I spend my last night in Melbourne at Coffee House Backpackers. A lovely old house full of miserable young boozers. They’re all still in bed at 11. It smells of death and decay. I buy myself a day ticket and set off once again on little-travelled paths through the whole of Melbourne. Telstra Dome, Docklands, shopping, Melbourne Museum.

The night in the Coffee House is as expected. Even after the twentieth call to her lover’s mobile phone in the dorm, a sufftoe refuses to accept that he doesn’t want her. At three o’clock she knocks on the door. I storm out with such angry words and face that she doesn’t even dare go through the open door afterwards. (more…)

One long party. There are no days, only nights. They start at noon here in St Kilda. It’s fun. If it gets too loud or nasty somewhere, there are plenty of other places. The Esplanade Hotel is the mother of all live pubs. There are 30 concerts every day at the weekend. I went to 5, the crowds went wild. And yesterday was Labour Day, so it was a very long weekend.

Time flies by. There is so much to do in Melbourne. Culture, lots of work, long nights, hardly any sleep. Good people, even if it’s a bit of a blur. Or even incomprehensible. A dinner, a concert by a house band in a club with €5 for a small Becks. Important questions and the starry southern sky. (more…)

I continue along the coast. I isolate myself, I’m in a bad mood. My laptop could be destroyed at any time. A rainforest, a short hike, waterfalls. I’m always lagging behind or creeping along, Space Night turned up all the way in my ears. Good if you don’t want to hear anything. No birds, no rustling leaves or rippling water. Above all, no people.

Next stop: The 12 Apostles, a formation of 12 large sandstone rocks just off the coast on the Great Ocean Road. Crowds of tourists and helicopters as annoying as mosquitoes. We drive on quickly, as if an official had said: “Please move on. There’s nothing to see here.” (more…)

The day starts well. I have a rideshare along the Great Ocean Road. Two Frenchmen, one Irishwoman, all good people. We drive into town, get the hire car, drive off. The panic begins. Our French driver is the worst driver I’ve ever seen. My grandma drove much better and safer at 73. The start: the hire company shows him how to start.

The highlights until the evening: Several extremely tight right-of-way regulations. Almost turning into a one-way street – only for trams. Constant jerky, unannounced braking. Dozens of following drivers get upset. An almost rear-end collision. Forgotten handbrake, touching down on a kerb. Then a nice jerky reverse so that it tears the spoiler. And forever: travelling at 40 km/h on a country road. (more…)

St Kilda is the beach of Melbourne. It’s just a 30-minute tram ride from Nomad’s layby, so I book in for longer on the very first day. A small hostel, nothing special, but no vomit on the stairs. It’s easy to be happy. The beach is just 400 metres away. Supermarket round the corner, and lots of nice little shops and restaurants.

I walk through the neighbourhood. All I hear is birds chirping. Peace and quiet. The botanical garden, Aussies lying in the sun. There’s an old wooden rollercoaster from 1912 on the beach and a huge theatre where small bands like Toto play. The WiFi is working, I’m working like crazy to balance my account. (more…)

Some hostels are like battery cages. The Nomad Backpackers in Melbourne is the mother of all battery hens. Hens and roosters, the desired end product – their money. They put plenty of it on the counter for their daily bread: grain, wheat and barley. A bar as a feeding trough, the hens clucking in unbelievable pitches, the roosters crowing unknowingly for their lost lives.

I don’t understand the whole discussion about which husbandry is better: To wither away in a cage, or to tear each other apart in a barn. I move from the cage to the floor when a little helper cock says: “If you ex this jug, I’ll pay it.”. Well, the Bavarian does, no problem with the prices – maybe I’ll even become a rooster. (more…)

The landing approach to Melbourne begins shortly before midnight. Sea of lights. I quickly flick through the Lonely Planet: 3.5 million inhabitants. Wow. I didn’t think so. After 15 minutes I have all my luggage and the transfer bus is just right. Peter, Father Christmas from Fiji, had offered to pick me up with his sister. She works at the airport. But that works too.

I arrive in the city. A bus with a disco ball drives past. Muffled bass thumps. It says on the back: The Ultimate Party Experience. A disco on wheels. If you don’t spill your beer while dancing, you’ll definitely make it here. Sotos had already told me: Melbourne is the party capital of the world. All the walls on the walk to the hostel confirm this: Poster after poster after poster. (more…)

I hate sayings like “What doesn’t kill you makes you tougher” Or “True friends are recognised in adversity”. Why? Because they’re always true. I just don’t like sayings that are always true. Life is much more complicated than that. But for a few things: perfectly clear and simple. Do I have to be grateful for that now?

In a few situations, there are no options. Where otherwise you have a hundred options, there is often only one way left in extreme situations. And it’s usually hard. So the aftermath must be great because it’s wonderfully fluffy and soft. Oh yes, and bright. With red light bulbs and blue flowers on both sides and all that. People afterwards will be different. Better ones. (more…)

The days drag on endlessly while I wait for the missing part from Sydney. It rains constantly. I read a lot, “The Pornographers Poem” by Michael Turner. Watch “Shortbus” for the second time. The last song is beautiful: “We all get it in the end”. My old hostel sold my bed, even though I said I’d be back. Never mind, it was rubbish anyway.

The lady of the house drives me to the next one. It’s completely empty. A whole dorm for me. Silence, endless silence. Then a train passes behind. I’m grateful for that. I go outside, smoke a cigarette. Sit and watch the rain fall. A frog hops across the yard. A gecko screams for a female. Evening programme in Cardwell. (more…)

The night is one tough slaughter. The first alcoholic corpses can be admired at eight o’clock. I mutate into an animal film maker. The air conditioning fails in the room. Sleeping in a sauna. There’s a heavy swell in the morning, especially on land. As soon as I’m on the Tusa5, our diving boat, it’s fine again. The swell seems to counteract my fluctuations antiphasically.

I lost my PADI licence on the trip. No problem, says the booking agent, they can find your licence online via PADI. What he doesn’t say is that I would have had to send the provisional licence to PADI first. Consequence: I’m only allowed to do introductory dives without a licence. Lower, shorter, only two instead of three but at least another 50$ more expensive. (more…)

I’m allowed to let myself go for a change, treat myself. There’s no better place for it. First night: the drunken banana plantation kids sit around loads of empty, expensive beer bottles. The dorm is a barracks, the kitchen so clean that even the cockroaches shine. At some point, England is bawling in the pool about the exposure of Swedish breasts. I go to bed and enjoy several bongo concerts during the night.

Day two. The local diving centre can’t be reached by phone. After walking five kilometres in 35 degrees I know why: it went bankrupt a year ago. The beach is beautiful, but dominated by the holy trinity: sharks, crocodiles, jellyfish. So that actually just means a dual system: the sharks have supposedly been decimated by the crocodiles. (more…)

I leave Airlie Beach early. I continue northwards on the A1 motorway. Today’s destination is Mission Beach. There’s not much on the way, but at least after a few hundred kilometres the endless sugar cane fields are replaced by an almost refreshingly varied steppe landscape. A hill with a view. At the top, I enjoy the view and a steaming engine.

I drive on carefully, keeping a constant eye on the coolant gauge. After Townsville comes a steep hill. I gain momentum and cruise upwards at low revs. The result is similar again: my car, a steam engine. Waiting for it to cool down. Smoking, far too much. Top up with water. Watching tourists pass by. I’m stuck again. (more…)

I drive off into the tropics, 900 kilometres north. When I open the car door after eight hours, I am struck by 35 degrees and over 80% humidity in the sugar cane swamp near Airlie Beach. It was recommended to me as a nice little coastal village with a good party atmosphere. My hostel: Backpackers by the Bay. Room: tropical, stunning musty odour.

Airlie Beach is overcrowded. You can only get to the beach through the park, every other beach access point within a 10km radius is built up with millionaire villas. The same applies to any point from which you would have a nice view. I like the east coast less and less. What remains is work, but after 2 weeks of constant stress I’ll soon have more time to travel again. (more…)

The days come and go. The place is good, but nothing happens anyway. The travellers drink, not with intent to destroy, but for no good reason and without lasting results. The little switch behind my right ear slips unnoticed from “life” to “survival”. I don’t stay outside, but I’m certainly not inside either.

The second mechanic is a yellow angel in grey – without having to pay for ADAC. Within 5 days, he replaces the water pump and adjusts the valve settings. Despite a serious accident at work, he single-handedly makes my car fit again in the promised time. I give him a good bonus and am happy to be able to continue my journey. (more…)

Last night was intense. I empty a good number of Victoria bitter jugs with a good bloke from Würzburg. A Japanese guy plays the guitar, a Finnish Beethoven makes a table fall over. The British girls just drink, as usual (sorry, Sam, there are exceptions :-). By midnight I’m pretty exhausted and fall into bed. Despite the partying outside, it’s nice and cool and quiet inside.

The next morning I’m a hiker again. My engine is broken, and my money is running hellishly low for the first time on the journey. So? ALDI! I walk a good kilometre, shop cheaply for the next few days and then carry 10kg of food back to the hostel. Breakfast: 1kg of scrambled eggs, extra greasy. Strange: I still feel sick afterwards. But different… (more…)

English readers: scroll down! We set off early for Brisbane. All the hostels in the city centre are expensive as hell, overbooked and don’t offer internet: Brisbane’s Homestead Backpackers Hostel. No direct internet, but a bar with WiFi for buying beer. I check in and cook one last meal for Verena and the Lord.

Then I take them to the airport. On the way, I realise that Brisbane is a real big city: it takes me almost two hours to cover the 15 km there and back. Then it’s off to the bar. It’s horrible, but I really have to order a beer so that I can go online. It’s not that annoying, but the price of €4 for a small beer is much more so. (more…)

Last night? Thousands! Once again: far too short. Last nights are magical for travellers. The best thing about them: practically every night is a last night, if you travel fast enough. Last nights are about taking stock. Finalising something, bringing it to an end, making room for something new. Every night.

That’s why last nights are sometimes a bit stressful: tidying up, organising, summing up. At the same time, of course, don’t forget how beautiful all the mess was before – and make sure it’s always there. Sometimes it’s hard to just let last nights be normal nights. Go to sleep. But that’s what turns the important last nights into gold. (more…)

We drive on to Coffs Harbour. We set up camp just a few metres from a rather lively surfer beach. It rains almost non-stop for the entire first day. Shopping, working, killing time. Nothing happens, and my friends spend the 6th day of a few in Australia in constant rain. I still have 10,000 kilometres of desert ahead of me, so I take it easy.

The next morning we have a massive problem naming the colour of the sky. Is it red? Or green? The hostel chief eventually says it’s blue. Usually a sign of good weather. Oi, oh, good weather? Good weather!!! (more…)

The most important part of my car: the windscreen wipers. There is no “interval”, only “fast” and “faster”. Signs call on us to save water. At the third one, we have a collective screaming fit. Then we drive on past flooded fields. The list of warnings on Australia’s official weather website gets longer and longer: cyclones, severe thunderstorms, flooding.

We continue northwards. We reach Port Macquire in the rain, one of Australia’s first three settlements. A hostel with internet, my services are in demand. I meet a couple of Israeli girls who I have met several times in New Zealand and Australia. Lord Peter fights with the prettier Ju-Jitsu. Day five in constant rain. (more…)

The hostel in Katoomba is very nice. A small fireplace, large kitchen, free internet and no cockroaches. Okay, a 10cm spider scares me off for a moment. Cook, work, sleep. In the morning we drive to the Three Sisters, a famous rock formation. There’s nothing to see. Apart from a lot of fog.

We drive on to the Jenolan Caves, one of the largest karst cave systems in the world, an hour away. It’s really big, which means you have to drive to the car park through the cave entrance. There are 15 different tours on offer, ranging from one to six hours. We take the short one into Lucas Cave. (more…)

The last two days were tough, but rewarding. After a day of sightseeing and finding my way around Sydney by car, the next day I take the underground to a distant suburb. That’s where the big car dealers are. I get an address from the local trading post. After an hour on the underground and in a taxi, I’m standing in front of the Sydney Car King.

One of Sydney’s biggest car dealers, according to its own information, it now has just 15 cars. They are all rubbish. Cheap, leaky, dripping, rattling. He only allows test drives in the yard. When I press hard on the accelerator in the fifth car to hear the engine, the King steams closer, snorting with rage, and I leave shortly afterwards without having achieved anything. (more…)

I think to myself, come on, don’t start a new country with lies. So I declare at customs: I have 425 cigarettes with me. With my mixture of convincing “playing the fool”, confusion and honest eyes, I get the customs officer to let me into Australia without penalty duty. Saves me a whopping €80.

The Monday after the Australian bank holidays is a postponed Sunday. Buses rarely run, many are cancelled. After a few trials and tribulations, I only arrive at the Palm Backpackers Hostel in Kings Cross at eight o’clock in the evening after three hours. There are 35 hostels and about as many brothels and massage parlours within a 500-metre radius. (more…)