The Aussie Police and their Most Wanted Speeder and his POS car
Because there are so many people travelling in Australia and it is such a gigantic country, it makes sense that you should purchase one of the cheap vehicles there for trips of more than a few weeks. I’ve always rented a car or borrowed from friends while there but knowing that I was going to be spending the better part of 3 months there I decided in 2004 that I would go ahead and take the plunge and purchase a chariot that would take me to all the places I’d ever wanted to go and then some.
In past trips, I had been particularly fond of some of the SUVs there. I envisioned myself with a 4WD Mitsubishi Pajero (Trooper) tricked out with a Snorkel for fording deep rivers on the way to secret surf rendezvous and deep in the Bush. Cruising in style and picking up ladies along the way. Those Pipe dreams were quickly squashed though as soon as I opened up the Trader and realized that with a budget of $2000 AUD, some ugly vehicle (SUV) would be the only thing I could afford.
Whitetip Reefshark, not quite the Great Whites Brad was expecting
With 3 surfboards, 3 spear guns, all my dive gear, camera equipment, clothes, Eskie (Igloo Cooler) and countless other gear I was still going to need something big enough to get all my stuff into but more than likely not as tough and cool as a Land cruiser. So I started looking at station wagons and vans. In NZ, all the surfers drive station wagons and everyone thinks they are pretty cool. In the states, you look like a soccer mom. (Not that there is anything wrong with that. Thank you mom for driving me all those years But when you are 27 years old its tough to get away with and pull the fairer sex. Vans were my other choice but they were the hardest by far to find since every other feral European backpacker seemed to be looking for one as well.
After a week of looking at the absolute worst vehicles imaginable, I was beginning to lose hope. Every one I looked at was a fright, missing headlight, no door, only one window that would roll down, Spider Farm, 10 year old tires, it was looking pretty bleak. Then as if in answer to my prayers appeared the Corona.
The $1200 For Sale sign caught my eye as she passed by me in traffic. I quickly pulled a U-ey and caught up with her as she pulled into what would be her former home. A quick test drive and $1100 AUD cash and she was mine. And I was instantly in love.
I drove her home proudly showing her off for all to see and reveled in the fact that she had some of the core qualities of other women in my past. At first glance she was clean, cool, young(relatively that is 1984), fast(130 kph), had plenty of booty(boot is Aussie for trunk), and as we would find out later wasn’t afraid to get a little rough and dirty or pound some drinks.
After a few days of driving around Sydney, Brad Thornbrough and I set off on our adventure with my girl stacked to nines with gear and booze and ready for action. Within an hour of getting on the highway we started to get to know our girl a little better. Seems she not only liked her drinks, since we had to put a quart of oil in every few hours, but she could also shake her booty with the best of them. Not knowing cars, I couldn’t say exactly what the problem was, but I do know that when you push the gas pedal or release it, the car is not supposed to seem to realign itself on its chassis each time. But,as they say in Australia, no worries. The AC that I was so proud of was the first thing to go as it just gave up and began exchanging the hot air from inside the car with that of the engine compartment.
With no major disasters though we arrived at the small beach town of Crescent head in NSW which is the home of some of my favorite waves on the entire coast. With a few hours of light remaining, we left the main town and navigated the dirt road that would lead us to Brads first Austrlaian Surf session at a secluded break just 10 k’s distant. This road runs along the swamp land and is graded “every couple of months” as our local friend and certified Wildman Simon Latta informed us. It hadn’t rained in a while so the road was in good shape and we made 80 Kilometers per hour and were in the water in no time.
A few hours of trading good waves washed away the dirt and stiffness of the long drive and with the sun setting we celebrated our good fortune with a cold Victoria Bitter and headed back to town to set up our campsite for the night.
Laughing and talking about the prospect of seeing a Kangaroo on the way back we cruised along the dirt road at a safe speed until it changed into asphalt again and I was able to pick up speed. With thick brush on either side we were only afforded a milleseconds glimpse of a brown shape before a thump and crunch was heard as a Kanga commited suicide on the front left side of the vehicle. “Whoa! Did you see that!”
It happened so fast that there was no way to avoid the animal and even if there had been it would have resulted in us going off the road and hitting a tree. We stepped out to survey the damage and found that the front left side was crushed in and under, the headlight was smashed, under the hood the battery had broken loose from its mounts, the grill was pushed in and the Kanga was a complete and total loss. It was the equivalent of hitting a furry rock for the amount of damage it did to the Corona.
As we’re standing there in the road in the middle of no-where, a car full of Aborigine’s pulls up and says,”You goys’ awlright?” Yeah we’re fine but the Kanga has seen better days. “Mate, you got some good meat on her. Should take those hind legs for the barbie.” Yeah that’s a good idea, Thanks.
Despite the stellar advice from the thoroughly intoxicated Abo’s we decided against adding to the destruction of the Cerveza that would surely result by throwing a bleeding carcass in the back seat and instead cleared the road to continue on our way.
Cameron and Simon Latta trying to fix the Kanga Damage
My girl was beaten up a bit but the damaged only seemed to be skin deep. And there is so much more to a relationship than looks right? Brad reminded me of that fact the very next morning as I backed my girl over the water spicket in our campsite crushing yet another panel and the passenger door therefore modifying her even more. Dumbass. The door still opened but it now made a hellacious creaking sound and took away from her over all astetics.
The night of the Kanga it started raining and it didn’t stop for the next week and a half. Back-tracking to the scene of the crime and then past, we discovered that our smooth dirt road had turned in to a continuous series of potholes, rocks and mud. Where we had done 80 k’s the night before we now bounced along at 25 and it still felt like we were Off-Roading. We had no business in our vehicle on that road but I’ll be damned if we didn’t give it our best effort and as the days went by and we figured out where the biggest pot holes were, our speed increased and our lack of regard for the vehicles well being plumeted. Twice a day back and forth we sped, blowing past 4WD vehicles picking their way carefully along the dirt road and scoffing at their babying their machines that were better fitted for the task at hand than our own.
And then our girl started to get angry. There was a Surf School in town and having made friends with the instructors and some of the sexy young students were invited to join them for dinner our last night in town. Enroute to our date the Corona must have caught wind of our intentions and showed her disgust with us by sputtering and gliding to a stop right at twilight in the most mosquito infested section of the road way out in the middle of the bush. Brad was quickly under the hood but despite his jiggling of wires and cleaning of the fuel filter she made not a sound for 30 minutes. Temper tantrum over, she started up like nothing had ever happened and the remainder of the evening we let her rest while we (unsuccessfully) chased around sunburned hotties who thought the world of us after we delivered a cooler full of fresh fish and lobster for the feast.
Hung over or still half drunk at 0500 the next morning we crawled back to the Corona on our way North to meet some friends for a dive 200 Km’s away. Back on the open road once again it felt good to smash the pedal down and we laughed once again at the booty shake and as we became more cognoscente we started to notice some new quirks as well. With the exception of a muscle car or Harley, no vehicle has any business making as much noise as we seemed to be now. The roar that resulted from the pushing of the accelerator quickly overcame that noise of something rattling underneath us that could only mean that there was something significantly wrong with the Muffler, if it was there at all.
So what do we do about it? Nothing. Drive on, go diving and we’ll worry about it some other time.
The Corona. Notice the bottle on the front
That some other time turned out to be the very next day as we attempted to climb the hill to Simon’s house back in Crescent Head. As she sputtered 50 meters short of our destination I spun her around to face down hill in hopes of keeping the gas flow going to the engine and possibly saving her from passing out on us again. No luck. I glided to a stop in the shade of a big Gum Tree and let her sleep it off while Brad and I both tinkered with whatever we could think of underneath the hood to get her going again. As before it didn’t seem to matter what we did and she just decided after 45 minutes or so that she was ready to go again and fired right back up. Whatever. The next couple days proved that she didn’t like hills so we avoided them at all costs. Since we were now staying at Simons, we would navigate our way up the hill at short increments like stairs one block at a time until we were on the same level as his house. It was a longer route but it seemed to prolong her daily run and prevented her from passing out before we did, a role reversal that neither Brad and I were comfortable or had experience with.
A week later and she was still dying on us every so often and we were convinced that it was a fuel problem. We decided we could live with it. By now it was nearing a month since I had bought the car though and in order to keep the Transportation Authority off my back I had to reregister the car before the 30 days was up or I would have to go through a big to-do in order to get the title switched over. So we headed north again to Coffs Harbor and Civilization.
Once there we checked in to the Hoey Moey, our little Hotel on the beach and then headed off to the RTA to do the paperwork. After getting there we waited in line for a half hour before being told we needed our passports to register it. Back out to the car we go again and head back to the hotel only to have her sputter and die again only a K down the road. We tinkered around under the hood unsuccessfully as usual, until a feral Aussie Bum came over and offered to help. Not wanting to risk saying something to my girl that I would regret later, I told Brad I was going for a walk and took off before I lost it completely. So now we were so helpless that a Bum was going to work on our car!?
Returning I found the engine purring and the bearded vagabond elbow deep in grease and oil telling Brad how to keep her running smooth. Amazing! I offered the drinks in my hands to him and he said, “No Worries Mate, you don’t owe me nuthin.” Typical Aussie hospitality, even if you live on the streets. I dropped Brad off at the Hotel and headed back to the RTA and she died again on the way. Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! With the temp near 100 degrees now I walked down the road and bought a $2 six-in one screwdriver that we would from henceforth refer to as “the tool kit”. I called Bazza and within 30 minutes I had taken everything apart that I could think of with no success. He hitched a ride and true to form she cranked up as soon as he was in sight. By now though the RTA was closed and the only thing I wanted to do was get the hell away from this damn car.
Happy that she was running but a bit wary as to her life expectancy we decided finally to give in and take her to the mechanic to see if he could figure out what was wrong with her. They looked her over and an hour later told us that they couldn’t find anything wrong but cleaned the fuel pump and said try it as is. And she was, in a sense. $150 and a new fuel pump and a little cleaning of the fuel lines and they said she should be good to go. Excellent. We hopped back in and a few blocks later were parked in front of the RTA again. 30 minutes later the paperwork was done and the Corona was officially in my name.
And then the obvious happened. We turn the key and nothing. C’mon. Again. Nothing. Ahhhhhhhh!!! Damn this car! To make matters worse, every single person that walked into the building had to walk right past us and every comment just added to our embarrassment.
I called the garage and told them to come get the car but they wouldn’t do it because they said their truck was away and we’d have to get another company to do it. 8 blocks away. We would have pushed it but there was no way I was going to embarrass myself more in this small town by doing that. A redneck tow was offered by some teenage White trash wanna-b hip-hop gangsta kids but then we found out that they in fact, didn’t even know anyone that had a car to do it, so that was out as well. An hour later I was so frustrated I called a tow truck and forked of the most painful and pointless $100 of the trip so far to have him pick it up and take it not even 5 minutes away. Even now it makes me so angry to have had to do that.
‘Whatever you did didn’t work.’ I say to the mechanics. “Ok leave it with us and you can pick it up in the morning.” After plying them with a few more beers they said they’d do what they could to make her road worthy and told us to sell it as soon as we got a chance. We left it over night and slept well knowing she would be all better in the morning.
What was wrong with it? A lot, apparently. “How much do you want to spend?” The mechanic asked me over the phone. “The carburetor is screwed, as is the fuel pump, fuel filter, and most of your electrical lines and connections. The Muffler has been abused something fierce and needs some repairs, that loud noise is because of a hole it has in it. Mate, that wiggle when you use the accelerator is not from the alignment being off, she’s real f-ed up. That’s the universal axle or the bearings deteriorated so much that she’s losing it. She ain’t Road Worthy.” Just make it so she’ll run and keep it as cheap as possible.
There was a little drinking involved that night. OK, a lot. This damn car was driving me insane and I just wanted it to run. We decided the next morning to push up to Byron Bay to chase this girl that Bazza had met after we picked the car up and planned on selling the car once there. We picked the POS up and packed all of our stuff in for the trip North feeling confident that the $150 we’d just invested in it would be sufficient to get us the 3 hours North to Byron and Freedom from this machine. Home free….
coffs harbor dolphin
Or so we thought. Once back on the open road, my foot found the gas pedal and we were passing cars and cruising at 130kph in no time. And then we got pulled over. Dammit! The policeman was driving in the opposite direction and flashed his lights at us before spinning around and pulling in behind us. Bazza and I just started laughing. What luck we have.
He took my information and when he came back I asked him what seemed to be the problem.
“Please step out of the vehicle.”
“Besides the fact that it looks like you’ve been using it as a 4WD in the bush and is dirty and dented. Your taillights are out, as are your blinkers and left headlight. You’re going 20 k’s over the limit, you have no rear view because of all the stuff in your car and it sounds like your muffler is damaged.”
“This car is a POS.” Yes sir I know.
I gave him the spiel about us making a movie and how we had hit a kanga the night before and it must of done the electrical in. Him, I, and Bazza laughed our asses off at how bad of shape the car was in and we talked about diving and surfing. He said he’d write us a ticket for just the Blinker being out but we had to promise to stop and fix everything at the next Petrol station. All the while Bazza is filming and taking pictures as I stand beside our battered car and have this cop telling me that I don’t have to pay the ticket if I don’t want to. “If you are thinking about coming back to Oz to live I’d pay it but if not I’d just throw it in your photo album for a good laugh later.” Priceless. That is the first and last time I ever expect to hear that from a policeman anywhere in the world.
Cam Mulloway Brad Yellowtail Kingies
(As luck would have it that is the only ticket I didn’t pay of the 8 or so I received from speed cameras and will no doubt be the one that screws me when I try and come back. Handcuffs at the airport anyone?)
WE kept our word and Bazza fixed the lights at the next gas station and we were back on the road again, recharged knowing that lightning rarely strikes in the same place twice so we figured we had paid our dues for the car that day already.
“You hear that?” Bazza asks me.
Hear what?
“That clicking noise. That’s a new sound.”
Where’s it coming from?
“Sounds like from the engine. See! It gets louder every time you step on the gas.”
What do you think it is?
“I don’t know but I can tell you its not good and it sounds like its getting worse.”
At this point we were about 20 K’s short of the turnoff for Yamba and in the middle of nowhere. (Not that Yamba is really anywhere either. It’s a town of about 6000 if that.) There are no Servo’s (Service Stations) until then so we have no choice but to keep going.
With the temperature gauge rising Bazza leans out the window filming and wetting himself he is laughing so hard because the “tink, tink, tink, tink” sound has grown steadily louder and is now “clank, clank, clank.”
Moving over to the slow lane the noise increases to the point where we are both laughing so hard I can barely steer. Really now what the hell could this be! We reach the Exit and have to make a decision whether or not to gamble and go the 18 k’s to Yamba(which actually has surf and things to do) or take the safe route and go left to Maclean (town of 1200) which is only 4 K’s distant. The choice is easy. We go left.
There was no reason to call ahead, the entire town knew we were coming and why we were here.
200 meters ahead of us people were whipping their heads around at the god awful sound of our approach. There was no hiding our shame so we embraced it. Brad waved to the towns people like I was escorting him to Homecoming but the shouts of encouragement (or so we’d like to think) could not be heard over the now deafening sound emitting from underneath our hood. Little kids were covering their ears and pointing as it now sounded like someone was hitting the engine block with a sledgehammer every half a second.
So it was with great surprise that before we even came around the corner to the service station the three mechanics started walking outside and laughing at us.
“She’s fucked Mate!”
Tell us something we don’t know.
“No Mate. She’s really fucked. Go ahead and get your gear out she needs a new engine before she’ll run again. That sound you hear, that is the bearing at the bottom of the engine that has dropped out and it’s banging around inside the block. There is no fixing this one. “
OK. It’s beer o’clock. Thank goodness for the eskie. We cracked a few beers and tried to get as much info out of the mechanics as possible about the chances of getting on our way again. They freely accepted the beers but there was no getting around the fact that it was time for me to part ways with the Corona and we set forth to find a new chariot to take us on more adventures through the country. As luck would have it, our new chariot was closer than we thought and the sight of the purple curtains and the column stick shift did little to deter us from claiming our prize and heading off into the sunset in record time. The Toyota Lite Ace (a mini van of microscopic proportions) was to be our new home and with no time to lose we put her back on the open road barely hearing the mechanic say to keep her under 90 kph. Or did he say it at all? Anyway we were back on the road and out of Maclean and… overheating and broken down on the side of the road 10 minutes later.
Stripped of our new car we were forced to wait out repairs before we could get on the road again. That night we slept in a room above the most raucous, and possibly only, bar in the town of Maclean and being the only Americans trapped there in the history of this Scottish Australian town, you can only imagine how well we fit in… but that’s another story.
The floppy eared devil
[caption id="attachment_482" align="aligncenter" width="550" caption="32lb Blackfin Tuna shot with the pole spear. NEW WORLD RECORD!!! Super stoked. even more so because it was with a pole spear and I had the video camera in the other hand. I\'ll put it up on here asap so you stop calling BS on it. (For good measure I shot a 24 and 27 lb on video too. Not a bad day!)"]
[/caption]
costa-rica-cam-biting-tuna-in-boat
