So there's something about northern Australia that hates me. Maybe, a long time ago, my ancestors were the British jailers who were mean to their convict ancestors, and the aboriginal curse still remains, or something. Whatever it is, this part of the country is not being shy about letting me know how it feels about me.
When we arrived in Cairns, it signalled the end of Frenchie's holiday. I was brave for about a second and then sulked and pined and sank into seas of de-motivation. When he took a break from crocodiles to call me to check I wasn't drinking gallons of red wine to drown my abandonment issues, all I had to tell him was that I was in the art gallery, and that it was boring and when was he coming back?
The art gallery wasn't entirely awful: I found an attic gallery that I mentally converted into a flash penthouse suite and I looked in the giftshop, and eventually I pulled myself together to formulate a plan to keep me occupied whilst Frenchie was away in Papa New Guinea for three days. Really, what is this thing called 'work' that the rest of the world seem to be so preoccupied with? Don't you people know that it's the Summer Holidays and as a child at heart you should demand six weeks off from your employers? Throw down your clipboards and desktop computers! Unbutton the top two buttons of your shirt and, hell, untuck it! Turn to the nearest authority figure and say, "You can't do nuffin'. It's the 'olidays! Naaaaaaaaah!" and then run away. Then, when you're fired, become a teacher!
Anyway, back on topic, I had a big plan that did not involve the Great Barrier Reef who, frankly, I am going to personify as a big, fat, smoking-jacket wearing aristocrat that nobody likes because he lies around getting sunburnt with a bald head and a cravat saying, "Those buggers want to dive? Well let them dive, bloody hippie proletariat! Charge them a pretty penny for it, Jeeves, and them we'll see how much they want to dive. Fiscal selection, that's what I say!" And then he laughs like a pompous balloon and sips at his cognac whilst floating on the waves of his private beach on a blow up lilo. Great Barrier Reef...
My plan involved hiring cars, driving to uncrowded beaches, drinking tea in hippie beach teahouses and waving the proverbial vs at Cairns from its smaller, more northern cousin, Port Douglas. Good old Dougie, I thought, but it appeared I had been deceived and those I thought were allies were in fact double agents. Oh! Et tu Dougie?
Arrived at Avis rentacar office, having had little sleep due to Frenchie's early flight and my desperately romantic goodbyes, tears, hanky waving and the like, only to find that my credit card, which has only just made it back to me after its own express post jet setting down the east coast in an envelope, was declared to have 'invalid details'. Why does Australia want to erase my existence?! The nice lady with coffee stains on her blouse tried a number of times, and we tried to trick the system, but no, the payment could not be taken and the payment could not be made in cash. Good thing, too, because the ATM also denied my validity and so I sat, despondent, next to a manmade lagoon (not even a real beach because of the mud and the crocodiles and the jellyfish - north Australia sucks) and waited until Vietnam opened for business. Luckily, what Cairns does have is community wifi, so I was able to Skype a nice lady who insisted that I request the 'savings' option when abroad, rather than the 'checking' or 'credit'. Who knew?
Cash flow was restored, but still no luck with the card machine so I had breakfast and discovered that in order to select 'checking' you have to have a pin.
Waitress: if you could just enter your pin?
Me: it's Vietnam. They don't have pins.
I mean, I'm sure they do, but my Vietnam doesn't have a pin.
Full of eggs and tea, I find the fighter in me and rise to the challenge, attempting to trick the system by paying online, which is apparently allowed. Hopefully, I rock up to Europcar, trying to look valid. Europcar man insists he can help me, takes one look at my card, backtracks and explains that the number on my card is not embossed and therefore is no help to me or him. Embossed? Embossed?! Turns out the Great Barrier Reef is not the only snob on the block. For the second time that day, someone asks me, with skepticism, if the 'fiancé' I have referred to has an embossed card. Having explained that I have a Vietnamese account and handed over a British driving license, I calmly inform both that no, he is in PNG, but works in Australia, hence why I am here. I refrain from telling them that he is French, but is based in Singapore, because really, life is becoming ridiculous at this point and if I start talking, I might have to carry on and explain how difficult organising a legal and valid wedding is when you're 'in our position' and one of us is apparently invalid in many legal ways!
Take a breath.
They nod, understanding that there is no 'fiancé', or bank account, or identity, just a fabrication of my invalid imagination, and that they should only use slow movements from now on, if indeed, there even is a hysterical woman standing in front of them. Maybe they too are dreaming, since they are Australian and thus according to their laws, I don't exist?
Then I phoned two call centres in two different countries, spoke to people of two different nationalities (different to the country I'm calling) to get a refund, checked in at a hostel (paid in cash) and then went and lay by the lagoon for three hours remembering how all-consuming a good book can be.
Ate sushi, the sushi ladies were nice to me; spent twenty minutes looking for a cinema because I can't read maps; watched a film and laughed out loud and unashamedy at all the jokes like a lonely lunatic.
Now I feel a bit better, and hopefully will master the bus system tomorrow and show them who's boss and not get too sunburnt.
