Kalgoorlie Miner (8): Nimbin - Part One

"Look mate", said the orgasmically smiling Hertz man, "if you want to hire a car around here, don't say you're going to Nimbin. Say Byron Bay or something."

So began our search for the Gold Coast's shadiest car rental agency - the only firm brave or foolish enough (for it's a fine line, dear reader) to grant a cheap one day rental to a derelict trio of gentlemen on a football trip; that trio being Elephant* (your narrator), Billygoat*, and Angry Turk*.

Sooty* and Typhoon* would join the pilgrimage later, for they were still in bed desperately and fruitlessly attempting to recall the liquor-ravaged details of our previous evening's messy, graceless ejection from Conrad Jupiters casino, and subsequent skinny dipping shenanigans.

Anyway, we eventually stumbled across "Yahoo Car Rentals". It had a yard full of pre-1990 Fords, Toyotas and Mazdas, and the name certainly sounded reckless and carefree enough for our requirements. Yes, we each silently decided, this was the one.

After edging past two well-groomed Italian minders, their hands clasped mafia-style, we came across a jolly fat bloke in a Hawaiian shirt, halfway through a beer. He was the boss.

"Can we hire the Mini Moke?", enquired Angry Turk, never one for small talk or diplomacy.

"Nup", was lightning reply. He'd seen our type before. It transpired that he had owned several nightclubs in the area, but this was his business now - a dodgy business I suspected, but what's a bit of money laundering between new best friends. He refered to me as "old mate" and I like that in a man.

"How about the Corona?" I prodded, refering to the lemon yellow family wagon that caught all of our eyes on the way in.

Well, before you could say "i'll just whack it on old mate's credit card", we were swinging past the hotel and collecting the sleeping pair. Angry Turk was the designated driver and Billygoat assumed the navigator/DJ role, leaving Typhoon, Sooty and I in the back. Sooty, being the youngest and thinniest, was naturally made to sit in the middle.

A beer stop was made, shirts were compulsorily removed, Angry Turk pointed the car towards where he believed Nimbin to be, and we relaxed, trusting that his renowned driving skill would guide us there. For a while we cruised down the gently winding coastal road, crossing bridges over sparkling rivers and inlets, and at some unknown point entering New South Wales, but before long we turned right and headed inland.

Billygoat wisely selected The Smashing Pumpkins for the mountain leg, we gradually slumped further into our seats, Angry Turk's right arm found it's niche on the window sill, and pretty soon his steering arm expertly had us sliding and swaying down the road like well-lubricated prey down the belly of a long black snake. Bethlehem stars of sunlight panned across the bonnet and windscreen, and all was well in the world.

This blissful state of relaxation and meditation was soon shattered though, for Nimbin was all that I knew it would be and hoped it was not. But, ladies and gentlemen, that is a story for next week, when this two-part saga will reach it's conclusion.

* Names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved.