Nights 114 - 129: The Stuart Highway.

We turned right at Three Ways and headed towards the coast.  We were at least a thousand kilometres away and had no real intention of sighting or smelling the ocean for weeks yet but just heading towards it was good enough.  My funk subsided.  We’d go and see the big rock some other time, by plane, surrounded by a resort.  It’s hardly the stuff of high adventure but I really couldn’t care less.  I’ll see Uluru and Kings Canyon etc one day, but not on this trip.  And I couldn’t be happier.

NIGHT 114  -  NEWCASTLE WATERS REST STOP.

Don’t get excited for me reading the name of the place we are staying.  If you’re thinking ‘that’s good, they’ve found more water in the drylands’ then, thank you for your concern, but the name is misleading.  Although there was water in the general area at one point – a big expanse of water.

 Newcastle Waters was a very important place during droving times.  Three stock routes converged here because it provided a place to access water thereby keeping human and cattle alive a little longer.  As such, over time the place acquired a pub, a general store, a church, a schoolhouse. Newcastle Waters grew and then, with the advent of trucks and sealed roads, droving died away and Newcastle Waters died with it.

Some buildings still stand today, but as relics only.  The rest stop is alongside the highway, about three kms away from where the town once thrived.  A quick detour brings you to the ghost town.  You can enter the old buildings, some of which were restored as part of the Bicentennial celebrations of 1988.  It’s equal parts fascinating and shocking.  People of the time lived a genuinely harsh life.  The structures still standing highlight what was lacking rather than what people had.

We wondered why the rest stop wasn’t created in the old town.  It would be a fantastic place to spend the night.  We came up with two reasons, both sad and indicative of the way things are today.  The first reason involves that group of travellers that lack respect or civic pride.  I don’t know who they are but we constantly see evidence that they exist.  They deface things, or ‘tag’ them, or strew litter about.  Or, worse, they are so self-absorbed as to use anything they desire as a personal toilet.  Thanks to these faceless travellers, places like Newcastle Waters are best not opened up completely.  Chances are that after six months they’d bear little resemblance to their current existence. 

The second reason is that Newcastle Waters the old town is now owned by Newcastle Waters Station.  Some of the buildings are being used to house staff and the ‘water’ that continued life and inspired the name is fenced off so that we have no idea what it looks like, how big it is, etc.  We couldn’t get near it.  It’s good that the owners have allowed general access to the old town and they are maintaining it well but it’s a pity that the water is off limits.  It would be nice to marry a personal experience to the history.

I give Newcastle Waters Rest Area 2 stars out of 5.  It was quite small as NT rest areas go and the name ‘Newcastle Waters’ made me feel homesick for an offshore day at Newie Beach or the Cowrie Hole.

NIGHT 115  -  DALY WATERS PUB.

“You must go to Daly Waters Pub” said a bloke we met.  Then some other bloke said it on a different day, his wife nodding agreement in the background.  Then it was said again by someone else, and again, and again, and…

It was obvious that going to Daly Waters pub is considered a necessity.  You don’t go to Paris without visiting the Eiffel Tower, and you don’t go to London without a trip to The Palace, and, so it seems, you don’t travel the Stuart Highway without stopping in at The Daly Waters pub.  “It’s a bloody good night out”, we were constantly told, “even better if you get the Beef and Barra”.  We’d rang through and booked a site for the night. 

In my opinion the Daly Waters pub isn’t the ramshackle old building covered outside by deliberately mis-spelt (hence more genuwine) signs and covered on the inside by flags and banners and discarded underwear.  No.  The Daly Waters Pub is a show, with the building carefully stage-crafted to provide the appropriate backdrop to what is ostensibly an outback theatre restaurant.

 Everyone working there has a script to follow.  The German girl who served us at the bar delivered a well-rehearsed monologue that simultaneously booked us into the park and took our order for the evening meal – we went for the 7 o’clock seating (there were four seatings), I ordered my beef and barra medium, Shana just went for the barra.  It was 11 o’clock in the morning.  Job done, we were sent to see ‘Mike on the Bike’.  Mike met us (though not on his bike) at the gate to the camping area.  Parking was finely orchestrated, Mike telling you where to park and directing you so that every metre of space was maximised.  Once parked, Mike delivered his monologue – he told us about the amenities, about the evening’s entertainment, about expectations regarding tipping, about the local businesses around the pub - the artist selling paintings from his front yard, the museum selling curios, the signwriter who can personalise your ‘chariot’.  He delivered the same monologue two minutes later.  I listened as he told the same jokes to the next new arrivals.  He was good at it.  As the area became more congested Mike took to his bike, new arrivals following him around and into spaces that didn’t seem big enough yet always managed to be okay.

The entertainment started at 4:30.  The performer (who was also the artist from across the road) sang mostly narrative songs about the NT and country living, many of which he’d written himself.  He told stories and jokes and recited bush poetry.  I found a lot of his jokes and stories funny but, if I’m going to be honest, much of it existed on the cusp of many isms – racism, sexism, patriotism, jingoism.  He was aware of ‘too far’ and so hovered around innuendo and blokey bonhomie. The outside ‘theatre’ area was packed with very few vacant seats.  It was ‘happy hour’ on beer and wine and most people drank heartily and laughed uproariously.

The second performer (who was also the signwriter) had a backing track and an electric guitar.  He noodled around the rock and roll staples of the 50’s and 60’s.  We left during his performance.  We had to feed Moz and walk him and, well, we weren’t that interested in what the guy was doing.  We had to be back by 7pm though.  We had to listen for our names and, when called, go and collect our beef and barra, steaming hot and cooked to our preference. We then had to negotiate the salad bar.

It turned out that the beef was unexceptional and the barra beautiful but it was the bread that was the star of the meal.  Cooked ‘in house’ it was crispy and light and very moreish.  We were seated with an older couple we’d first met at Barkley Homestead (I’d borrowed their ladder).  We’d bumped into each other at Newcastle Waters and again here.  While we ate the final performer started.

The last performance was much like the first, except perhaps he was a bit more polished.  His name was Chili and his wife accompanied him using powerpoint on a computer.  While he sang or told yarns or borderline ism jokes his wife projected the desired images onto a big screen that he’d erected beside himself.  Although more accomplished than the first act, I found him less amusing.  Or perhaps I felt like I’d already seen his act before.  He even sang a couple of the exact same songs as act 1.  The night ended with him proclaiming his allegiance to the flag and to his country and, whilst most of the crowd agreed with him heartily, I felt it ended the night on the wrong note.  I was happy to appreciate his talent but not have to agree with him on everything. This ending, however, introduced a distinct division – if you agreed with him then you were ‘right’ and valuable; disagree and, although he didn’t say the words, you may as well fuck off.  His tone really was that polemic.

We followed tipping protocol by putting money into his guitar case, declined purchasing one of his CDs, and went back to the van.  It was Territory Day and a big fireworks display was soon to be ignited in front of the pub.  Dogs hate fireworks so we were keen to get back to Moz and hopefully alleviate some of his fear.

Except we couldn’t enter the van.

 Semi-pissed as I had been during the afternoon I’d somehow locked us out.  We had the key, but the key wouldn’t turn in the lock.  Somehow the internal deadbolt had been activated which, as far as we knew, was impossible to do.

Mild panic became fevered as the fireworks began exploding while we were still locked out.  People we’d met were offering assistance and a guy came up with a plan that thankfully worked.  I won’t go into it but Moz was in a heightened state of anxiety by the time we got to him (as was Shana, as was I).  The fireworks had finished and poor Mozza had no idea of what was happening or where his people were.  He was a shaky red puppy that night. H

 

We give the Daly Waters pub 3 stars out of 5.  The crammed us very close together and we were next to a bus load of teenage girls on tour but they provided almost as much entertainment as the sanctioned acts.  It was theatre restaurant but worth it just to say you’d been there.

NIGHT  116  -  WARLOCH REST AREA.

It was hot and dusty and had the most disgusting long drop toilet of the trip so far.  I will talk about the fuel guy instead.

The Fuel Guy walked over to us while we were playing scrabble.  We were sitting in the shade outside the van and he asked us which way we were heading.  He stood over us, an old man wearing denim Levi’s that were too loose, causing him to hitch them up high on his belly every 15 seconds or so.  I watched as they worked their way back down and he hitched them up again, over and over.

The fuel guy wanted to tell us where we could buy cheap fuel in Tennant Creek.  On the surface this is fair enough, the price of fuel and the fuel consumption of your vehicle is a common discussion topic in roadside rest stops.  However, we’d already told him we were headed north, and therefore not going to Tennant Creek.  Obviously his information was useless to us but this failed to deter him.  “In the middle of town there’s an old servo with just a couple of pumps” he told us in a monotone drawl, “So don’t go to the big stations at the edge of town”.  We nodded, the whole thing eerily reminding us of Mr Whingebago.  “ Remember, go to the little one in the middle” he continued.  We tried to head him off.  “Yeah but we’re not..”  He barged straight through.  “It’s 10 cents a litre cheaper there” he said proudly, hitching his pants up again.  He looked me directly in the eye and repeated emphatically “10 cents a litre cheaper”.  Then he said “I’ll leave you to your game” and turned and wandered off.  He didn’t want small talk.  He said what he thought we needed to hear and, job done, left, leaving us to wonder whether he was hard of hearing or even mostly deaf.

 

I give the Warloch Rest Area 1 star out of 5. Yuk toilets overshadowed everything.

NIGHTS  117 – 119  - MATARANKA CAMPING AND CABINS, BITER SPRINGS.

Since Barkly bloody Homestead we’ve travelled greater distances each day than we’d initially proposed.  We are both happy to be heading away from red dust and towards sapphire water but feel we are doing too much driving in a day.  We made a pact to slow down again and Bitter Springs near Mataranka was the place we chose to enact it.  We knew there was water here and that it was an easy walk from the camping ground.  Really, right now, that’s all we seek.

Bitter Springs is a thermal pool.  Although it has been rendered comfortable for tourists with walking paths and viewing platforms the pool itself remains natural.  It looks like a creek that widens out into the pool and then becomes skinnier again as it progresses.  The water is warm and the current fairly strong and you can float along for maybe 500mtrs before exiting and walking back along the track to do it again.

Or better, hire a floating noodle for $1.  With this noodle positioned beneath you you float under canopies of paper bark and palm trees, past reed fringed banks.  There are water lilies beside you and water mosses with big blue dragonflies humming above them.  The water is crystal clear and you can see the sandy bottom and the logs and roots that lie there.  St Johns cross spiders suspend themselves in webs above you as you float, just high enough to not have their webs destroyed yet low enough to be disconcerting, especially when clumped in groups of 9 or 10.  When you are alone or with few others it is a serene experience, the combination of the heated water and the natural watercourse quietly awe inspiring.  Of course, the impact is lessened when floating along beside overstimulated teenagers yelling to each other or young kids screaming about the spiders.  That’s alright.  Just go back up and float down again.  It is especially magical just on dusk.

On our first visit I was walking along while Shana waited with Moz. (I’d won scissors, paper, rock again).  I was happily saying hullo to every face I passed and, bugger me down, there was Jacki and Greg Russell heading back from the pools, friends of ours from Newcastle.  We knew they were in NT but, as we weren’t supposed to be at Mataranka yet, and as they’d come further from Darwin than they’d expected, we didn’t think we’d be able to meet.  Well we did, and spent some time in the car park catching up and boozing.  It was a lovely surprise, especially for Shana who doesn’t always find me as amusing as I do myself.

We also went to Mataranka Hot Springs, a different hot spring about 10kms away.  You have to go through town to get there.  Shana doubled me on the Vespa and I loved every moment of it.  Being on the back watching hawks fly overhead and termite mounds speed past, the wind and sun on my arms and legs, was brilliant.  As we cruised along the small section of highway through town people smiled and waved, probably surprised to see such a small purple scooter transporting two older white folk so far from any major centre.  We laughed and waved back, feeling electric and full of life.

Mataranka Hot Springs were less impressive than Bitter Springs.  Mataranka homestead used to house army personnel during World War 2 and the springs had been walled like a swimming pool and made only available to officers.  It still has that feel now.  Although still clear watered and hot and fringed by palms, it has an interrupted natural flow and so feels fake.  It feels like a re-creation, landscaped and crafted as part of a resort.  We were glad we’d chosen to stay at Bitter Springs.

We give Mataranka Camping and Cabins 4 ½ stars out of 5.  They lost half a point because their toilets had no system to signify ‘occupied’.  Therefore you had to gently knock before entering, often pulling hard on the door handle before somebody emitted a surprised “Oi!” so that you’d quickly offer an embarrassed “Oops.  Sorry.”

NIGHT  120  -  KING RIVER REST AREA.

Another mention of water where none existed, or not during dry season anyway.  Another free camp beside the highway, costing no money but offering nothing but its dry and dusty self.  This one was big. It looked like a peanut, flattened slightly on the side fringed by the highway.  You entered in the middle and could go left or right with both opening out into large circular areas built around a shade structure.  The toilets lie in between, straight along from the entry.

 

It was excellent as far as rest areas go.  We went left and backed in between two trees and the effect was little different to being in a caravan park, except we had neither showers or toilets and generators were free to rattle and hum without restriction.

I give the King River Rest Area 2 stars out of 5.  Some people looked like they’d been there for a while.  Again, it is free.

NIGHTS  121 & 122  -  RIVERVIEW CARAVAN PARK, KATHERINE.

It is getting very hot.  We are having trouble sleeping.  There is often a wind during the day; often quite gusty and unpleasant.  I don’t know where it goes at night though.  At night everything becomes as still as death.  Skin touching skin sizzles, and not in a good sexy way.

At Katherine we experienced more fully the effects of Top End tourism.  The carpark contained mostly caravans and motorhomes, lined up in rows like boats at a marina.  Little space between, little room to open doors or organise bags.  Away from the carpark we had to bustle and jostle and join cues.  The cues moved slowly.  Tempers became frazzled.  Little kids cried and older, less able grey nomads slowed down overall progression.  A man and a woman argued over their place in the line. In the background people could be heard bickering over choices, turns, options.  People were looking at people with disbelief, wondering why they couldn’t have come earlier or later; how was it that we all choose to be here at the same time?   The locals, no doubt working for award wages, went on with their jobs, trying to communicate with people who spoke little English, talking slow and loud and gesticulating with their hands, smiling only because they’ve been told they have to.  And this was just a trip to Woolworths.  What would the actual tourist attractions be like?

Katherine Hot Springs was equally as crowded.  They were just behind the Riverview Caravan Park and we could walk there easily.  They are small springs, a tiny warm creek flowing gently through trees.  When we got there it reminded me of pictures of old time Roman baths.  There were lots of puffy bodies bobbling in the water, talking loudly.  Thankfully we’d had great hot springs experiences at Mataranka so we turned and walked back to van park.  They had a beautiful pool - cool, clean and spacious. 

 

We booked a trip to Katherine Gorge which was expensive but worth it.  The Gorge is actually 13 gorges linked together.  The cruise we did took in the first three gorges and also stopped at a swimming hole.  The scenery was spectacular, the swim fun.  Our tour guide was informative and funny.  He was obviously saying the things he’d been trained to say but he had a cheeky personality and a quick wit.  Thank you Tyrus for helping us learn and laugh.  Thank you Katherine Gorge for helping us feel a part of something outside of ourselves.   (And thank you Morrissey for going to a day board where they obviously ignored you so that you were frantic for affection when we returned).

We give the Riverview Caravan Park 2 ½ stars out of 5.  There were more flies there than blades of grass but the pool was fantastic.  Pity it closed at 10pm or else we might have slept in it somehow.

  NIGHT  123  -  BESIDE THE EDITH RIVER (SORT OF)

Leeanne, a friend of ours, had told us that she’d seen people camping alongside the Edith River “just to the left after you go over the bridge”.  She couldn’t tell us much other than she’d seen the people there.  We researched it and came up blank.  It wasn’t in the Camps Book and it wasn’t on Wikicamp or any other website.  We pencilled it in as a possibility as its distance from Katherine suited us.

Slowing down as we traversed the bridge a dirt track loomed to the left.  We turned onto it and to our surprise the dirt gave way to a tar road.  We happily drove along the tar.  Coming over a small rise we could see an old concrete bridge crossing the river but the road leading to it had deteriorated badly, no doubt having been swept away through continual wet seasons.  I edged my way forward warily.  The ‘bago is neither sure-footed nor nimble when things become soft.  As we neared the bridge we could see three tents set up alongside the river to our right, although there were no vehicles around.  The track had worsened but seeing the tents made me bolder.  If something went wrong then there had to be somebody come back to the tents eventually. 

It was obvious we couldn’t set up alongside the river.  There was nowhere we could do so without going way off the ‘road’.  Shana had seen a space off in the bush just as we came over the rise.  It was big enough.  We could camp there.  I could reverse all the way back up there or, seeing there was a wide flat expanse of river stones beside the road, I could use that as a turning bay, which I did.

All went well for the first 6 or so metres, until the back wheels started losing traction and we stopped going anywhere.  By this stage we were totally off the road; away from anything hard-packed.  The spinning tires started gouging into the river rocks, throwing them behind us as we started slowly sinking.  I threw it into reverse and straightened the front wheels.  Luckily this took us out of the forming rut.  Throwing it back into first and swearing set us going forward again, through the rut and slowly, slowly, come on you bastard, back onto the road.  We looked at each other and re-commenced breathing.  It was very close.  Now, if we had become bogged then things would have been okay I’m sure.  Two four wheel drives came back to the tents that evening, driving past where we were now safely parked in the side-space.  I’m sure they’d have pulled us out.  Bloody glad I didn’t have to ask them to though. 

 

We both didn’t have the best night’s sleep.  It was stiflingly hot again but I doubt that was the only reason.

I give the spot over the little hill beside the Edith River 1 star out of 5.  It looked nice alongside the river but our ‘clearing’ was blackened having recently been burnt and for some reason had car parts strewn about it. Weird parts like a petrol tank and a side mirror and an oil filter.  It caused my imagination to wander to dark places and I never felt comfortable while there.

NIGHT  124  -  PUSSY CAT FLAT, PINE CREEK.

I never learnt why the place is called ‘Pussy Cat Flat’.  It’s a racetrack and crazy 9 hole golf course full of termite mounds.  It rents out spaces like some showgrounds do.  The spaces are unremarkable and the showers resemble something out of M.A.S.H. but, in an example of lateral thinking, it has a bar and a bistro open from 4:30  -  8:30pm.  What a fantastic idea.

 

 

So, unlike most community driven country artefacts, the Pine Creek racecourse is thriving thanks to Pussy Cat Flats.  I’d hazard a guess and sat that 90% of the people camped there bought at least one drink at the bar, and many bought much more.  I’ll go further and say that 50% of the people bought a meal.   We did, and we hadn’t intended to.  But, after another scorcher day and a cider or two the whole idea of cooking makes no sense.  Why, when a hamburger and chips or barra and salad can be acquired nearby with no effort required besides opening a wallet or purse?  It’s win-win. Three locals are employed, the rarely used space becomes used and money pours into the area.  Plus I get hot chips.  More of it please.

And it opens people up for communication, as alcohol can often do.  You sit, you sip, you chat.  I met a guy and we talked about surfing.  He was obviously a surfer (he had a paddle board tied on the roof), mid thirties, fit looking.  Not long into the conversation he ‘confessed’ something.  He actually rides a bodyboard. WHAA!!  He was one of the first wave of bodyboarders (according to him anyway) and helped bridge to gap from a kids toy to a serious surfing possibility.  I fell in love, in a strictly platonic way of course.  All of a sudden I was leaning forward in my chair, talking excitedly and waving my arms about. I was wondering whether maybe we should travel together like a besties, he and his wife and three kids following behind us.  Or I’d follow him if he asked.  But he was headed east back to Brisbane and we were soon headed west to Broome and so I didn’t broach it.  He left early the next morning, leaving four little wheelmarks on the grass where his van was parked.

I give Pussy Cat Flats 4 ½ stars out of 5.  I’ll remember it like many people do Paris.  

NIGHT 125  -  BRIDGE CREEK REST AREA

Bridge Creek is another excellent rest area.  It is large with flat, grassed areas and the cleanest long-drop toilets I’ve ever been to.  Plus they are massive inside.  There’s also little purple garbage bins with large flower decals stuck on the front.  Shana was particularly taken with these.

 

NT is impressing me greatly with its commitment to the RV traveller.  I think someone realises that people need spaces to stay that are safe and free.  We all have money to spend and don’t begrudge spending it, it’s just that we’d like to choose where and how to spend it.  With our high priced modern equipment we don’t need power every night; we don’t need a shower every night; we don’t even need a toilet everywhere we go (and most of us definitely don’t need a jumping castle and sprawling water playground).  However, every single night, we do need a safe place to park, preferably on a small section of flatish land.  Supply that and you will be rewarded with thousands of tourists visiting each year.

 Well done NT.  Thank you.  I don’t think it’s only the warmer climate that brings people back year after year.

I give the Bridge Creek Rest Area 3 ½ stars out of 5.  It was another case of a bridge crossing no water but, besides that, it was a good rest area.

NIGHTS 126 – 129  - MT BUNDY STATION, ADELAIDE RIVER.

We’re at the Mt Bundy Station for two reasons.  First, and for the first time in ages, we have a deadline and a schedule, a place we have to be at a given time.  Sammie and Chris, her boyfriend, are flying up from Melbourne to Darwin to spend 3 days with us.  It will be her birthday while she’s here.  We intend going to Leitchfield Park together, four in the ‘bago.  I’m looking forward to it.

So we have to be in Darwin on the 18^th.  That’s over a week away.  Now Darwin knows how to sell itself, and does so at a hefty price.  Darwin caravan parks average over $40 per night.  We don’t mind paying that while Sam and Chris are here, but until then we need to hole up somewhere cheaper until we pick them up at the airport.

Enter the Mt Bundy Station special deal – 4 nights for the price of 3.  That’s 4 nights for ninety bucks.  It sounded cheap enough but what exactly was Mt Bundy Station?

Mt Bundy Station is a working cattle station.  You could get work here if you wanted, doing cow things and horsey things. It’s a massive place, on the Adelaide River, with large shade trees and grass around the homestead and wide flatlands above the river.  Someone had a bright idea so they built some extra toilets, put in more power points, installed a nice deep pool and rented space to travellers like us.  You can park on the flats, park near the house, near the shed, near the horse paddocks, anywhere really.  We got a spot in amongst a grove of large shade trees that looked perfect, reversing into it with seven other vans, the eight of us resembling the spokes of a wagon wheel beneath the trees.  Great, four days out of the long hot sun.  We might even be able to sleep.

 

On night 1 we were invited to drinks at one of the other vans.  We went and quickly realised we were outsiders.  That’s not to say that we weren’t welcomed or that the people we were meeting weren’t friendly, because that’s definitely not true.  It was warm and congenial.  It’s just that everybody there except us and another couple were Victorian nomads who had been coming here for years and worked around the Station in lieu of paying site fees.  They knew each other well and played a roll in the maintenance of the surrounding area, raking the leaves or moving the sprinklers or emptying the garbage bins or watering down the dusty ‘roads’.  They worked during the day and the drinks celebrated the end of work.  We, of course, had done bugger all.

Being grouped with these semi-residents has had an affect on me and my enjoyment of the place.  I didn’t enjoy it greatly.  There was nothing wrong anywhere and the people were all friendly but I couldn’t relax.  To me the place felt similar to a bed and breakfast.  I’ve never liked staying at a bed and breakfast.

To me a bed and breakfast is somebodies home in a way that a motel room isn’t.  It comes with different rules.  A bed and breakfast feels to me like you’re staying in the house of a friend’s friend or a second cousin of your mother or somebody else that someone other than you knows reasonably well and has recommended.  So, even though you pay your money, it feels like you’re still judged on manners, politeness and cleanliness.  Plus you know it’s unavoidable that you’ll be the subject of an evaluative discussion upon leaving.

That’s how Mt Bundy Station feels to me.  Like I’m a guest in somebody else’s house and, even though it’s extremely warm and welcoming, I’m way too visible and feel like I have too much of a role to play. Most people I talk to during the course of the day aren’t vacationing as I am.  Rather, they are cleaning up around me and after me.  What I do directly affects what they have to do. I feel watched and I can’t help it.  It doesn’t affect Shana the same way so it’s totally my stuff.

Morrissey loves it though.  Here big horses and pygmy horses and wallabies and peacocks and more besides just roam free about the place.  Moz rarely chases them anymore, but he still gets confused when an animal other than another dog appears.  It as if he can’t believe what he is seeing and so he cranes his neck to get a better view whilst simultaneously seeking a way to become invisible.  He can’t go swimming anywhere either.  He’s banned from the pool and there’s crocodiles in the river and there’s also been one seen in the dam.  He’s safe standing under the sprinkler but he can’t work out where the water is coming from.  He’s not the smartest dog in the litter.

I give Mt Bundy Station 3 stars out of 5.  It’s nice but, aside from the cool wet pool, I’d prefer the anonymity of a roadside rest stop.  Well, a quality NT roadside rest stop anyway.