Blimey, we only wanted a bloody car.

I arrived in Exmouth last Friday with a sinking feeling. The town obviously hasn’t heard of the word ‘compact’ and the distances between buildings were vast. As much as I hated to admit it, those who had warned me that “going to Exmouth without a car is a waste of time” were turning out to be right. Which meant I was wrong. And that, my little pork pie, never bloody happens.

I was joined by my new German travel buddy a couple of hours later. Together we put up our ‘Give us a lift, please?’ notices, then decided that the best plan of action in the meantime was to hire a car. Carefully avoiding an open mouthed emu which was roaming along the pavement, we hopped over the road to ‘Evans Car Rental’. Evan didn’t seem to be about, and the ‘Office’ sign appeared to be hanging over a porch with a desk in it. After a minute, an old man - clad in a grubby vest top and somewhat lacking in front teeth - materialised from a nearby doorway.

“Ah yea. I can hire yous a caaaaaaaaaaa” he said, before telling us the rates. We told him we’d come back later once we’d decided for definite. What time did he shut?
“Ahh…” he said thoughtfully. “Well…I’ll be here til abaaat ten. I’m ganna have some beers, so I’ll close when the beers are finished”. Brilliant.

We went back at about 5pm with another stranded backpacker in tow, ready to make some arrangements for the next day. From what I remember, there was a vague discussion about car hire. But this was followed by many beers ("Why drink for $8 a beer over there when I've got a fridge full here?"), a brief stint of lizard chasing under an adjacent unit, being served chicken and chips for dinner (“I got some chicken, and yous look like yous need a feed”), more beers, a job offer (“I got some units that need cleaning…I’ll pay ya”), talk of a fishing expedition (“I’ll take ya daaan the creek and show ya sam turtles. They got all shit on their back”), and a road run for even more beers. Inevitably, after 5 alcoholic hours in the old man’s company, things began getting a little...weird.

Let’s be honest. Three girls drinking Emu Bitter with a toothless 70 year old was only ever going to have one result.

“You know what I love about Turquoise Bay?” he slurred, as the end credits from Santa Claus The Movie scrolled on his outdoor TV and the clock ticked onto 11pm. We shrugged, waiting for more of his Aussie wisdom on the renown snorkeling spot that we were due to visit the next day.

He fixed us with a drunken stare.

“It makes me really facking horny.”

And with that, the party across the road at our hostel, with its $8 beers and vom-enducing-Lady Gaga-esque tunes, suddenly seemed extremely appealing. Up we hopped and off we went in record time, shuddering in the 30 degree evening heat. Turns out there's no such thing as a free meal.