B1: Garn carna fuhgin eh?
B2: Engh. Nah. Effin used a 235.
B1: 235? Nergh engh or what, eh.
B2: Annh ah yeah nah.
B1: Eh.
B2: Yerh.
B1: Nah.
B2: Got im in the yairn friggin blowie arn mate.
B1: Yairn mate? Agutta?
B2: Yer. Wif me triple 2 mate.
B1: Triple 2 mate yerh.
B2: Yer. Nah. Christ gotta take a piss mate see yez.
B1: Yeah mate cheers, eh.
Later on I come across another guy who talks exactly like this trying to tell a German tourist what local sights she can visit. She gamely repeats everything he says, hoping that as she says it back it might make sense. I make it worse by trying to help as we attempt to act out the word "lighthouse" for her.
Apart from the grey nomads, who are obsessed with talking about the shower block, everyone seems to communicate mainly by swear words and nasal grunting sounds, and I have never heard the word "mate" so many times. The corny TV ads in Esperance are nothing compared to TV ads up here, which rely mainly on the word "legend", "Aussie", "bloke" and make the old four-X ads look like high culture.
On my arrival at the caravan park, I am set upon by grey nomads desperate for fresh company (all my neighbours have sitting in their matching chairs for weeks and conversation supplies are down to musings over what that night's Mystery Dinner at the bowls club is going to be). When Smokey calmly steps out of the bus there is a virtual stampede of grey nomads from all over the caravan park to see him. "Myrtle! You gotta see this!" "Is that a cat? I'm going to go get Barry!"
They're all really nice but garrulous in a slightly crazed hostage syndrome way and after about six hours of chatting about the shower block I manage to divert them away from my site ("Say! Is that the new Mystery Dinner sign going up at the camp kitchen?"). At seven pm everyone is unconscious with boredom and I am able to catch up on internet stuff.
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| Grey nomads in their traditional 24 hour position - the man in the middle is actually taxidermied |
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