Bali 9: The Untold Story by Madonna King, Cindy Wockner
Authors: Madonna King, Cindy Wockner
Ads: Link
only be bad news for both of them, but probably especially the naive young lad from Oxley who would always find it easier to follow than to lead.
Rush, another friend and Czugaj started to hang out together, frequenting Fortitude Valley’s clubs and mixing with Brisbane’s underbelly. They met new people, and trusted them probably too much. No oneever saw Michael take drugs other than marijuana, but he would stay out to all hours of the night, often with Rush and a couple of others in tow.
After one night out, when Michael finished up at about 4.30 a.m., a friend tried to find out where he had been and what he was doing. ‘You couldn’t get much out of him; he just wanted to go [home] to bed, you know,’ his friend says now.
Police were also told about the small group of youths who would walk around at all times of the night and day, swearing and carrying on. At least one complaint was aimed directly at the trio, who witnesses say soon became inseparable. Rush and his friend had earnt themselves a bad name, with claims Rush even tried to attack a colleague, whom he believed owed him money, with a pool cue at an inner-city club late one night.
Michael’s life began to lose all direction. One night, he just disappeared. Friends asked around, worried about where he might have gone and whether he was in any sort of trouble. And, like the Czugajs, they were told that Michael had gone to Cairns.
XII
Recruitment over Karaoke
E very big city has a suburb a bit like Brisbane’s Fortitude Valley. It’s brusque and brash and home to anyone and everyone: the pimps and the prostitutes, the touts and the homeless, as well as the new wealthy who have chosen its homes to gentrify and renovate. Perhaps for that reason, or perhaps because it’s only a bus stop or two from the city centre, the Valley has also become the Friday night host to the young urban set who have spent the week toiling in the nearby offices. The modish clubs and pubs that stretch down Brunswick Mall and hug the surrounding streets are loud and dark, strobe lights playing hide-and-seek with the identities of their young patrons.
Some of the clubs have tough entry standards now,and you have to look the part before the bulky bloke at the front door steps aside and lets you pass. No one with a tie is allowed in this one, a particular look is not welcome in another. Of course, they don’t say that; everyone just knows and fits in accordingly.
Young people have their favourite venue, and might meet at their regular soon after their office doors close for the week before migrating for a bite to eat in the open mall or one of the many Chinese restaurants that fill the area. After dinner, the clubs swell with sinewy bodies and talk of weekend plans as mojitos, cosmopolitans and Manhattans are downed alongside light beers and house chardonnays.
On this Friday night, in the middle of the Brunswick Mall, a lone busker strums his electric guitar, trying to ignore the light rain as well as the solitary drunk who is standing in front of him, dancing by himself. Young women in skin-tight black dresses, and their partners, in office-issue suits and white shirts now rolled up to the elbows, make wisecracks as they pass by on their way to the next club. They’ll soon pass one of their own—a young, well-dressed twentysomething who forgot to pace herself, stumbling out in search of fresh air. Less than 100 metres away, a group of young people probably the same age sits drinking out of clear plastic bottles, proof of the chroming and methylated spirits drinking problems that have been challenging the local politicians.
In the other direction, a similar distance away, a police shop front stands out, its bright lights in contrast to thedarkened pubs and clubs it sits with. Inside, about half a dozen officers—the same age again—stand around deciding their night’s plan. In just a few minutes they will all go off in pairs, in different directions, stopping the youthful
Rush, another friend and Czugaj started to hang out together, frequenting Fortitude Valley’s clubs and mixing with Brisbane’s underbelly. They met new people, and trusted them probably too much. No oneever saw Michael take drugs other than marijuana, but he would stay out to all hours of the night, often with Rush and a couple of others in tow.
After one night out, when Michael finished up at about 4.30 a.m., a friend tried to find out where he had been and what he was doing. ‘You couldn’t get much out of him; he just wanted to go [home] to bed, you know,’ his friend says now.
Police were also told about the small group of youths who would walk around at all times of the night and day, swearing and carrying on. At least one complaint was aimed directly at the trio, who witnesses say soon became inseparable. Rush and his friend had earnt themselves a bad name, with claims Rush even tried to attack a colleague, whom he believed owed him money, with a pool cue at an inner-city club late one night.
Michael’s life began to lose all direction. One night, he just disappeared. Friends asked around, worried about where he might have gone and whether he was in any sort of trouble. And, like the Czugajs, they were told that Michael had gone to Cairns.
XII
Recruitment over Karaoke
E very big city has a suburb a bit like Brisbane’s Fortitude Valley. It’s brusque and brash and home to anyone and everyone: the pimps and the prostitutes, the touts and the homeless, as well as the new wealthy who have chosen its homes to gentrify and renovate. Perhaps for that reason, or perhaps because it’s only a bus stop or two from the city centre, the Valley has also become the Friday night host to the young urban set who have spent the week toiling in the nearby offices. The modish clubs and pubs that stretch down Brunswick Mall and hug the surrounding streets are loud and dark, strobe lights playing hide-and-seek with the identities of their young patrons.
Some of the clubs have tough entry standards now,and you have to look the part before the bulky bloke at the front door steps aside and lets you pass. No one with a tie is allowed in this one, a particular look is not welcome in another. Of course, they don’t say that; everyone just knows and fits in accordingly.
Young people have their favourite venue, and might meet at their regular soon after their office doors close for the week before migrating for a bite to eat in the open mall or one of the many Chinese restaurants that fill the area. After dinner, the clubs swell with sinewy bodies and talk of weekend plans as mojitos, cosmopolitans and Manhattans are downed alongside light beers and house chardonnays.
On this Friday night, in the middle of the Brunswick Mall, a lone busker strums his electric guitar, trying to ignore the light rain as well as the solitary drunk who is standing in front of him, dancing by himself. Young women in skin-tight black dresses, and their partners, in office-issue suits and white shirts now rolled up to the elbows, make wisecracks as they pass by on their way to the next club. They’ll soon pass one of their own—a young, well-dressed twentysomething who forgot to pace herself, stumbling out in search of fresh air. Less than 100 metres away, a group of young people probably the same age sits drinking out of clear plastic bottles, proof of the chroming and methylated spirits drinking problems that have been challenging the local politicians.
In the other direction, a similar distance away, a police shop front stands out, its bright lights in contrast to thedarkened pubs and clubs it sits with. Inside, about half a dozen officers—the same age again—stand around deciding their night’s plan. In just a few minutes they will all go off in pairs, in different directions, stopping the youthful
Similar Books
