Stumbling Through the Ghost City
I got back from sailing and settled back into my hostel. It was in the afternoon and I was sick of the relentless sun I had encountered on the deck of the Prima ship so I went and had a kebab and got some stamps to mail some postcards. As I was walking down the street I heard “HEY BRANDON!!!” in a familiar London-English accent from across the street. It was Vicki and Lorraine from the Fraser Island tour. I yelled to them that they had better cross the street because I was still a little skiddish of trying to cross the roads with such unusual driving directions. They ran over and we chatted for a bit, saying how weird it is that you keep running into people you have met in the last town. We decided to get together for dinner that night before we headed our separate ways again. I told them I was heading to Townsville to try to find some work and, surprise of surprises, they were heading up there too in a few days. We said a “goodbye for now” and then I hopped onto the not-so-premiere bus for yet another bus ride. This time it was only a four hour trip but it got boring to see nothing but sugar cane out both sides of the windows.
My first impression of Townsville was one of awe. The largest city in the tropical north, it is a compact harbor city that is scrunched between the imposing heights of Castle Hill and the ocean. As I stepped off the bus it was noticeably warmer and more humid. I worked up quite a sweat just walking from the bus depot into town.
My second impression of Townsville was that it was one strange city. For one thing, there were hardly ANY people on the streets. A town with 150,000 residents should have at least a few people on the street at all hours of the day. I probably met 7 people walking by on my way to one of the hostels. Most of the shops along the “revitalized” central business district had their gates closed or were boarded up and covered with graffiti. It was then that I knew that I had made the wrong decision to come here for the long-term. The “sophisticated port city with true Australian flare,” as my guidebook had promised, was a tired, shell of a city that seemed to be hovering on the brink of becoming abandoned or else crammed full of seasonal tourists at any moment. As a city that is seen as more of a stopover on the way to the ocean’s big attractions, it seemed not to have a life of its own, opting to look out onto Magnetic Island which pulls most of the tourists out of the city limits.
I finally found a hostel that actually had someone at the reception and checked in. I almost immediately started looking for a plane ticket out of Townsville and ended up just reading some ridiculous book that had all the predictable shocks of a soap opera. The next day I walked to the ANZAC memorial park which was pretty. It had lots of palm trees, a big fountain, and looked out onto the marina. I walked back into town and located the start of the Goat Track which went up to the top of Castle Hill. My guidebook warned that it was a very strenuous hike and since I had to check out of my less-than-appealing hostel, it felt like I was not only carrying myself up the hill but had acquired a small child on my back. I began to theorize as to why it was called the “Goat” track–anyone who has any smarts will RIDE a goat to the top : P. I had to stop and take a breather several times because it was a never-ending and steep stairway to the top. I got almost to the top and stopped, thinking I had better go down and get some water, content with the view and distance I had gotten so far. It wasn’t a good time to do the hike anyway because it was exactly midday and the sun was very intense. But then an Aussie woman came up the trail behind me and asked “Howaryagoin’, mate?,” to which I responded “it’s some frickin’ hike up this hill.” It seems to be the running theme in Australia; amazing sights but you really have to work for them. She smirked and said “this is my third time today”. I had no response at first in my heat exhausted state but then managed a “wow…good for you.” I got up after she had gone by and stopped one more time and the same woman had already begun her descent, this time doing a little jog on the way down, and said, “You’re almost there, mate. There’s ice cold water at the top as a reward!”. And then she disappeared into the trees. That was all she needed to say. I found a spring in my step similar to the one she had and as I got to the top, I didn’t even admire the view but headed straight for the sign that said “Chilled water.” I must have drank a gallon and I pledged that from then on I would always carry lots of water on any and all hikes in Australia.
The view from the top was nice. I don’t know if it was worth the hellish time, but it afforded a look out over the city and on over to Magnetic Island. I was disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to get to the island after all since it has the largest population of koalas in the world. I started to head back down after lapping some more water at the fountain of life. The walk down seemed much shorter and I wasn’t tempted to throw my pack off like the way up. It was much more slippery however, and I slid on the loose rock a few times. One of the times I almost fell backward, being so top-heavy with my pack and tried to compensate by leaning forward only to almost do a tumble. I must have looked like a cat trying to balance on a pool floatie. And yes, there were houses around that would have given an entertaining view of my acrobatics.
I slowly hiked back to my hostel where I booked my flight back to Brisbane that night. I got into Brisbane at 11:30pm, long after all the buses and trains stopped running to the city. I had to take a cab and I was warned by the reception at my hostel that it would be about 25 dollars (versus 12 on the train). It ended up being $37. I about cursed. There was no other option though and I was content to at least be in a vibrant city once more. I tucked into my bunk and slept like any weary hiker would.
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