Auspitality

After a few days in Melbourne & Philip Island with my Mom, Ed and I had grand coastal plans.  My mom departed for a 9 day tour of New Zealand and we headed for the Gippslands.  We thought we'd use the time my Mom was away to meander up the east coast of the country, meeting back up with her in Sydney.  But before we'd even reached the first beach town on the itinerary, it started to rain.  Of the 9 days that we traced the coast, only one was full sun.  Our plans to alternate ocean swimming and mountain hiking were drowned.  Instead, we spent more than a week walking on beaches in rain gear and looking at the national parks we were meant to be hiking through the wipered windshield.

We met Marvin in Mallacoota.  We'd been looking forward to stopping there since our friends from Melbourne had raved about it.  Max & Siobhan's recommendations had yet to disappoint, so it was high on our list.  Per our luck, it was also pouring. 

We arrived in time for lunch and popped into the most crowded restaurant in town, an Asian noodlery called Lucy's.  One long table had only one occupant so we asked to share.  He obliged and shortly before our bowl of soup came struck up a conversation with the standard "Where are you guys from?"

Marvin told us all about Mallacoota; the shack he's been building in the woods for the last 10 years, canoeing through the narrows, the lakes and beaches and bushwalks that the beautiful town has to offer.  Less than 5 minutes into our acquaintance, he offered us a tour of his property and use of his boat.  We were debating whether to stay the night in town or to use the rainy day to get in a few more hours of driving.  He said that if we decided to stay we should call him and come up for tea.  He tore off a corner of his newspaper, drew us a detailed map to his house, jotted down his cell and headed out.

After lunch we agreed to press on, bought long blacks for the road and unhappily settled back in the car.  Marvin happened to be parked in front of us and was still in town chatting to someone outside the IGA.  He came to our window and offered to show us his place right then and there.  Unsure and slightly suspect but not wanting to offend, we agreed and he hopped into what can only be described as a rape van.  Rusty paint, newspapered-over windows and a bashed in side, he hung his arm out the window as the rain poured in and started to wind through town.

"Are we going to get murdered?" I asked Ed. 

Marvin pulled over abruptly in town and asked us to wait when he spotted someone he'd been meaning to call.  While he was gabbing, another woman pulled up to talk to him.  We decided that since he seemed the defacto mayor of the town and since we'd been seen with him by quite a few Mallacootans (I made that up), we might be safe.

Following the van, we wound along the road that hugs the jagged water line and up into the hills before the rape van pulled over and Marvin's burly arm signaled for us to park on the road.  Another good sign; surely if we didn't return, someone would find our rental car.

We had supposed that Marvin was being modest when he called his place a shack, but actually that was pretty descriptive.  His property is a sloping hill in the woods that boasts a shack with a sleeping loft and two old campers, set at angles down the hill.  Marvin gave us the full tour, moving from the cabin down the slope to the first camper on blocks and finally to the lower camper near the bottom of the property.  Though he'd been nothing but pleasant, my internal monologue was expecting Marvin to fling open the door of the final camper and exclaim "and this is where I keep the trophy heads!" He did no such thing. 

Collecting what others toss, Marvin has created sitting areas, an outdoor shower, and several bird shelters from salvaged material.  He's used a wagon wheel for a potholder, an old sink as a hood vent, disused concrete as a retaining wall.  Some of his ideas were downright ingenious and he seemed happy talk to us about his creations.

On the other hand, the collected crap that hasn't yet been put to use (old water heaters, a pile of bricks, extra bath tubs, TVs, all manner of dilapidated furniture) is lying around on the property, giving it a Sanford & Sonsian vibe.  While we loved his enthusiasm for bird watching, tinkering and industrial repurposing, the place was a bit junkyardesque. 

Having spotted several instruments in the main cabin, I asked Marvin what he did for a living.  He said "mostly music stuff" and mentioned that he'd been in a band at one time.  A bit further on in the conversation he said he'd met his now-girlfriend 20 years ago while touring and recently reconnected. 

As the mosquitos had begun to attack and we'd shown as much interest in the mad inventor as we could muster, Ed and I began to make wrap up noises and move back up the hill.  We thanked Marvin for the tour, exchanged email addresses, and motored.

That night, I got an e-mail from Marvin restating his offer to borrow his canoe if we'd decided to stay in town.  Last name in print, I started google stalking.  It wasn't hard.  Marvin was a member of a hugely popular Aussie bands in the 90s and is highly praised instrumentalist.  Dumbfounded, I watched a video of the bands' one big chart topper to see a 20 years younger Marvin dancing around the streets of Melbourne.

Suspending our usually firmly held suspicion led us to a strange and lovely afternoon and an interaction with a super gracious and generous local.  The next time I recall a beloved band from my youth and wonder "whatever happened to..." I will think of Mallacoota Marvin, tiling a fish mural on the bathroom wall in his shack in the woods.  Inviting up strangers from the noodle shop to be his audience.

(I changed his name to Marvin because he's actually famous enough that googling just his real first name and the Mallacoota yields pages and pages)