journalism. Amongst other things, I

organised scientific meetings. One was a coral reef symposium.

That was back in the 1980s and a thorough scientific study of the Great Barrier Reef

had only just begun. One of the speakers commented that fishermen and others

probably had valuable information and marine scientists could learn from them.

I was bold enough to speak up and describe the batfish incident. There was

immediate interest. I had evidently stumbled on something which had not previously

been observed. My guess that the fish were cong regating for mating was regarded as

highly plausible.

If there is a moral to all of this, I guess it is twofold . 1 Don't panic. 2 If you see

something unusual underwater, don't assume it is well known to science. You may

have been the first to observe it.





22 Missing persons



The hostel notice board had a special place for photographs of missing persons.

Anxious relatives would call in and put them up. The missing persons were

mainly Australian and aged from twelve upwards. The older often had a history

of mental illness. The younger had often run away with a friend.

One day, Joan (not her real name) came to see me saying there was a young man

in the hostel with photographs of children. Joan was staying with us following a bad

experience with drugs in a hippy commune and had an eagle eye for suspicious

characters.

"He says he's helping find kids that have run away from home."

"Do you believe him?" I asked.

"I don't trust him." Joan shook her head.

I peered through the veranda blinds and saw what she was talking about. A skinny

young guy with floppy blond hair was talking to some of my guests. He looked no

more than seventeen. As I watched, he picked up a plastic folder, slipped it neatly

under his arm and walked from the hostel. I could have mistaken him for a Seventh

Day Adventist looking for converts.

Joan thought the police should be informed . I agreed there was something

suspicious about the young man but didn't want to bother them . She persisted and I

phoned a contact in the CIB (Criminal Investigation Bureau). He shared Joan's

concern and gave me a number to phone. That evening, the young fellow put in

another appearance. I phoned the number and a middle-aged lady dropped round

with a bundle of religious tracts and a small camera.

A week passed and the young man booked into the hostel. I phoned my CIB

contact and was informed that the guy was dinkum (Aussie for genuine/okay/alright) .

His investigations were genuine and he really was finding runaways. I asked if he was

connected with the police and failed to get a reply. As I was putting down the phone a

voice in the background said: "He's older than he looks."

I don't think the remark was intended for me.

The young guy's name was Clarence and he pronounced it in a way that sounded

very French when he was trying to chat up Joan and the other girls . We know it was

his real name because the girls took a look in his wallet while he was swimming . It

contained a driving licence with his photograph and date of birth. He was twenty and

came from Melbourne.

The girls were living in one of my apartments. They helped in the hostel and had

part-time jobs in town. They regarded Clarence as a pest. He was a couple of years

younger than they were and looked even younger. His clear aim was to get them into

bed and his powers of seduction were pathetic. The skinny little guy was forever trying

to impress them with stories of his life.

He told them how he had been headhunted into the police while still at school and

sent to police academy. There he was assigned to a twenty-five-year-old female

undercover agent who taught him things not found in the training manual.

The lady's daytime instruction covered the use of nunchakus and other martial arts

weapons. In the evening they went back to her place and practised positions

described in her illustrated edition of the Kama Sutra. After that they headed into town

to investigate the drug scene. He made a point of saying he preferred older women.

The girls found him irritating. His sexual advances were gauche and his tales

ridiculous. But they were not totally unbelievable . That was why they had peeped in

his wallet. He claimed to be a private detective. They decided to do a private

detection job on him.

To their surprise, his highly accented name c hecked out and so did his age. They

got a further surprise when they heard him trying to chat up a French girl in French.

They had previously thought that his claim to speak the language was no more than a

silly affectation.

In the end, they decided that Clarence had been the toy boy of an older woman. A

cougar had taught him the mechanics of sex and he had emerged from the encounter

with a burning desire for a repeat performance . Who was this woman? Could she

possibly be a police officer? Was there any truth in what he said? One evening they

confronted him.

"Clarence, are you still in the police?"

He gave his usual self-assured smile and said circumstances had obliged him to

sever his connections with the force. An undercover investigation had gone badly

wrong and caused a lot of embarrassment.

"Did you get the sack?"

Clarence said he had not been sacked . Instead, he had been counselled. A panel

of senior officers had informed him that he was going to be posted to a remote part of

the Northern Territory where the women wore big boots and kept their own company.

He'd taken the hint and handed in his resignation.

In all, Clarence was with us for about a month. He came and went: staying a few

days then taking off. I spoke to him on a number of occasions but could never

penetrate his cloak of mystery. The problem was his multiple personalities. He called

them "personas" and spoke about them in a very professional way.

In the hostel, his persona was the suave guy with the French name and seductive

voice. He'd come nowhere near to mastering that one. His model was entirely wrong.

Males might be impressed by stories of a crazy woman who whirled nunchakus and

had sex in impossible positions but the girls were not.



He was having far more success with his working persona, which took advantage of

his youthful appearance. He was able to pass himself off as a sixteen-year-old if he

dressed the part. That way he could frequent places where kids on the run hung out .

When he located one, he'd take photograp hs and send them to relatives so that they

could take "appropriate action".

His language was always precise when he talked to me . He never used a silly

French accent or told stories that might not be believed. I guess I was seeing his

professional persona. One day I remarked that his detective work would make good

training for a police cadet. I was fishing for information and he knew it. All I got in

reply was a knowing smile.

I estimate that over 100,000 people stayed at our hostel during the fifteen years we

ran it. I remember no more than a couple of hundred. Some made a deep impression

on me and Clarence was one . I have included him in two of my novels: Curtin Express

and The Missing Miss Mori.





23 Homicidal holiday safari



Outback travel has its problems and we always tried to ensure that our hostel

guests were properly prepared before setting out. Our main effort went into

seeing that they had enough spare water in case of emergency. One year we

had to warn them not to go at all. A serial killer was loose and he was murdering

tourists.

Bodies were being found in the remote outback and there were disturbing reports of

missing persons. One came from a car hire company that had rented a car to a

German tourist. The young man had failed to return it and the police were concerned

that he was yet another victim.

The car was small and red. An alert went out and a helicopter pilot, mustering

cattle, caught a glimpse of a red car in some bushes. The Special Weapons Squad

was called in. Helicopters landed and a loud hailer was used to order the occupant of

the car to come out with raised hands. He responded with heavy weapons fire and

was killed in the shootout that followed.

When the police examined the body they found, to their immense surprise, that the

dead man was the missing German tourist. As their investigations continued, it

became evident that he had come to Australia to go on a killing spree. Not

surprisingly, the incident aroused considerable media interest.

An Australian TV team went to the young man's hometown and interviewed his

distressed parents who couldn't understand how their dear boy could have done such

a terrible thing.

A German TV team went next door and interviewed the neighbours who told a very

different story. Even as a boy he had frightened them. He had a fascination for guns

and went around killed animals. He had a criminal record at an early age. To their

amazement, he had been employed as an armed security guard at the American

Embassy.

The Americans weren't the o nly ones at fault. The young man had been able to

purchase a veritable arsenal of weapons upon entering Australia. I hasten to add that

our gun laws have since been tightened and are now amongst the strictest in the

world.

The incident had a sequel. Like most people I assumed the Special Weapons

Squad was a police unit. Friends in the army told a different tale. They had mates

who were there when the German was killed. The police called in the army. When the

boys were shot at with heavy calibre weapo ns they knew how to respond.





24 Sean's missing uncle

I was away from the hostel for a few days and phoned to check how things were

going. My wife said the swimming pool filter had given trouble but a young

American guest had fixed it. His name was Sean and he was a great help. I

phoned the next day and she was even more enthusiastic. Sean was now

working for his bed and was fixing all sorts of problems.

I met him when I got back and could only agree with my wife's assessment. Sean

was a very pleasant and helpful young guy. But, there was something about him that

didn't quite gel. His appearance was at odds with his behaviour. Everything looked

right from his toes to his hairline but stopped there. Sean had a Mohican haircut. It

didn't match the rest of him and looked recent.

I tried imagining him in the uniform of an American marine, with his hair back on,

and everything came together. Who was this guy who was so precise and efficient in

everything he did? My wife said he never left the hostel. He had received a couple of

telephone calls and seemed to be waiting for someone . That same day, I was in the

reception area when the phone rang . The voice on the other end was male and

muffled.

"Is Sean there?"

I looked down into the pool area and saw him repairing one of our chairs. He came

up and took the call while I continued to attend to other guests. Later, thinking back on

the incident, I realised Sean hadn't said more than "yes" and "no" during the entire conversation, which had lasted several minutes. I guessed he didn't want anyone to

know what he was talking about.

I should explain that all this happened in the days before mobile phones . Sean had

been obliged to take the call within hearing distance of myself and several other

people. Two possibilities entered by head . Sean was CIA or Sean was being hunted

by the CIA.

I had contacts in the police and occasionally supplied them with information. This

time, they got in first. While I was wondering if I should contact them, they contacted

me. The phone rang and I heard a familiar voice.

"You've got an American staying with you ... calls himself Sean."

I said I had and mentioned my thoughts about the CIA. That didn't provoke any

comment but when I spoke about the telephone calls I got an immediate response.

"Did you listen in?'

"No."

"Could you if he phones again?"

"There's an extension in my apartment."

"Okay. See what you can do and call me back."

There was a call the next day. Sean took it. I headed off to the extension and the

call had ended by the time I got there. Sean left immediately afterwards. I phoned my

contact and found it was his day off. I passed on my information and assumed it would

be put to use.

Within hours, I received a telephone call from a lady describing herself as a private

investigator. She said Sean's uncle had disappeared and she had been hired by his

wife who had reason to believe that he had been murdered and the police were

dragging their feet.

The circumstances of Uncle's disappearance were bizarre. His abandoned station

wagon had been found beside the road near the Doomadgee Aboriginal township in

Queensland's northern gulf country. A table and chair stood beside it and a half-eaten

meal was on the table. The police claimed to have used Aboriginal trackers but they

were unable to throw any light on what had happened. Uncle had vanished into thin

air.

Uncle's wife didn't believe a word of it. She believed he had been having sex with

young Aboriginal girls and had paid the ultimate price. In her view the police were

dragging their feet because Aboriginals were involved. Accusing them of killing her

husband could be politically explosive and damage a police officer's career.

It was time for me to ask questions.

"How do you know Sean had been staying with me?"

"The police told me and I don't believe a word of it."

"You're saying I'm colluding with the police?"

"I'm saying I don't believe a word you say."

"Why should I believe anything you say?"

"Phone the police and ask them."

I phoned the police and was told that the woman was indeed a private investigator .

She was being paid by Uncle's estranged wife who evidently had a soft spot for him

despite the break-up of their marriage. The story about the abandoned vehicle was

correct. I could expect a call from the investigating team who would brief me on what

to say if the private detective lady contacted me again.

I didn't have long to wait. The lady soon phoned and asked if I had checked out her

credentials. I said I had and her manner changed. She was far more chatty. I had

been told to expect that. She would now try to get me to divulge what I knew (virtually

nothing) and I should try to get as much information out of her as I could.

I eventually convinced her that Sean had been staying with me . That was on about

the third telephone call. She kept phoning back to check my story. On each occasion

I managed to get another snippet of information from her, which I passed on to the

investigating team.

Her final telephone call was to say that the case was closed as far as she was

concerned. Sean had arrived back home in Chicago and had crossed into Canada a

few days later. She shared my suspicion that he had helped Uncle disappear. Why

Uncle would want to disappear was a total mystery. He was not financially indebted to

his wife as the police had first suspected and the stories about the young Aboriginal

girls didn't make sense.

A month or so later, a uniformed police officer rang my bell. I'd not seen him before

but I recognised his voice. He was officer-in-charge of the Doomadgee police station

at the time of the investigation and he had dropped in to say hallo and thank me for my

assistance. He said the case was the strangest he had encountered in all his years in

the police force. It was the sort of thing you read about in detective novels and quite

different from the normal run of police work .





25 Awesome holiday jobs

When we ran our backpacker we got to hear about lots of different ways to earn

money on holiday. Most were ordinary but others were extraordinary. There are

some unusual and exciting jobs for those who are prepared to find them. The

pay is not always the greatest but they can lead to some interesting experiences

and take you to places you wouldn't otherwise see.

Geologist's assistant: Over the years, we had a dozen or so guests who managed

to land this one. They stayed at our hostel when they were on leave . I don't know

what they were paid but they always booked into private rooms. Some had

qualifications in geology. Most didn't. All were physically fit, outward-going and (with

one memorable exception) male. They were flown all over northern Australia. A

typical assignment would be a helicopter-drop in a creek bed. They collected samples

and waited to be picked up. Jobs like this come and go. My contacts tell me they still

exist. If you think you can find one, devote the time and energy to hunt around .

Explore the web pages of Australian exploration and mining companies. Think about

what you have to offer and present yourself clearly when you contact them. Don't lie:

the mining and exploration people have an eagle eye for crap artists.

Marine scientist's dive buddy: Divers need buddies for safety reasons. Marine

scientists are no exception and volunteers sometimes pro vide that service. I know

nothing about pay. I do know that a dedicated diver will have opportunities that money

can't buy. There was a time when all you needed was an Open Water Diving Licence.

Those days have long since gone in Australia and you will require far higher

qualifications now. See my remarks about geologists.

Biologist's assistant: Biologists go on field trips and need company for various

reasons. One is security. It's not always safe to wander around the Australian bush

by yourself, particularly if you are female. There is safety in numbers. We had

frequent requests from universities for suitable people to accompany research staff on

expeditions. Students usually perform that function but are not available during term

time. That provides opportunities for those of you who live in the Northern

Hemisphere. Your academic year is out of phase with ours . If you want to be a

biologist's assistant (or archaeologist's, geologist's etc) during your long vacation, do a

bit of research. Find out which universities and research institutes are engaged in your

field of study. Contact the relevant department and be prepared to follow up with a

testimonial from your uni/college. It's unlikely that you will be paid but you should be

able to save money through free tucker (Aussie for grub) and accommodation.

Working on a dive boat: Quite a lot of my guests got jobs on dive boats taking

tourists to the Great Barrier Reef. Some were instructors, others were divemasters.

Many had no diving qualifications beyond the basic open water certificate. Dive boats

need auxiliary staff. Someone has to fill scuba tanks, cook and clean while qualified

staff supervise diving and skipper the boat. Qualified staff are paid. Auxiliaries usually work for a chance to go diving between shifts. You won't make much money (if any)

as a volunteer crew member but you should save money and have a lot of fun. One

way to get a job is to front up at a dive shop. If you've already had crewing

experience, that's a plus. Many get their first job by going out as paying passengers.

They talk to senior staff and make themselves known. Personality counts a lot. A

friendly, helpful crew is essential to a good dive operation. Make sure you come over

as that sort of person.

Working on a cruise boat: Cruise boats, like dive boats, need staff to serve in their restaurants, wash dishes and so on. They even have work for hosts and hostesses.

These latter jobs are particularly appealing and preference is given to people with skills

such as marine science or a knowledge of the local area and its people. As with most

job hunting, luck comes into it when securing a position. One memorable young lady

failed to get a hostess job despite my recommendation. She had a pleasant manner

and was of Polynesian ancestry. I found a frangipani flower for her hair and she went

for an interview only to be turned down. The problem was her accent, which was the

sort that can only be obtained by attending an expensive English boarding school. In

short, she looked the part but didn't sound right. An older guest was more successful.

He knew nothing of marine science or the local area but was an interesting character

with a store of jokes and a manner that brought people together . He secured a job as

"master of ceremonies".

Entertainer: There's money to be made and all sorts of ways to do it. I had street

entertainers staying at my hostel and some did very well. A licence from the local

authority was needed and they had to front up for an audition. Buskers, pavement

artists, jugglers and acrobats were amongst my guests. We even had an out-of-work

Shakespearian actor who used to smear himself with chalk and dress up as Hamlet's

father. From time to time, young ladies from a well-known Australian dance group

stayed with us. They worked at the casino and entertained patrons with displays of

modern theatrical dancing, performing with their clothes on. Other young ladies

danced in nightclubs and ended the performance with their clothes off.

Dinosaur research: You won't get paid and you won't save money but it could be a

great experience. So many dinosaur bones are being found near Winton, in outback

Queensland, that help is needed to get them ready for expert examination. Training is

provided. Further information: www.australianageofdinosaurs.com/

Outback farm: The correct name is "property". The Americans would call them ranches. They are so big that the English name "farm" doesn't apply. While we ran our hostel we were able to provide a steady s tream of people for properties out west.

Some did domestic work, caring for children and the like. Others worked with the

animals (cattle and sheep). It was a mutually beneficial arrangement and I never

heard anything but praise from both sides. If you are thinking of taking such a job,

bear in mind that you will be living in an isolated location. In some of the remoter

areas, your nearest neighbours could be fifty or more kilometres away. If you are

thinking of working with animals it's as well to ha ve prior experience. Being able to

ride a horse helps. Most of all, you must be prepared to work hard and put up with

tough conditions. The farming industry's web page provides detailed information:

www.aussiefarmjobs.com.au

Environment: If you want to care for the environment or be a willing helper on an

organic farm visit the web pages of the Australian Conservation Volunteers or

WWOOF.

Nightclub security officer: generally known as "bouncer". Before you apply, check out Story 6, above.





26 Ordinary holiday jobs

Australia has a significantly lower unemployment rate than many developed

countries and many businesses are happy to employ travellers from overseas.

A work visa is needed for paid employment and you can apply for it through

government channels www.ecom.immi.gov.au/visas . Or you may pay an

agency to make the application for you. There is no shortage of them

advertising their services on the net.

Fruit Picking: Whether it's apples in Tasmania or bananas in Queensland,

backpackers and other travellers play a vital role at harvest time. Information on jobs

is available at the fruit growers web site www.fruitpicking.org.australia .

Restaurants, hotels and bars: These are places where many Backpackers find

work. Big cities have recruitment agencies specialising in this sort of employment.

You can use them but it is not essential. The manager of one agency recently told me

that a good way for a traveller to find work is to go door knocking . A few simple rules

apply. Don't turn up at a busy time. Ask to speak to the manager. Don't dress in

holiday clothes. White shirt/black bottoms and closed shoes are generally acceptable.

Hair neat and tidy, including facial hair (guys). Nail varnish either on or off ... not

broken (girls). Remove facial piercings. Be prepared to offer a free shift to prove

yourself. First impressions are crucial. Decisions are usually made in the first thirty

seconds.

Other casual employment: Many businesses use casual labour. Large firms, such

as cleaning contractors, employ lots of people. Smaller outfits take one or two.

Opportunities vary from time to time and place to place. I now live on the Gold Coast

and see backpackers carrying advertising boards. Others are knocking on my door

trying to sell me thermal lagging or solar hot water systems . Talk to other travellers to

get ideas. Big employers can be approached directly or through an agency. That

doesn't mean you can't front up in person. Always remember the golden rule: look and

act the part. If you want to work as a builders labourer, wear heavy boots and the rest

of the gear when you arrive on site and ask to speak to the boss ... and be prepared to

join the builders labourers' union if that is required of you.

Skilled employment:

* www.mycareer.com.au

* www.jobsjobsjobs.com.au

* www.seek.com.au

* www.skilled.com.au





Mike's Blog and Author Web Site

For more about Mike and his books

http://mikejkdixon.com





Document Outline


ref_Contents

Freebeerandsex

ToyBoy

EricsFatalMistake

MudWrestling

BeachBoys

Nightclubs

SpikedDrinks

JobsOnTrawlers

HippyCommunes

IngridsNewFriend

VeronicasDad

SeaChange

LesbianVampireKillers

DangerousCompany

FeedingFrenzy

HeatExhaustion

HumphreysNarrowEscape

Jinxed

NarrowEscape

Spooked

Panic

MIssingPersons

HomicidalHolidaySafari

SeansMissingUncle

AwesomeHolidayJobs

OrdinaryHolidayJobs