Five Ways Not to Leave a Country

I think a good test for the strength of a patient's arterial walls would be to send him on a trip around the world. If he survives the comedy of errors that will inevitable befall him, then he can be said to have substantially thick vessels. The stress test for my internal membranes came yesterday, the day before we left Australia. Leaving was anything but easy.

The day began well enough. My blood pressure was pumping away at it's normal pace when we left our campsite to do some last minute things in Geelong. I'll have to admit my heart did race a bit when I handed the postman the box that contained our tent. Departing with the nylon home we've lived in for so many months was a big event. We hope we won't regret sending it home, but lugging it through Southeast Asia where hotel rates are cheap seems a waste of back muscles.

From Geelong it was off to Melbourne to get Hepatitis B booster shots, turn in the rental car and find a hotel for the night. All was still going smoothly until around 6:00 p.m. That was when my blood pressure took a leap on the BP scale.

We'd made a quick stop at the Melbourne library and when we returned to our car, well, there was no car. Just bare pavement right where that rental, which was due in two hours, was suppose to be.

"John, where's the car?" I pointed to the pavement. We both looked down the road but there were no cars anywhere. We looked the other way. Our eyes met once again on the bare spot of grey across from us. "I think the car's been stolen."

Making a joke would have been the wrong thing to do, but it did occur to me at that moment that it always seems to be the little things in life that really irritate.

We crossed the street. Maybe we felt there would be a tire track or a dropped match book, some clue at the scene of the crime. "C" John suddenly said. He pointed to a sign with a small red "C" enclosed in a circle. "Do you think that means anything important? Maybe it's been towed."

"Great! Now what? That car had everything we own in it." We looked up and down the block but could see no sign indicating where cars would be towed, by what service or what number to call. I wanted to duck into the nearest phone booth and call Superman, instead I called the police.

"If it's been stolen Ma'am we can help you. Just stay where you are and we'll send a car in ten minutes." Help was on it's way. Except just then the phone went dead. The words "Out of Service" began flashing across the number screen. (Again it's always those little things). I pulled on the lever but nothing seemed to revive the humming brain-wave of the phone line.

When all else fails kick the tires. No tires? OK, I'll kick the phone. Service was back instantly. (And to boot I'd relieved a few maxed out blood vessels.- a two for one kick.) Unfortunately the policewoman I connected with this time wasn't helpful. My dilemma wasn't in her job description, I should try the local police, click.

It was the telephone operator who proved to be the most useful. She took the time to listen to my fit of blabber and located for me the number to the Melbourne towing counsel. I'd never heard of a towing council. I hope she didn't hear my voice crack when she told me they were closed and I'd have to try back on Tuesday.

"Tuesday, I'll be in Bali on Tuesday." With a bit more persuasion I managed to get her to locate an after hours number for the towing counsel. Finally we were getting somewhere.

To make this whole story just a wee bit longer (why shouldn't you suffer as much as we did), I called and confirmed that license plate 'ZNY 762' had indeed been towed and I'd find it at the corners of such-and-such streets. "Did you get that John? you wrote those names down didn't you?"

We owe our thanks to a stranger who saw us turning our Melbourne street map around and around, each turn more aggressive than the last. He told us that the easiest way to the pound was to hop on the free 'Circle Melbourne' trolly. We'd get within walking distance.

I have to say that being a security guard at a car pound must be a thankless job. I doubt they get many visitors expressing their gratitude. We were told that we would need to part with A$155 dollars to have our car released. I was about to get angry. My face had already made the necessary adjustments, when I saw the sign above the counter. It read "Fowl language or disruptive behavior will be dealt with by calling the police." I backed off. I would have to behave.

"What does that "C" in the red circle mean anyway?" I asked the guard.

"It means 'Clear Way'," he replied, "and ya can't park in a clear way between 4 and 6." (Apparently not.) His tone, softened then. It was more nonchalant. "When you get your car you'll notice a ticket taped to the windshield. You have 28 days to pay it."

Perhaps he felt a soothing tone would ease the pain. $155 dollars PLUS a ticket. John and I could feel the heat rising off each other's skin. We didn't say anything to the guard, we just walked out.

The ticket on the car was for A$60 and the time of our offense (printing right next to the dollar sign) was at 4:17 p.m. "and ya can't park in a clear way between 4 and 6." I heard the guard's word ring in my head. Seventeen minutes had cost us dearly. Another thirty would cost us even more if we didn't get that rental car back to the dealership in time. Still no words between us, we hopped in the car and left.

John dropped me at a cheap motel with the back packs and drove down the road to return the car. Timing OK. No surcharge.

Our dingy motel room had cost us A$60. That only made our moods hurt more. We unpacked, rearranged and repacked to the dim glow of the single bulb hanging over a set of drawers and went to bed. Our flight was at 7:30 in the morning. The rental car dealership had promised a complimentary ride to the airport if we were at their door by 5:00.

But the five hours of sleep I was promised by John's alarm watch didn't happen. Sometime during the night I woke up with hives. Hell why not. The back of my legs were covered and by time I arrived at the airport in a sleepy daze, they had spread down my arms and to my hands.

Finding out what had caused the rash would take time, but we had the time. Our flight, we learned at the counter, had been delayed for five hours. Figures.

I want you to know that I am not making this up. Within a 14 hour time span John and I have experienced enough to stress our blood vessels to their lethal limits. We looked forward to being on board a comfortable flight, with no complications, en route to Bali. Or were we asking too much?

As it turned out the plane was continuously delayed. It was delayed again during it's stop over in Sydney; and the ride was anything but comfortable. One flight attendant after another came on the speaker to announce that Garuda Air is very sorry but something else on the plane was out of order. So we spent over 6 hours flying to Bali with no movie (the screens didn't work), no air conditioning while on the ground (that didn't work), no music, broken tray tables and a turbulent ride that kept us chained to our seats.

With all of the annoyances we've endured, This may very well go down as the worst experience ever on leaving a country. An experience, hopefully, never to be repeated.