Hey you's! So we picked up our new campa named Florence who has windows that have to be manually rolled down and a smoke detector that we hit our heads on every single damn morning. We also bought a GPS who sounds like an Aussie girl who's had too much goon. She's also named Florence.
We hit the road from Brisbane and made our way to Byron Bay where a sexy Australian man whisked me away on his surfboard into the distance as dolphins danced and splashed around us, showering me in sparkling blue water. (Just kidding, Mitchell. Heh heh). We did however beach bum for a couple of days, participate in a drum circle where a three-year-old girl and a 72-year-old woman were vibin' way harder than me, and somehow made a stir-fry with one sauce pan and burner while listening to an entire King Harvest album. The next morning, we drove west into the mountains to this hippie village called Nimbin where people try to sell you cookies on every street corner, at every café and used bookshop. Heads up though, if you ever find yourself in Nimbin: they're not just cookies, and if you try and make lunch on the grill in the center of town, it's already taken by a 60-year-old woman with her own cookie business. Oh, and if you want a kickass haircut, get it from one of the Japanese stylists on a farm there.
We decided to stay about 30 minutes outside of the village at a free site in the mountains where we made friends with a guy from Melbourne, a group of Germans, two Italians, a French couple, and another group of Germans; jumped off cliffs into painfully cold water with eels; permanently adopted the smell of campfire; discovered the magical properties of Bundaberg Burgundee Creaming Soda; decided Magpies can screw off; and survived a bull ant sting, which really fucking hurts.
After staying in the mountains three days longer than intended, we made our way back to Byron Bay where we went sea kayaking and saw six whales right next to us. Six whales, y'all. Six. The majestic game was strong. Almost as strong as climbing over a mountain of sharp rocks to find our own private beach in Port Stephens, which we so cleverly named 'Our Beach.' It's written in the sand if you need some solid proof of ownership.
Now, we're in Sydney where we plan on resting up a couple of days before heading into the outback. There we're hoping to ask directions from an Aussie man at a gas station who we can't understand, see massive kangaroos, walk around Uluru, stay underground in Coober Pedy, and ultimately survive with as little contact from deadly animals as possible, all while being narrated by Men at Work.
As far as the Quokka, still hasn't happened. But that's what hope is for.