Surviving the Cairns Show

You really need to have the right attitude to attend the Cairns Show (essentially a county fair of sorts) as an outsider—cockeyed optimism mixed with a high tolerance for chafing and a naive belief that winter in tropical Queensland means anything even close to comfort. I mean, it was winter, yes—but only technically. The locals were bundled up in puffer vests, sipping from steaming thermoses like they were braving the Arctic. Meanwhile, my shirt clung to me like a wet Kleenex¹ as I quietly fretted about spontaneously combusting too close to the chicken coops. If the Cairns “winter” is this hot, I don’t want to be here in the summer.

Anyhoo…the Cairns Show, for the uninitiated, is, according to the literature, “an amazing Show for Cairns and the surrounding Regions…a true reflection of our cultural spirit, bridging the gap between urban and rural life. You'll find a diverse range of attractions, including intriguing competitions where participants can win prize money, showcases of local talent, educational demonstrations, regional information, and a multitude of exciting stalls and entertainment throughout the grounds.”

In fact, it’s part fair, part agricultural expo, and part hostage situation where you pay to sweat through your shorts while breathing a heady mix of manure, fryer grease, and slushie syrup. The whole city shuts down for it—seriously, literally shuts down, like The Purge but with corndogs²—and anyone not counted as present is immediately flagged in the system as a traitor to the state.

Every region and town across the great Australian continent has one. Sometimes they add “Royal” to sound posh, but don’t be fooled — it’s the same chaotic blend of livestock, drunkenness, and carnie rides colliding under a tropical sun so hot you have to run—fast—from the parking lot so you don’t sink into the melting asphalt³ like some sort of late-Jurassic dinosaur in the La Brea Tar Pits.⁴

The gate fee covered entry, unlimited exposure to mad cow and bird flu (a two-fer!), and the privilege of paying extra for everything else. We arrived with empty stomachs, so we headed off to the food trailers with high hopes—and the foolish confidence of Americans who hadn’t yet discovered what an Australian hot dog really was.

In fact, let’s talk, briefly and bitterly, about Australian hot dogs. Our friend, Michelle, who is originally from Iowa (so she KNOWS her fair food!) but has lived in Australia for nearly a decade, warned us against even tasting an Australian hot dog. Sternly. Did we listen? Oh, no, we’re white men. We don’t listen to shit.

We quickly discovered that they aren’t just bad. They’re confusingly bad. In a way that makes you question whether anyone involved in their development and production has ever actually eaten a hot dog. Or if maybe instead they simply worked from a blurry photograph titled “American offal tube.”

American hot dogs are a triumph of simplicity—snappy casing, juicy center, a perfect balance of salt, smoke, and a just a whiff that something alive once contributed to its construction.

An Australian hot dog—typically a fluorescent pink that reminds you of a cartoon flamingo—is a hate crime against food. It has the texture of a brand-new pencil eraser and tastes like someone somehow distilled despair into paste before squeezing it into a clown’s leftover modelling balloon.⁵ Adding insult to gastric injury, Australian dogs are, by law, served at room temperature, maximum. But if you’re extraordinarily unlucky, you’ll get one that’s as cold in the middle as the ghost of a frozen chicken nugget. Either way, eating one is like gnawing on a pool noodle.

But, having learned Michelle’s lesson earlier in our Year in Australia, we didn’t have a hot dog. Oh no, we’re far too savvy to make that mistake. No, we got a Dagwood Dog—Australia’s version of a corndog. “Hey, they’re covered in corn batter and deep-fried—they’ve got to be hot and delicious,” we nodded sagely to one another.

We were deluding ourselves.

The batter was the best part, and it had the consistency of deep-fried grout. But the dog? It tastes of meat-adjacent sadness with hints of anguish. Choking on the first bite, we struggled to ask for mustard. The pimply teenager behind the counter blinked like an American asked to explain cricket.

“Not to-MAH-to sauce?” she asked. “Tomato sauce” is thinner and sweeter than actual catsup. It doesn’t coat your fries as much as lightly dampen them, afraid to commit. The condiment equivalent of a group project where everyone gave up halfway through.

“No, yellow mustard,” I said.

She looked at me like I’d asked for Hollandaise sauce and warily handed us an unopened squeeze bottle of French’s, certain we simply didn’t speak the language and had no idea what we were asking for.

There were other things—chips on a stick, suspicious kebabs, and churros sold by someone who clearly had never even been to Mexico—but we barely gagged our way through a single Dagwood between us. And I’m pretty sure just walking through the food trailers raised our cholesterol to unhealthy levels.

We headed off to the Guinea Pig Showcase because, for some reason, I really wanted to see fancy, pampered guinea pigs. Seriously. Top of my list. But no joy. Turns out they’d misprinted the program and guinea pigs weren’t going to be showcased until the next day.⁶ This day was cats. That’s okay, I thought. After all, the program promised “elegant Persians and playful Siamese, feline friends that captivate visitors with their grace and charisma.”

That program lied so hard.

The Cat Showcase comprised five cats, two empty cages, and a lot of young boys poking their fingers through the bars hoping to provoke a reaction. The cats were having none of it. One particularly grumpy tabby stared balefully at the crowd, probably plotting his revenge. On the bright side, with a lean five competitors, every single cat earned a ribbon! And it appeared that little Showshoe had recently found a new home!

We moved on to the Cultural Pavilion, keen to immerse ourselves in “a rich tapestry of local produce, exploring the interconnectedness between land, culture, and culinary delight.” What we found was the saddest 4-H garden I’d ever seen, and I spent several years of my youth in Central Oregon. So I know from tragic 4-H displays. Most of the plants were wilting in the tropical heat, and a few had clearly died in transit. One eggplant—no joke—still had the grocery store PLU sticker on it. They didn’t even pretend. I respect the honesty.

We tried our luck at the Goat Pavilion. Goats are cute, right? Well, and super smelly. It was a quick turn through the stalls. I had to leave in a hurry after seeing a man literally shaving his goat’s balls. I did not want to be there if the clippers slipped. The Poultry & Caged Birds Pavilion was next. Competitive poultry farming is apparently a real thing. And there’s nothing like seeing a rooster with a better blowout than the lead singer of a ’90s boy band. Honestly, I had no idea there were So. Many. Kinds. of chickens. And ducks. The chickens were super loud and the ducks were super bitey.

We wandered through the carnival section, which was huge. Really huge. Most of the rides were replicated at least three times through the midway. Way too many for the sparse attendance. But I’m guessing demand for rides and games would grow over the next couple days as the Cultural Pavilion began to wither into dry sticks and they started butchering the poultry, goats, and livestock.

The rides were exactly what you’d expect from a traveling death circus. A collection of barely inspected, rusted contraptions with names like The Death Spin 3000 or Turbo Vominator that look like they were rejected from Mad Max and smelled overwhelmingly of hydraulic fluid, diesel, and cigarette smoke. They were loud, unsafe, and guaranteed to detach at least two fillings. There was something called The Zipper that would spin you so hard your soul would leave your body, if only briefly.⁷ One haunted house ride was mostly terrifying because the carnie running it kept winking at all the teen girls that passed. And I didn’t know whether to be comforted or concerned that a St John Ambulance was parked nearby, idling and ready to leap into action.

The Sand Sculpting Exhibition was supposed to be cool. But there was a lone sculptor, a guy named Dennis, working on a sand cow that looked like it’d been hit by a truck. Not exactly the Butter Cow at the Topsfield Fair, but, you know, points for trying. We skipped the Reptile Education presentation. Queensland has enough things actively trying to kill us without formal introductions. Panning for gold was a no-go because there’s no universe where you can make me believe there’s gold to be found at the Cairns Showgrounds. I was keen on seeing the Classical Cars exhibit, hoping to be “mesmerized by the array of vintage automobiles from the Cairns & District Historical Vehicle Club.” Somewhat anticlimactically, there were only six cars. I’m probably being overly fussy, but I wouldn’t call that “an array.”

But I wasn’t giving up. I forced Rick to watch the Comedy Piglet Racing, which was exactly what it sounded like—baby pigs, some in hats, sprinting around a dirt track for no discernible reason. Nobody bet money and nobody won anything.⁸ The real prize was the joy of seeing a tiny pig wearing a tiny cowboy hat barrel around a corner like it was being chased by the mob. Though I think they seriously diminished the piglets’ effort by calling it “comedy pig racing.”

One crazy thing—showbags. These are unique to Australian shows/fairs. The showgrounds were riddled with countless showbag booths and there was a giant showbag “warehouse” right by the exit.

Originally (like, literally, a hundred years ago), they were plain old sample bags. They were free and they contained a collection of samples for products like soap or canned food. The first "showbag" ever was a bag of coal (coal!) given away for free in 1876 to everyone who attended the inaugural Brisbane Ekka. (Which is short for “Royal Queensland Show”—I don’t know how or why, but it is. Australia.) But they really started to be a thing in 1902.They started charging for them in the ’30s, which I think was a really mean thing to do in the middle of the Great Depression. By the ’70s they’d evolved into the pile of toys and trash they are today.

Kids clamor for them and parents hate them. Mostly because these days they cost real money—anywhere from $5 to $30 each for a mystery bag of stale hard candies, a half-melted Nestlé Bertie Beetle chocolate bar, and a random plastic toy that breaks upon opening. Don’t worry, adults get in on the action, too—most bags include a discount coupon for a local business that closed three years ago.

The bags are aggressively branded to heighten the children’s hysteria. “Mom…mommy…mama…mummy…mom…mom…MOM!! I want one! Get me one! Mom!! Mom! Mommy! I want one!” Sometimes the branding is fairly sensible—candy, Barbie, heroes, or a movie—but it’s just as likely to be insane gibberish⁹ or feature pirated cartoons. Ultimately, though, every showbag promises dizzying heights of joy but delivers nothing but disappointment.

In the end, the best part of the Cairns Show isn’t the food, the rides, or the showbags. It’s the people. Cairns delivers a crowd that is diverse and dubious. Shirtless larrikins¹⁰ strutting around holding their beers in both hands. Young moms covered in melted ice cream, three meltdowns into their day, pushing strollers and occasionally pausing to scream helplessly to the heavens. Clusters of local teens loitering, vaping fruit-scented lies, and pretending not to care.¹¹ And one guy in a battered Crocodile Dundee hat trying hard to convince anyone within earshot that he’s a “real cattleman.” He’s not.

Every show day end with fireworks. They always start late, last for 10 minutes, and drive the local lorikeets into a deafening frenzy. Sometimes they go off without a hitch. Sometimes they accidentally set a nearby palm tree or cane field on fire. Either way, it’s a show.

At the end of the day, we staggered home, past the idling ambulance crew who were still waiting for the inevitable. We were sunburned and tuckered out, but happy. That’s the thing about these shows. They’re chaotic, overpriced, almost feral—and somehow completely irresistible. There’s nowhere else on earth where you can watch a piglet in a hat, choke down a suspicious Dagwood Dog, and get side-eyed by a prize-winning rooster. All before noon.