The bounty of Byron Shire

The Lonely Planet guide refers to Byron Bay as “the promised land – God’s own earth.” I have to say that those travel writers are correct! I took the Greyhound by day from Hervey Bay to Byron, stopping briefly in Brisbane. It was likely my nicest experience riding the dog; while at previous meal break stops we could only buy fried foods and cola, the stops on the way to Byron provided us with chicken caesar wraps, gourmet coffee and a strawberry stand in the parking lot. Having spent most of my last night in Hervey Bay in the company of a blond Brit and a bottle of gin, I napped for most of the journey but miraculously woke at the perfect moment to see the sign that read, “Welcome to Byron Shire.” I had arrived in God’s country, full of lush countryside and ocean views.

Once in Byron Bay, I stepped off the bus to find Jordan, my brother’s best mate from PEI, waiting for me with a big smile on his face. He looked tanned and relaxed. Jordan works at a very nice hostel called Holiday Village and he took me under his wing, driving me around town on a little welcome tour and then ensconcing me in a lovely four-bed apartment dorm with nice roommates. In the opposite bunk were Paz and Multhi, two beautiful and groovy Spanish women who work in Brisbane and Sydney, respectively, but were in Byron for a week’s holiday. My bunk-mate was Duke, a blond Californian surfer dude with model looks and an easy-going attitude.

Since our apartment dorm had a kitchen, I decided that I should get some groceries and cook instead of eating out. Browsing through Woolworth’s grocery at six o’clock on a Wednesday evening, I got excellent introduction to the population of Byron. If the mullet was the hairstyle in Hervey Bay then dreadlocks were definitely it in Byron. I could barely concentrate on what kind of tea to buy because all these barefoot and shirtless hippie surfer dudes kept walking by, picking up green tea and other organic infusions. After only a few days in Byron Shire, I would be contemplating replacing all the black in my wardrobe with flowered skirts and tie-dyed shirts.

That night, I met up with Kelly again and met her mother, who was visiting from Texas. We went for vegetarian indian food and Kelly’s mum, after asking what pakoras and paneer were, said, “How do y’all know about this foreign food?” I guess Australia just expands a person’s culinary horizons! After dinner, we joined Jordan and his boys at another hostel to catch the end of a didjeridoo rock show. I always love hanging out with my brother’s friends because they inevitably introduce me to scores of other men. The courtyard of the hostel was full of surfers, hippies and backpackers, either sitting at picnic tables or standing around drinking. Jordan was carrying a man-purse, which we all thought was strange until he pulled a bag of goon (cheap wine) and several plastic cups out of it. The goon tasted pretty bad at first…but we soon got used to it. I was a bit concerned that Kelly’s mother would be traumatized by this frat-party of a scene but apparently she loved it! Duke, my bunk-mate, was thrilled to meet two Texan ladies (he told me earlier that he has a soft spot for a woman with a drawl) and entertained Kelly and her mom with colourful stories for quite a long time. Apparently he said “fuck” every second word and Kelly’s mom was delighted to get an unedited glimpse into the backpacker lifestyle.
Later on, the night turned international for me. On the way to Cheeky Monkeys, a popular nightclub in Byron, I discussed the concept of the mullet with two German girls called Susanne and Almuth. They informed me that a mullet is a called a “vokuhila” in German (that’s short for vorn kurz hintern lang – or short in the front, long in the back). Once Jordan swept us into Cheeky’s, skipping the queue and the cover charge because he knows the doormen, I spent much of the night speaking French to a handsome man from Bordeaux who couldn’t speak English and was therefore thrilled to find another French-speaking person. In between such international exchanges, I did the requisite Cheeky’s activity: dancing on the tables. In actual fact, they aren’t so much tables as bleachers or fortified picnic benches. Either way, if you go to Cheeky’s, you simply can’t leave until you have danced on the tables. Late that night, I crept back into the hostel and was the last person in bed.

The next day I decided to take a tour to Nimbin, the pot capital of Australia. On Jim’s Alternative Tour, we were treated to fabulous music in the bus and lots of nice stories from our friendly driver/tour guide. The drive to Nimbin took about an hour during which we passed vast rows of macadamia nut trees, funky houses and lush pasture full of happy cows. Halfway to Nimbin, Jim stopped the bus at the country pub in Eltham. “There is a law,” he said, “which says that you can drink on a bus if the bus driver says it alright. And I say you can drink in the bus.” It was only 11:00am but I thought, why not? This tendency to drink before midday would come back to haunt me later in Byron but on that clear Thursday morning it was just lovely to drink a beer in the sunshine outside the pub and crack a few macadamia nuts that the barman had graciously laid out for us. Some people were serious about their drinking and they got six-packs for the road.

The town of Nimbin is kind of a weird place. Don’t get me wrong – I love hippies and hippiedom (after all, I grew up in Hippieville, PEI). But this place just took it to a crazy level. It reeked of incense everywhere I went and all available surfaces had been painted with flowers or some groovy quote, like “Follow Your Bliss.” Marijuana isn’t actually legal in Nimbin but the police overlook the selling and smoking of pot in the town. Perhaps it was this glimpse into the world of drug deals that gave me a weird feeling about Nimbin. However, the “industry” of Nimbin did mean that the consumer economy was strong. I stocked up on tea tree shampoo and journals, had an excellent strawberry smoothie and toured some lovely art galleries. For the rest of the day, Jim took us on a magical bus tour through the Nightcap National Park. He has been doing the same tour for 15 years and knows the roads really well. He combined his DJing skills with his knowledge of the landscape and roads to create an amazing sensory rollercoaster experience for the group. The highlight of the day was a stop at the breathtaking Minyon Falls. I scanned the bus on the drive back to Byron and it seemed that most of the other travelers had succumbed to the effects of their pot cookies.

Back in town, my Fraser Island posse showed up and we spent the next days eating, shopping and beaching. When it was too windy on the beach, I lounged with Jordan and his endless parade of handsome friends poolside. We had afternoon drinks at the Rails, a lovely pub in Byron, and were treated to a groovy reggae show at sunset. A couple of Texans fired up the barbecue at the hostel and I almost burned my face off with too many grilled jalapenos peppers, which were filled with sour cream and wrapped in bacon. Unfailingly, every night I ended up at Cheeky Monkeys, inevitably dancing on a table. Jordan tried to go to bed early two nights in a row but once I came round with Rachel, Eva and Georgia, he could never resist just a short visit to Cheeky’s, whisking us all past the bouncers yet again.

Byron was perhaps the hardest place to leave. I wanted to find some gorgeous surfer dude, knight him as Earl of Byron and crown myself as Countess of the Shire, in a costume of flowered skirt, tie-dyed shirt and long flowing hair. Alas, I had to move on…but I know I’ll go back someday soon.