Sam Cutler

I woke up in Billinudgel, parked out of the way in the back of the pub. It was colder than a witch’s tit! All of my Euro-trash fantasies had been shattered by the inclement Australian weather. Where was the sun, the heat, the endless flies? I opened my eyes reluctantly in case they froze open like they do in the Arctic and I’d never be able to close them again. There was a lone fly zipping around the inside of my bus forlornly trying
to get some warmth into itself. The poor thing landed on my refrigerator which it cleverly realized was the warmest spot around. I didn’t have the heart to kill it and watched it contentedly rubbing its wings together. Northern New South Wales on a July morning - shit I can remember it being warmer than this in Canada!

I rolled out of bed and shivered into my clothes and staggered across to the general store/cafe which makes one of the three retail establishments in Billinudgel. The other two being the post office and the pub. Inside the store I asked for a flat white coffee in a china mug - can’t stand those polystirene take-away things, and no sooner had the words come out of my mouth than a stranger standing there said “I know you”. It’s a sobering experience to be recognized in the middle of nowhere so I asked “you do?” and the stranger proceeded to tell me he recognized my voice from when I was on “the conversation hour” on ABC radio. Anonymity is the last privilege of the twentieth century! Busted because of my voice! He turned out to be a nice guy and wanted to know where he could buy a copy of my book - well NOT in Billinudgel that’s for sure - BUT I happened to have a box of them in the bus. Two minutes later and he had two copies of the book no less and my coffee was ready. A quick look at The Australian newspaper confirmed me in all my prejudices, I was right! The world is a seriously screwed up place! Only no news is good news! I looked around at Billinudgel. The main street bifurcated two sides of what was once farm-land upon which had been constructed a pub and a post-office and a few ramshackle houses. The town must have had a population of at least fifteen. It was as cold as a witch’s tit (as I’ve said) and as quiet as a south Indian temple. Janet, the girl behind the counter, came over for a chat. She eyed me suspiciously. “You look like you don’t eat properly, you’re far too skinny”. Lamely I boasted that I weighed the same as when I was sixteen. “You wanna eat” she asked in a kindly way. I never eat first thing in the morning but I was hungry so I asked “what you got”. When she said “Beef” I went for it and within minutes I was facing a steaming brew in a china bowl of the most delicious stew. Wonderful! As good as you’d get in the finest restaurants in Sydney, if not better. It turned out Janet was a  trained chef and had indeed worked in the best restaurants in Sydney. What a find in such a one horse town!

I finished my food and a young guy sat down at the table and we began to speak. He was French and was travelling around Australia with a rather attractive companion in a van. I showed him the bus and he noticed my guitars and told me he was a guitar-player. I handed him my  1957 Gibson CF100 and he played some finger-numbing Django Rheinhart licks - this boy could PLAY! So I asked him to come with me and visit my friend Stan who had a workshop on the industrial estate around the corner. Stan had put the wooden floor in my bus and was (I soon discovered) a killer ukelele-player. So with the Frenchman in tow we walked round to Stans’ place, and soon music was filling the air. Shit it wasn’t even ten in the morning and here was Stan and my new friend playing Django’s “Minor Swing”. I stumbled back to the store for more coffee in a feeble attempt to warm myself up - the sun didn’t even have the strength to shine its way through the clouds. Janet wanted to give me more food (bless ‘er) but I couldn’t think of adding to what I had only just received. A long drive lay ahead of me to Sydney, it was time to get on the road. Another small Australian town - a beautiful little place with barely a soul living in it. But each and every one there SO warm and friendly so caring and kind. As I sat in the bus with the heater on full bore and my toes slowly defrosting my mate the lone fly regained some of his composure and began to annoyingly dive-bomb his way at the windshield. I had finally experienced an outback-style Australian town where there were more people than flies! That had to be a first!

With a slap of my hand I dispatched the fly to his next incarnation and wondered whether he’d come back as a prison guard, and slowly revving the engine I slipped out of town across the rusting railway tracks and headed for the main north south highway that runs down the East coast of Australia from Cairns in the North to Sydney. The Pacific Coast Highway, Highway One. Mate I’ve seen bigger roads on my best mate’s farm! If Indonesia ever wanted to attack Australia all they’d have to do is drop a dozen men with explosives a little north of Townsville and the whole of the “top end” would be cut off and only be able to be re-supplied by air or by sea. One road the size of a farm track ? Who says this is a first world country?? With the happy thought that Australia might have third class roads but it has FIRST class people I waved Janet goodbye as she stood on the front steps of the Billinudgel General Store, the best cook in Northern New South Wales. Get in there and sample her food! Just what a wandering boy needs to begin the day in style!  As I passed Stan’s workshop he and the Frenchman were frenetically picking away at some tune or other and happily engrossed in the music. I honked the horn and waved, but they were happily ‘gone’ and lost in the music and didn’t even hear me. What a lovely way to start a day, and then it started raining, and I thought well at least it’ll keep the bush fires at bay, and I gave thanks for small mercies.