in the rainforest in the
far north. On Friday nights
they had " Bull fighting"
where a pair of males, or
females, or mixed would
have their hands fastened
behind their backs with
plastic ties and then head butt
each other until one could
not stand. The patrons would
bet , stamp the dust, and yell
and cheer on their favourite.
Above the bar, foreign, torn,
and defaced notes were pinned.
Some were from the time
when only FJ utes, Jeeps,
Landrovers, and trucks
passed through on narrow
dirt tracks. They bore
messages " Woz and Baz's
honeymoon", " Cane toads
rule", and " Support mental
health care or I'll kill you!"
The huge head of a boar was
mounted on display above the
bar, it's tusks as long as Arab
knives.Stuffed cane toads dressed
as hookers or swaggies stood
erect next to the spirit bottles
their pouting lips an azulian red.
A huge stuffed rat guarded the
cash register. A sign proclaimed
" Largest rat on record shot at
the No Name pub".
Through the trees across the
beach I could see trawlers
moored. Black silouettes
against the moonlit horizon
illuminated by a slowly descending
red//orange/yellow glow. A sharp
contrast with the noise and
aggression of the bar.
When the hard Chechen next
to me downed his ninth vodka
shot and told me " the rat was
telling him to do bad things."
I knew it was time to go.
