Where Bogans are Made

The Griswald-Ashers arrived in Newy, safe and sound.

We left before sunrise and arrived just before sunset.  Coffees were drunk, chips and lollies were eaten, bladders were extended. Children teased each other and were yelled at by parents*.  Seats were kicked and small people asked, “Are we there yet?” and “Why didn’t we catch a plane?” seventeen million times.

We answered, “Not yet” and “Because” seventeen million and one times.

Forget the Big Banana, the Giant Clam,  the Big Prawn and the Big Rock, they may be of passing interest to the novice traveller, but the Grisashers found the tourist spot to rival all others.  We found the place where Bogans are made.

And if that isn’t enough, it is also the home of the Worst Cafe in the Known World.  We toddled into town, saw the Worst Cafe in the Known World, and made a beeline for it.  It had a cute wraparound verandah, and the place was positively pumping when we arrived.  So we took our seats expectantly.

We soon noticed a pungent odour, a fragrant mix of stale urine and skanky four-day-old lettuce.  Of course we should have left right then, but: children.  Hungry children.  And not a golden arch in sight.

We soon saw why the joint was packed.  The local retirement village was having an outing.  That explained at least some of the urine smell.  I think patrons preferred to relieve themselves like Ruprect in their seats, because whilst we were there, two old dears got locked in the toilet.  The one and only waitress had to jimmy them free them with a butter knife.  Clearly it was safer to  just piss in your seat.

The remainder of the clientele were in the 18-25 age bracket, accompanied by their numerous offspring.  They were striking in their uniformity, in that all of the males had a style of haircut we used to call “tails” in the 80s,  and all of the women had tattoos of their partner’s names, in a florid script, on the nape of their necks.  The only distinguishing features were whether the tails were plaited or not, and the variation in name.  (None of the names had traditional spellings. So I guess it could be confusing.)

I was going to say something a bit rude about why a woman would want to have a tatt on the back of her neck of her mate’s name, perhaps as a form of  identification useful in the throes of passion, by said mate, from the rear vantage point.  But I won’t.

I took photos of the Worst Cafe in the Known World, as well as the swill we were served,  (and dutifully ate, mind you) but I just can’t post them.  I’ve had a fit of conscience, as the Worst Cafe is clearly identifiable.  And that’s really not very nice.

Plus a Bogan might punch me or Nath in the face.

And who knows what one of the men might do.

*Okay, not parents. Me.  I did the yelling.  But they were really shitting me. It was 7.04am.

Do you eat in crappy places on road trips?

Tell me your worst meal…