﻿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 2011 Mike Dixon Smashwords Edition Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided that the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed the book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other books by this author. Thank you for your support. 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 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 champion ... 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 you 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 drinks 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 divemaster. 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 that 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 know 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 humour. 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 strain 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 encountered 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 ostentatiously 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 divemaster. 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 divers. 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 divemaster. 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 divemaster 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. The fact is: "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 oilrigs. They had flown out on a short holiday and we were anxious to give them a good time. It goes without saying that they 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 the guys 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. I had attached a light to it and it came and went as the buoy took to the air and splashed back down. Suddenly, the line tightened and the buoy was dragged below the surface. The line 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 could happen. We reached the boat and we 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 gaping 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 divemaster, 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 abruptly 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. As divemaster, I should have been keeping a tight eye on them 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 divemaster 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 congregating 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 checked 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 photographs 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. 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 it 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 only 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 weapons 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 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 Globetrotters 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. There, 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 divebudy: Divers need buddies for safety reasons. Marine scientists are no exception and volunteers sometimes provide 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 Globetrotters 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 at the hostel. 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 stream 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 have 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 For more about Mike and his books http://mikejkdixon.com