Wonga Beach

"This is Paradise," say the caravaners. You can drink and chat, drink and chat endlessly. Join the people in the big tent for cards, movies, craft, cheap fish and chips, sausage sizzles and happy hours that become more risqué as the night goes on. They check you out beforehand to make sure you are the right type to laugh at a skit that involves an old duck dropping the dacks and gyrating to illustrate the story. Tropical vegetation extends from the misty mountains to the sea that glistens in the morning light. It’s warm day and night on the palm fringed beach too muddy and shallow to swim and the park is a little crowded.

Not so Mossman. On the town show grounds there is plenty of space for a big bus to park. Training for rugby is very serious- nice to watch the abs, quads etc being expanded and stretched. The seven year olds play at 9 at night and then the big bruisers all oiled up, take the field against Mareeba. I watched the match but still none the wiser as to what they are trying to do. Give me aerial ping pong any day. There is an absence of girls sport, no girls on the field or netball over the back courts. The girls sport start much later when the dancing, romancing and celebrating takes place in the clubhouse. The music is karaoke 70’s and at 1am [thankfully not all night for those oldies requiring sleep] it is suddenly all over, no drunken revellers, no roaring motors and all cleaned and hosed down by seven the next morning.