Through the Kimberleys; nights 170 - 182.

NIGHTS  154 & 155  -  ANDREW’S PLACE, LEANYER, DARWIN

Shana and I went to Uni with Andrew in the 90s.  Shana and Andrew were making films as communications undergrads; I was studying various movements within literature and learning how to structure a paragraph without embedding a swearword within it. (Everybody peppered their speech with ‘fuck’ in the ‘dirty realism’ of my upbringing).  We never kept in touch with Andrew after we graduated.

Many years later Shana and I had retrained as primary school teachers and moved to Newcastle.  One spring morning we laid out our towels on Newcastle Beach and Andrew and his wife Louise where lying next to us, a body length away.  Andrew said “hullo” in his deep, booming voice and, in answering our shocked “What are you doing here?”, told us that he’d also retrained as a primary school teacher and moved to Newcastle.  The similarities were too strong.  This time the connection must be maintained. 

Facebook had helped maintain knowledge of Andrew’s movements through the years.  We knew he was living in Darwin and we knew he’d like to see us.  We hoped, however, that he lived on a street wide enough to house a motorhome for a night or two.

Turned out that he did.

Undoubtedly time had grabbed each of us and given us a good shaking.   We all had our own ‘war’ stories to share.  Then Andrew gave us insights into Darwin over coffee or wine and we in turn entertained them with stories ‘of the road’.  Some people hate the word ‘nice’ but not me.  In the peaks and troughs of existence ‘nice’ smiles comfortably from the middle.  It’s a viable place to spend time, recharging and asking for little.  We had a nice time with Andrew and Louise over a couple of days.  We hoped to see them again before we left ‘the territory’.

NIGHTS  156  -  169 -  LEANNE’S PLACE, BATCHELOR.

Old friends and new friends.  We’d known Andrew for years.  With him Darwin was about reconnection.  We’d met Leanne once before in Brisbane and after our second meeting she’d volunteered to look after Morrissey for nearly 3 weeks.  It was our turn to repay the favour.  We  volunteered to housesit and look after Shelley (her red kelpie) while she went away for ten days.  It’s in Leeanne’s nature to be friendly.  She left us with the run of the house and the keys to her ute.

It takes a while to get used to the unfamiliar, and we had no initial familiarity with Batchelor at all.

For example, in Batchelor there is a distinct “thwack” that is made when a palm frond hits the ground after falling 10 mtrs from the top of a tree.  We’d never heard this sound before.  But both the front and the back yards at Leeanne’s contain many tall palm trees.  It ended up that we heard this ‘thwack’ a lot, each time thankful that when the frond landed there was neither human nor dog beneath it.  Everyone collects their fallen palm fronds in stacks along the footpath.  There’s a stack in front of most houses.  There’d be very few residents of Batchelor unaquainted with the palm frond ‘thwack’, (and very few dogs not continuously, and nervously, looking up).

 Similarly, there is a particular growl that a dog makes when he/she feels something has invaded his/her territory.  This growl rarely occurs during the day in Batchelor when it’s too hot for most creatures to do anything besides lie in the shade and continue breathing.  This growl occurs in the wee hours of the night.  It rouses you from your sleep so that city paranoia starts picturing rogue snakes or stealth cane toads lurking in the yard and looking to poison unsuspecting dogs.  You yell to the dogs from your bed, “settle down…quiet”, knowing that it’s futile.   You must go outside to soothe them and check that they’re not curled up in a poisoned heap.  You’re now awake.  Eventually you drift back to sleep, but not deeply.  In another hour the growl erupts again.  You try to ignore it this time but know you can’t.  (Thank you to Shana for this anecdote.  She heard the growl.  She rose to walk the night.  I slept through most of it most of the time.  I did wake up once and was a bit tired the next day).

After a few nights we decided to let the dogs sleep in the house.  We didn’t really know what else to do.  That way they (and Shana) got a better night’s sleep.

Also, something happens in Batchelor after 10pm.  I’m not sure of the reason why but, after 10pm, televisions and music become louder.  Before 10pm all is fairly quiet.  You could sit out on the front step and hear very little.  Then, as if by town consensus, once 10pm rolls around, virtually every house starts vibrating like a large speaker, a jumble of voices and musical notes knotting the air like stormclouds.  It’s a bizarre thing.

We stayed in Batchelor for a couple of days after Leeanne returned, her and Shana quickly becoming newby besties.  We left vowing to see each other again soon.

Morrissey was keen to get back in the ‘bago but he was a pathetic sight.  It was with the most melancholy of doggy expressions that he left his girlfriend. Who’s ear would he nibble on now after breakfast?  With whom would he now share his food?  He entered the ‘bago and slumped down into his travel kennel.  Sad eyed and brave, he didn’t look back.

NIGHT  170  -  LIMESTONE REST STOP, VICTORIA HIGHWAY

To get from Batchelor across to the Western Australian coast required retracing our path back as far as Katherine.  It is from Katherine that you turn onto the Victoria Highway and head westward.

So, we drove past Speedy’s where we picnicked among the stromodolites, past the Adelaide River pub where we went to a market and saw the stuffed bull from Crocodile Dundee, past the turn-off to Robin Falls and the long dusty drive to the Daly River, past the turn off to Mt Bundy Station with its cluster of semi-working grey nomads, past the turnoff to Pine Creek with its pub made from termite mounds, past the turn-off to both Pussycat Flats with its reheated frozen meals and the Kakadu Highway, past the turn-off to Edith Falls with its deep and large coolwater rock pool and little fish that bite at your toes, past the turnoff to the Katherine vet that ignored Morrissey for a day, and, after a two hour journey, into the Woolworths carpark at Katherine, one of the most frantic Woolworths on the planet.

Here we shopped carefully.  There is a quarantine station between W.A. and the N.T. that confiscates fresh foods.  We figured we’d take three days to get there so we needed enough fresh food to last three days only.  We didn’t want to throw stuff out.  Then, after the quarantine station, we intended going to Lake Argyle, which is just across the border and before any opportunity to shop again.  We needed food to eat whilst there, but food that wasn’t fresh.  There we were, evaluating and comparing microwave versus boil-in-the-bag in the frozen meals aisle.  Ah, the joys of travel.

 

Shopping completed we drove the 70ks west from Katherine to the Limestone Rest Stop, back to the realities of life on the road again. At Limestone we found a flattish place to park and became re-aquainted with the stench and squalor of a rest stop pit toilet.  My nifty new little compass showed us where best to park so, with shade assured, we took out our chairs and opened a fresh packet of Mint Slice biscuits.

I give the Limestone Rest Area 1 ½ stars out of 5. I’m back to being a harsh marker.  You wont impress me by offering a pit toilet and a tree or two.

NIGHT  171  -  BIG HORSE CREEK REST STOP, VICTORIA HIGHWAY.

Part of me wasn’t looking forward to the long drives with nothing much in between that lay before us again.  No doubt my mind kept trawling through memories of the Barkley Highway; to the long straight stretches of road with nothing much on either side, the scenic equivalent of a Uriah Heep CD.  But the Victoria Highway is nothing like the Barkley.

In the roughly 250km we drove today, the scenery changed markedly three times, and each change brought with it ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of appreciation.  It started off scrubby, the palms and ferns of Batchelor giving way to the greys and yellow greens of your iconic Australian bush.  It was familiar looking and, as such, comforting.  It could have been anywhere – western NT or western Sydney.  It was not exactly the same of course, but it strongly reminded me of the scrub of my boyhood.

Then, as we approached Victoria River, sheer rock faces began rising from the ground, looming above the height line of the scrub.  The faces were vivid red, contrasting energetically against the clear sky blue surrounding it.  Each twist in the road offered a glimpse of an upcoming range.  We stopped at the Victoria River Caravan Park to take it all in.  Parking there was like parking in a crater, surrounded completely by walls of vibrant red rock. I took lots of photos but all failed to capture the tingles of awe that swept through us. Breathtaking.

Maybe 40km further west the scenery changed again.  The composition of the rock faces altered.  Vibrant red gave way to a muddy grey but each face had at least one streak of darker grey slashing across it.  The darker grey was a type of natural terracing that gave the hills a look as if humans had terraced it, similar in feel to pictures I’ve seen of Machu Pichu. The tallest ranges had terraces just below the tops of the ridges.  From a distance these slashes of dark grey looked like the tide line of a once great flood.  Now I’m no bible scholar, but has anyone looked for an Ark in western NT?  In all that water and confusion who knows where Noah got swirled along to.

We stopped at Timber Creek, the closest thing resembling a town we’d seen for hours.  After a brief rendezvous with civilisation we drove to ‘The Big Horse’, where there were boab trees everywhere (see separate entry) and a boat ramp into the Victoria River.  The boat ramp saw people not catching fish and we allowed Morrissey a quick if dangerous dip.  He was sooo hot and I guess we rolled the dice against a saltie prowling nearby.  We got away with it.  He immerged from the water with all his limbs and organs, but he was only in for about a minute.  Still, it was the longest minute I’ve experienced for a while. 

 

I give the Big Horse rest area 2 stars out of 5.  It’s a well laid out rest area that cost $3.30 per person per night, (the GST component sending us scrambling around looking for loose change).  The toilets are diabolical though.  They are hybrid long drops.  I’m not sure what that means but they smelt the worst of any toilet I have been in and, to make matters worse, we were parked directly downwind.

NIGHT  172  -  SADDLE CREEK REST AREA, VICTORIA HIGHWAY

I’m not going to rave about the constantly changing and gobsmacking scenery any more.  Let’s just take it for a given that, until I say otherwise, driving along the Victoria Highway and through The Kimberleys is a visual feast.  If you ever get the chance to do it then do so.  You don’t even need to go into the National Parks to be overwhelmed.  Just driving along is spectacular.

Okay, changing topic, has anyone heard of an explorer with the last name of Gregory?  We hadn’t, but so what.  A long time ago he carved his name on a boab tree and that very boab tree was only 3 ½ kilometres off the highway along a dirt road.  We love a boab tree and so turned right off the highway and bounced along what turned out to be a corrugated and unwelcoming track.  We were becoming boab buffs.

Gregory’s tree was pretty cool actually.  Mr Gregory himself didn’t carve his name into the tree.  His exploration team included an artist and this artist carved calligraphic lettering announcing the date they arrived at the site and the date they left (October 1856 and July 1857).  They’d made virtually a small town on the site complete with stables, veggie garden and forge.  They also had a fence to keep the crocs away.  It’s all gone now though.  Nearby there was another boab tree and they’d carved the words ‘letter in forge’ into the trunk to inform anyone arriving at the camp where they had gone, etc.  It was pretty interesting actually.  We’ve decided that history is much more interesting whenever boab trees are included.

 

Saddle Creek campground was set beneath an escarpment that glowed red in the setting sun.   There was a cool breeze blowing and there were no mozzies at all.  We spent the night outside at our own open air cinema, watching episodes of ‘Orange is the New Black’ (thank you Andrew) on the laptop and eating all the fresh foods we had in the fridge.  Tomorrow we’d cross the border.

 

I give Saddle Creek Rest Area 3 stars out of 5.  The escarpment was spectacular, the toilets clean, the chocolate at the movies cold, hard and crunchy.

NIGHT  173 & 174  -  LAKE ARGYLE CARAVAN PARK, WESTERN AUSTRALIA.

“You’ll have to go back.  You can’t bring dogs into Western Australia”.

With these words Shana, for a millisecond, saw our trip flash before her eyes.  It was said by an older guy, serious in tone and with the right look of someone official. We were at the quarantine station and the guy turned out to be just a bloke waiting in the line, having a joke and doing it well.  Shana saw through it quickly but, for that millisecond, …

The actual quarantine guy didn’t take long.  He didn’t ask to look in any of our outside hatches or under the van like we’d seen him do with others.  He looked through all our internal storage spaces and went through our fridge.  He found a lemon which he confiscated.  Jokingly, Shana said she should have hidden it in her bag.  She likes a gin in the afternoon and lemon is a vital ingredient to her mix of choice.  He didn’t smile at the joke.  On the NT/WA border, fresh fruit is not a topic for humour. 

As soon as we drove away from the quarantine station 1 ½ hours disappeared.  The Earth stayed at the same point in its rotation and the sun never altered its position in the sky but instantly time vanished.  We drove into the quarantine station at approx. 10:30am and we drove out, about 10 minutes later, at 9:10am. Now I’m well aware of the different time zones and how crossing them alters time but it’s a surreal thing to happen when driving.  When you’re in a plane it makes sense.  ‘Jet lag’ is a well known phenomenon that exists as part of the ‘exotica’ of international air travel.  You fly from Australia to, say, France, and you expect the time to be different.  You know you’ll have to adjust.  It is easily reconciled in the mind.  For it to happen when looking at the same scenery and driving 100mtr is less easy to reconcile.  When you lose time just because someone has confiscated a lemon, well, that’s a freaky thing.

The Lake Argyle turnoff is not far from the border.  We’d been told to go there several times.  In fact, one day when we were at Batchelor we met a woman in the information kiosk who’d done ‘the lap’ more than once.  Naturally she was full of advice.  We asked her to name her favourite place and she didn’t hesitate in saying “Lake Argyle”.  She insisted we go there, that we’d regret it if we didn’t.  Well, it was on our way.  It was easily accessible.  We had the time so we heartily followed her advice.

But we didn’t care much for Lake Argyle.

 We are not being deliberately contrary in saying this.  We are not just going against popular opinion to position ourselves as ‘outsiders’.  ‘Lake Argyle’ the lake is beautiful to look at.  It is man-made - made by damming the Ord River - and has filled the Argyle Valley to become the largest fresh water lake in Australia.  On a clear day the water reflects the surrounding hills and looks like a picture. However, ‘Lake Argyle’ the lake features little in the experience of ‘Lake Argyle’ the resort.   

The resort ‘Lake Argyle’ sits high above the lake itself.  The main feature of the resort is the ‘infinity pool’, a swimming pool that has a ‘disappearing’ back wall so that, if you frame it perfectly in a photo, it looks as if the pool itself becomes part of the lake.  In such a picture the lake serves as a spectacular backdrop for the resort, which is equally true of the place in general.   It had a restaurant, a bar, a shop, live music and movie nights; in other words it was self-contained.  Once there, once you’d had enough of the view, entertainment was laid on.

 

 You could access the lake itself.  Mainly people go on boat tours of the lake, spending an hour or two tracing the shores of the many coves and bays.  A big selling point is that, when on a cruise, you can have a nice swim in the lake, presumably somewhere deep and remote.  You can swim in the lake without going on a cruise, as Shana, Moz and I did, but it’s not a pleasant experience.  While in no way frowned upon, the infrastructure of the place doesn’t encourage it either.  If you want to swim in the lake (without taking a cruise) you can use the floating jetty, but you have no easy way of getting back onto it.  No stairs or ladders from the water are provided.  You can enter from the shore but the only accessible place is the boat ramp.  We swam there and got moved along as there were boats launching.  And boat ramps by definition continually have boats, often with petrol and oil spilling into the water etc.  As such, swimming in Lake Argyle was disappointing but, with a change in focus by someone with clout, it could easily be fantastic.  I’m just not sure anyone is much concerned though.  And, judging by the comments of those we met previously, many nomads like it just fine as it is.

I give Lake Argyle Resort 2 ½ stars out of 5.  Flat sites and clean amenities are important to a comfortable stay, and the resort had those, but to be exceptional requires a more inclusive relationship with the surrounding environment than having it merely providing a pretty background. Or at least it does for us.

NIGHT  175  -  KUNANURRA SHOWGROUND

A few times we’ve been denied access to a caravan park because we have a dog.  At times we’ve argued with caravan park owners that allowing dogs entry based solely on how much they weigh is a ridiculous concept.  Kunanurra Showground, however, gives us the opportunity to thumb our noses at these places.  You see, at Kunanurra Showground, you MUST have a pet to be allowed to stay.  Take that people travelling without pets – you must go elsewhere.

People without pets missed nothing.  Kunanurra Showground offered very little – dirty encrusted toilets and filthy showers.  It also seemed to house those in the local area who were ‘down on their luck’ because, beside us, there were five people living in a tent.  They had a kitten so they met all the requirements.

The people beside us yelled at their children often.  The children didn’t like getting yelled at and so cried often.  The parents yelled at the children to stop crying.  Not once did it work, but the parents continued with the strategy.  Shana and I closed the door of our sweat box ‘bago.  We started watching the series ‘Orphan Black’ (thanks again Andrew).  The show was okay but the night was generally unpleasant.

 

We give the Kunanurra Showground 1 star out of 5.  We still like the idea of getting one up on those uppity non-pet owners but the reality was that it sucked.

NIGHTS  176 & 177 – SPRING CREEK REST AREA, GREAT NORTHERN HIGHWAY.

At Spring Creek braman bulls wander unchecked.  They’re large creatures and they’re prepared to pass within metres of your campsite. It’s scary at first.  They have horns and beady eyes and bull brains that you can’t predict.  When they first walked towards us we tried to act cool.  I told Shana I’d shoo them away if they passed a certain rock.  They passed the rock, I made a shooing motion, they chewed the cud and ignored me completely.  I didn’t know what to do so I did nothing. The bulls took to chewing leaves off a tree beside the van.  Morrissey watched but was confused into inaction.  He’d never seen other dogs this big before.  He laid in his bed staring at them, not even growling.  I know how he felt. 

The bulls obviously belonged to some nearby cattle station.  They hung here because Spring Creek still had several largeish pools of water where most everywhere else was dry.  One of the larger pools was directly below where we were camped.  Not only did the pool attract bulls, but thousands of birds came and went during the day, either diving into or drinking from the pool.  Shana began twitching (meaning bird watching - she didn’t develop uncontrollable body movements).

 

Shana twitched so happily during the morning that we decided to stay for another day.  It was great.  The rest area cleared out and, with less people around, even more birds appeared.  We didn’t have to go anywhere to have a relaxing couple of nights and Shana’s bird book is now covered in the semi-coherent scrawl of the blossoming twitcher.

We give the Spring Creek Rest Area 4 stars out of 5.  It had no showers and primitive toilets but the birds liked it.  Who are we to disagree with the birds?

NIGHT  178  - MARY POOLS REST AREA, GREAT NORTHERN HIGHWAY

Driving allows lots of time for the mind to wander.  The scenery through The Kimberleys has been spectacular and we talk often about the things we are seeing but, even so, there’s still hour after hour left to the whim of the mind.  We passed through Halls Creek today, stopping to refuel.  It made my mind spend the following hours thinking about supermarkets.

Or, more to the point, is it a good thing that supermarkets now own petrol stations?

One side of me says yes, another side says no.

It certainly seems to make fuel cheaper.

 For example, before we got to Halls Creek, we drove through a place called Turkey Creek.   There’s not much at Turkey Creek.  There’s a roadhouse/ caravan park and an Aboriginal community. (There could also be a police station but I didn’t see it).  Anyway, being the cautious gent I am, I pulled into the roadhouse to top the fuel up.  They were charging $2.13 per litre.  Outraged, our quick calculations projected we had enough fuel to make Halls Creek.  We drove straight back out again.  Until now we’d never seen fuel priced above $1.99 per litre. 

As we drove into Halls Creek we couldn’t believe that the servo was a Coles Express.  The fuel was $1.84 per litre, before the 4c Coles docket discount.  That’s still expensive, but not by ‘outback’ standards.  It turned out that the servo was also a Coles store, although it was the smallest supermarket I’d ever seen.  It didn’t have trolleys or anything.  It didn’t have a wide enough variety of stock to warrant them.  It did sell some groceries though and, if you spent enough money in one transaction, you earned your 4c discount on fuel.  But is that a good thing?

There is another grocery store in town but they can’t offer any petrol discount scheme.  It’s a bit unfair having a massive behemoth like Coles stride into town.  But, in the Coles/Woolworths supermarket war, Coles have captured Halls Creek. I guess it makes it cheaper for the people in the area and, anyway, we used a docket and saved 4c per litre on fuel.  I think I’d have rather spent the 4c per litre extra though.  It might have set my mind wandering somewhere more pleasant.

Mary Pools rest area is large and, according to what we’ve read/heard, it is normally crowded. There weren’t many there though.  We’d been wondering about this.  It seems that our house-sit in Batchelor had the unforseen effect of putting us behind the main pack of nomads. We’ll see.  It allowed us our choice of sites though.

Mary Pools is a series of small rock pools containing what’s left of the Mary River (der!).  The pools weren’t big enough for us to sit or swim in but Morrissey threw himself in over and over.  All we could do was watch, feeling a tad jealous. 

 

I give Mary Pools Rest Area 3 stars out of 5.  It was here that we first encountered Bikini Pants Guy (see separate story).  For that it will always remained burned into our retinas.

NIGHT  179 – FITZROY CROSSING CARAVAN PARK

Fitzroy Crossing is a large town in these parts (like Halls Creek it also has a Coles Express service station).  It houses a large and swanky new resort – The Fitzroy River Lodge.  It looks beautiful in the brochures - new amenities, green grass, the river shimmering below an a la cart restaurant with people sitting on the deck sipping wine.  It’s on the eastern river bank, just before you cross into town.  It doesn’t accept dogs.

 

On the western bank, as you cross the river on the edge of town, sits The Fitzroy River Caravan Park.  It is a caravan park rather than a lodge.  It accepts dogs.  It probably has to.

The Fitzroy River Caravan Park complex incorporates the Fitzroy River Hotel, which is the oldest pub in the area.  The Lonely Planet recommends you go there for the experience, but only once, and not for long.  That’s because most of the patrons are blind drunk at 3pm in the afternoon.  After that they start swearing loudly at each other, usually along gender lines.  The drunken women swear and puff themselves out at the men; the men swear back louder and clench their fists into a weapon.  It was neither pretty or pleasant, and we were camped only 100mtrs away.

While there we learnt a new word – ‘humbugging’.  We saw it first as part of a sign that said ‘No spitting, no fighting, no humbugging’.  I knew the word ‘humbug’ from Dicken’s novel ‘A Christmas Carol’; it’s the word Ebenezer Scrooge used to dismiss Christmas, as in “bah humbug”.  That definition didn’t make sense in this context though.  I’m sure people weren’t being warned against spitting, fighting and dismissing Christmas.  Turned out that ‘humbugging’ means something like ‘bludging off somebody’.  If someone comes over to you and persistently asks for money, or for you to buy them a drink, or to give them a cigarette, and they wont let up, then they are humbugging.  It is banned because it pisses people off and causes fights.

The caravan park complex also housed Fitzroy Crossing’s picture theatre.  It was in an old tin shed and played only on the weekends, unless a special event occurred.  We were there on a Wednesday but we lucked out in that there was a special event on that night and we were invited to attend.

 

Some local schoolchildren, teachers and support staff were having a viewing of the movie ‘Satellite Boy’.  We’d never heard of it but found out that it was a movie made in the area and starring local kids.  It was made by the ABC and mainly starred…  It was a contemporary take on the Aboriginal experience, made last year.

 

It was a fantastic experience for us.  We were welcomed, a bit warily at first by the kids, but when the lights went down it didn’t matter.  The movie was interesting and well-made and the kids, all of them boys between maybe 12 and 15 years old, laughed and carried on with each other as you would expect.  They weren’t naughty though.  The teachers brought around popcorn (we were offered some but declined) and drinks and we watched as on the screen two similarly aged boys enacted an adventure from the outback to the city (well, Wyndam to Kununurra anyway).  To be in a tin shed watching a movie about young Aboriginal boys while with a group of young Aboriginal boys was something we hadn’t expected.  We hoped the respect and privilege we felt was fully expressed by our smiles and our sincere gratitude.  It was one of those experiences that came from nowhere and resonates long after it is over.

We give The Fitzroy Crossing Caravan Park +5 and -5.  +5 for the theatre experience and the cool, cool croc free river.  -5 for everything else, including the brightest flood lights I’ve ever seen – surely prison grade.  They burned all night long, placed inside the caravan park.  We could have been in Finland because it seemed that daytime never went away.

NIGHT 180  -  NULLIBUBBICA REST AREA, GREAT NORTHERN HIGHWAY.

Infamous for the great Bikini Guy standoff (see separate story) but not much else.  A red dirt rest stop along a long, long road. 

 

I give the Nullibubbica Rest Stop 1 ½ stars out of five.  It provided a place to poo that had a flushing system but had little shade.

NIGHTS  181 & 182 – BROOME’S GATEWAY CARAVAN PARK

We drove past it on the way to Broome.  We knew it was there but rejected it as being too far away.  It was 28km out of town.  Unfortunately the only caravan park in Broome that would accept dogs was profiteering by charging too much for a site and then adding a ‘dog surcharge’ on top.  Shana and I rebel against stuff like that.  We surprised the woman by rejecting her overpriced park and walking away.  I’m sure she thought she could pretty much charge what she wanted.

We spent the day in Broome before we drove back out.  Our first glimpse of Cable Beach brought tears to our eyes.  It is beautiful, with water a deep turquoise sea green, a colour I’d never seen before.  We were soon in the water and, even better, dogs are allowed on the beach as well.  You have to walk 200mtrs or so from the flag area but we didn’t care.  Like us, Morrissey ran to the water with excitement, holding his head in the air as he hit the first breaker.  We drove back to Broome’s Gateway satisfied and exhausted.

 

The next day brought for me a change.  Normally I say to people that there is nowhere else I’d rather be than where we are, doing the trip.  I mean it when I say it.  But today is Todd’s birthday.  I don’t like missing Sam and Todd’s birthdays.  Sam managed to join us on her birthday this year.  Todd couldn’t make it though. He has TAFE commitments.  So, today, there is somewhere else I would rather be.  I’d rather be with Todd, singing happy birthday out of tune and making him cringe with my poorly thought through jokes.  We’d probably be at a skatepark somewhere.  I’d be watching a little boy still tentative on a skateboard while everyone else saw a grown man; confident, competent and a more capable rider than his father ever was.

I give Broome’s Gateway 2 ½ stars out of five.  It’s a long way out of town, and the sites are non-powered, but the showers are massive and new and have a seemingly non-ending stream of hot water.  There was a nice fenced run for Morrissey to play in.  It’s only new and, although the red sand is soft underfoot, it will be better as more grassed areas grow in.

 

 

 

 

 

Bikini Pants Guy

I’ll start with an admission – I like looking at the female body.  I’ll even go one step further and admit I like it even better when that body is sun-tanned brown and scantily clad.  But I try not to ogle.  I don’t want to embarrass anybody, myself included.  I prefer the casual glance, or perhaps a sequence of casual glances over time.  I don’t want to be creepy. 

We were camped at a place called Mary Pools when, out of the corner of my eye, my (non-creepy) perve detector registered that a black pair of bikini bottoms had entered my field of view.  “It’s surely worth a glance or two” my eyes said to the rest of Alan.  It soon became apparent that the bikini bottoms existed sans top.  This was truly a revelation.  It meant that, over to my left and about 50mtr along, a woman was walking around the campground topless; a rarity indeed. (I quickly acknowledge that we men do it all the time and that most of us probably shouldn’t).

I turned to take my first prolonged glimpse.  The bikini bottoms were walking away from me so I could only view them from the rear.  It was an odd sight.  I could see the black bikini bottoms with the little tie up straps swinging from the side but they were tied onto a very oddly shaped female bottom.  There was a distinct lack of curve.

This required further study so I disregarded convention and took a hefty great ogle.  The shoulders were very broad; the walk strident.  There was no real figure at all, hourglass or not, just a large bump on either side just above the hips that I recognised to be ‘love handles’.  Then it struck me.  This figure strutting through the campground was not female at all.  It was male; a guy; a bloke.  In a rush of confusion it became obvious that some old guy with leathery brown skin and an over-extended sense of bravado was striding barefooted around the campground in the black bottom half of woman’s swimwear.  I went from ogle into bloody great stare but he was too far away from me to take in the full effect. (Shana couldn’t believe it either but said she knew it was a guy all along).

I tried to let the image go as we got on with our day.  Our days aren’t taxing.  Basically we hung around until the (relative) cool of the evening to walk Morrissey.  There was water in the pools that we wanted to check out – not much water, but enough for Moz to swim in.  I took the camera hoping to catch the late afternoon light. 

While on our walk we saw bikini pants guy again.  He was still a distance away, walking in front of us.  Shana had been taking telephoto pictures of birds and had the camera in her hand and, well, you would wouldn’t you, she focused in and took a series of shots.  “Nobody would believe us otherwise” she said.   We wondered whether it was an invasion of his privacy but came to the agreement that it wasn’t privacy he sought.  No one would strut around dressed like that if they were seeking privacy.

 

That was pretty much it for our first experience of bikini pants guy.  We’d seen him.  We knew he existed.  We had photos to prove it.

It was the next afternoon that we realised we’d been exposed to legend. Apparently, like a Loch Ness monster of the dusty red outback, bikini pants guy was talked about often but seldom seen.  Those who had seen him kept his story in circulation.  Those who hadn’t seen him shook their heads, wanting to believe, yet not quite able to conjure the image. We’d just been in the right place at the right time.

We listened as Kerry, a woman we’d just meet, sat beneath our awning, sipping tea and sharing her experiences with us.  She knew him well – too well she said – having unwittingly camped beside him two nights in a row.  Like kids around a campfire we begged her to tell us more.

What she told us was this:

Bikini pants guy is friendly enough if you don’t challenge his point of view.  If you talk to him about life on the road, etc, he’s okay, as long as you can ignore the fact that the bits of him you don’t want to see are barely contained by the briefest swatch of black lycra.  Don’t encourage him to sit down though.  The lycra is old, stretched and is saggy.  It has little retaining power.  (But they are not women’s swimmers.  They are men’s tie on bathers.  He swears it is so).

His philosophy is akin to that of a small child in that the first person there gets to set the rules.  If he is the first person to be parked at a given spot, so his philosophy goes, and you then park near him, then in the act of choosing to park there you have broached his domain. Being there first, he has assumed sovereignty of the area.  He understands that some people don’t like his choice of summerwear but, if they park near him, then they put up with it or move somewhere else.  He believes that he shouldn’t have to be beholden to the prudishness of others.   If challenged by the new arrival, he takes off the bikini bottoms and walks around naked.  Sometimes he walks around naked anyway, especially if the place he has camped in is fairly remote.

I can understand this to a degree, but according to Kerry it’s not so benign in practice.  Apparently he targets the young and the female. As legend has it, two young backpacker girls recently parked near to him in a Hi Ace van.  He was there first.  He presided over the space.   The girls became distraught at his continual presence around them.  Apparently his hand kept wandering in and around the black lycra in a way that sent the girls seeking company and protection.  Plus he has no front teeth.  Possibly this shouldn’t make any difference, but it did for the girls.  It added ugly to the leery and the creepy.  Eventually they moved to somewhere else.

As Kerry talked, even though we’d seen him and had photos, to me he still existed mostly as story. We’d only ever seen him from a distance. I was a bit jealous of Kerry actually.  I wanted a close encounter of my own.  But, as they say, be careful what you wish for.   

The next afternoon, as we wheeled into another roadside rest area, we automatically went into spotting mode.  The ideal rest stop spot has trees to the west, thereby shading the side of the ‘bago, which is especially important over the fridge.  It has an open flat area to the east so we can sit in the shade provided by the ‘bago itself.   It should be near to the toilets but not close enough to smell them or cause us to have to nod to every person walking past carrying toilet paper.  With my little $5 compass directing us, we spotted a site that wasn’t too bad, although our awning would have to extend very close to a covered picnic area.  This wasn’t ideal, as covered picnic areas attract backpacker vans, and backpacker vans contain backpackers who are often nice but generally noisy.

There was only one vehicle nearby, parked alongside the picnic area. 

 

We parked, set up the folding chairs and Morrissey’s bed, then I went to the toilet.  When I returned Shana was angry.  “It’s him”, she said, nodding toward the other vehicle, “bikini pants guy”.  She told me how she’d tied Moz to a picnic table and how he immediately came up to her and said “You can leave him there if you want but I wouldn’t.  I’ll be welding there soon.  He might get hurt”.  She said he almost grunted the words at her.

Initially I had only the one pressing question – “what was he wearing?”

He was wearing only his bikini bottoms and we watched as he ignored us and assembled various bits of steel across the tables.  He got a mobile welder from his ute and started his generator.  I was a bit pissed off that he thought it okay to just take over the space, turning picnic tables into a workshop, but I was equally intrigued as to how he’d go about it.  I have a knowledge of welding and I’ve been burnt by welding sparks. I know how important it is to cover yourself up. 

I had this image of him, leather welder’s apron covering his front, little black bikini pants at rear.  It wasn’t a pleasant image but it made sense.  However, the image underestimated his toughness, or his stupidity, or his craving to be noticed, I’m not sure which, because, there, 5mtr from where I sat, in a rest stop 250km east of Broome, this guy welded a frame together bare footed and wearing nothing but bikini bottoms.

It was noisy and foolhardy and whenever he bent over it was damn close to obscene.

 

 We began thinking he was doing it solely to piss us off.  It was obvious we weren’t going to comment on his (lack of) clothing, so he sought another way to make us move.  But we weren’t moving.  This was the last spot out of the sun.  We figured he’d have to stop work eventually; he couldn’t weld in the dark.

A standoff ensued.

 I brought out the guitar and sat facing away from him, but close.  Everytime he stopped welding I’d smash out chords.  I wasn’t going for melody, touch or technique.  I was attempting to hit the strings as hard as I could, as fast as I could.  Everytime the welder stopped, I started.

 Our noise duel lasted for over an hour.  I didn’t ever look at him and began to enjoy it, inventing weird sounds and strange fingering positions to increase the dissonance.  He finished welding (he had actually made a frame to attach solar panels onto).  I stopped playing.  Shana and Morrissey, somewhat shellshocked, emerged from the van.  There had been no winner.

At one stage afterwards he nodded his head toward us.  Perhaps this was in recognition that I’d played a good game because he soon wanted to talk, just small talk, him beside his ute in his bikini pants, us seated on our chairs trying not to encourage talking at all.

Just when we thought the worst was over he strode past us unannounced, on his way to the toilet.  He came so close that he almost brushed my leg.  Unfortunately he was now wet, his bikini bottoms clinging like cling wrap around unwanted leftovers.  I’ve got no idea how he got wet, or why, but the lycra passed by directly in my line of sight and way too close.  I didn’t turn away quick enough.  “That’s it” I said to Shana, “I’m going inside.  I refuse to see that again on his way back”.   Shana took Morrissey for a walk. 

The generator rattled in the darkness until almost 9pm.

Even though I thought him disgusting, and probably unhinged, and maybe even a borderline sexual deviant, a part of me respected him.  I didn’t like his philosophy or his arrogance but I respected his commitment to it.  There’s something compelling about people who truly don’t give a shit about what other people think.  That’s why I wish we’d never met him again.  I wish he would have remained in my memory as I’d experienced him that day – when there was something almost super-human about what he did. 

But we did meet again. 

It was in a caravan park the next day.  Caravan parks are businesses and businesses require rules.  Although I’ve never seen a notice requesting that men wear more than bikini bottoms, it’s pretty much a given that there are standards of appropriate dress and behaviour.

Shana noticed him first.  She’s more observant than me and she recognised his van as it drove in.

“There’s bikini pants guy again”

“No way, where?”

“That’s his van isn’t it?”

“Bullshit”.

He parked near us, with nobody in between. 

“What’s he wearing?”

“Shorts and a blue T shirt”

He noticed Shana, waved and said hullo.  Shana couldn’t help herself.  She was friendly back to him.

“What’d you do that for?”

“Because I’m polite”.

“Jesus!”

I knew she shouldn’t have done it.  He was soon standing beside us.

Up close and dressed, the only disconcerting thing was his lack of front teeth.  Other than that he looked like your common garden variety nomad.  His hair was grey and needed cutting, his clothes were rumpled and a bit dirty, his conversation was inoffensive, his tone mellow.  Really, we were simply talking to somebody’s grandpa, like we had done hundreds of times previously.  But there was sadness within him. He was travelling alone but mentioned his wife at one stage.  He mentioned his children.  He mentioned his grandkids.  He sought us out because he desired conversation but we failed to ask any probing questions.  We’ve found that there are some people you converse with easily and some you don’t.  With him we remained guarded.

Actually, I couldn’t help thinking that the legend was losing its lustre.  What if the Loch Ness monster turned out to be nothing more than a large and lost wet carpet snake?  I didn’t want to know about the man beneath the bikini pants (I didn’t want to know about anything beneath the bikini pants).  I really just want to say that I saw him in full flight and that we butted heads. 

But the story has a happy ending. 

Before we parted he tried to outrage us. That was more like it. He started talking about how people complained about his favoured state of (un)dress.  He started espousing his philosophy. “Yeah, yeah” Shana and I said to each other with our eyes, “here we go”.   Once again he failed to shock us so he became anecdotal.  He told us about one guy who parked next to him and then complained that he was inappropriately dressed.  In response he stripped naked, challenging the guy to take further action.   Apparently the guy ranted and raved and wouldn’t let his wife out of the caravan.  He finished the story by saying “but I bet she was perving out the window anyway”.  This made Shana scoff audibly.  He didn’t know how to react.  The conversation finished shortly after and he wandered away.  

“He’s fucking joking”, Shana said after he left, “does he really think any woman wants to sneak a peek at his penis?” 

I’m here to say that I think he does. I honestly believe that he thinks most women want to sneak a peek at his penis.  I think it is this thought that fuels his strut.  

We never met him again and I sincerely hope he’s harmless.  I hope he’s nothing more than an eccentric old man who fancies himself a bit.

 Maybe, if you’re driving around the top end, you’ll see him yourself one day.  If you do I bet that you’ll walk a line between being offended and being amused. And I bet that, like me, you’ll be busting to tell someone; busting to keep the story going.

The Fitzroy Crossing Fire

The Fitzroy Crossing Fire

Shana and I are drawn to water. We can’t help it.  On this trip we’ve been surprised to see that ‘the outback’ has a lot more water than we’d expected.  We thought the outback would be dry and dusty, and a lot of it is, but generally water of some description isn’t too far away.  Unfortunately you can’t swim in most of it.

 That’s our understanding of water torture. 

Because, in the outback, most substantial bodies of water generally house a croc or two.  Probably.  Maybe.  How would you know?  And that’s the point.  I’ve began hating crocodiles solely because they lurk undetectable and that stops us from swimming.  Just the possibility of them causes us to remain dry.  They may be nowhere near the place but you can’t swim in that deep river, inviting billabong or cool creek just in case.  Wankers.

But you can swim in the Fitzroy River.  Several reliable sources have told us so. Naturally we arranged our itinerary so as to stop there and rest a while.

We set up at The Fitzroy Crossing Hotel Caravan Park, a tumble-down pub come caravan park with green grassed sites on the western riverbank.  It provided access to the river and safe places to swim.  We pulled up, did a few chores, a load of washing.

It was past midday and bloody hot when we finally got the chance to ‘hit the water’.  We gathered our hats, towels, dog and water bottles and started walking through the scrub trees and long grass, following a mud path down the water’s edge.  The scrub was above head high and the path was winding so you couldn’t see much. 

Morrissey was bouncing along ahead of us and, as we came around a corner, a large rushing man in a Manchester United Football shirt almost tripped over him.  He had a fishing spool in his hand.

“Sorry” Shana said, referring to him nearly tripping over our unleashed dog. 

“Catch anything” I said, disregarding the whole dog thing completely and wondering if I should get my fishing rod.

“There’s a bushfire coming” the guy said, all English accent and urgency, “I’m going to alert someone.”  We stood aside and watched him go.  Whatever.  He was undoubtedly over-reacting.  Probably just a burn-off of some sort.  We’d been to Kakadu.  We knew about fires.

But you could see flames from the river’s edge.

It was a big fire, not just a burn off.  The river bent to the right and right where it bent we could plainly see fire running up tree trunks, big orange tongues consuming the trees.  Black plumes of smoke stained the blue sky.  It was on our side of the river, and we were directly downwind.  It was being blown directly towards us.

It wasn’t very far away either.

The fire was making us feel hotter and water was lapping seductively at our toes.  Possibly there was a wall of flames heading towards our van but, really, in the long run, a little swim wouldn’t make much difference would it?  Just a little swim.  We were in our togs after all.

We waded into the Fitzroy River and watched as the fire built in intensity.  “Hope we don’t get trapped down here” Shana said.  I didn’t answer.  My head was under the water as I sat cross-legged like a Buddha on the bottom of the river.  (I must admit that at this stage I was still more concerned about crocs than any fire).  Morrissey was churning through the water between us like a furry ferry. 

Towelling ourselves on the bank we could plainly see that, in the five minutes we’d lolled about in the water, the fire had progressed a fair way further around the riverbend, and a fair bit closer to our caravan park.  It was burning with gusto and a whole section of the canopy was now ablaze.  It seemed to be getting serious.

The Englishman reappeared with his fishing spool.  “So?”, Shana and I asked him anxiously. 

“They’re not worried at all” he said.

It wasn’t exactly true.  When we got back to the park the staff displayed a heightened sense of urgency.  The official line may have been to say that everything was okay but all the body language indicated they didn’t really know.  While I started assembling the ingredients for toasted sandwiches (it was my turn to make lunch and, in times of uncertainty, food offers me comfort) Shana remained outside, narrating the goings on around her.  Before I’d even turned on the sandwich press the owner and a staff member tore past the ‘bago in a little green John Deere buggy.  They drove at pace out of the park and down the road in the direction of the fire.  Shana said they looked concerned.

Then a female resident of the park met with a male resident, just off to the side of our site.  Their voices sounded worried and unsure.  Arrangements were being made between them about how to evacuate; about what to take and where to go.  They agreed that their vans would probably have to stay, nervous laughter reassuring each other that the vans were probably insured for more than they were now worth anyway.  They were each going to gather their most important items and put them somewhere easily accessible.  “Better safe than sorry” the woman said.

Shana started taking her own precautions.  She disconnected our hose from the pressure valve on the ‘bago and started filling the water holding tank.  “If we have to rush out of here at least we know we’ll have enough water” she told me as she strode past the window.

The toaster had reached the required heat.  The green light was on.  I could hear Shana disconnecting the hose as I sliced the ham, tomato and cheese.  I concentrated on getting the slices even.

 The wind was now blowing soot across the caravan park and the sky had become blacker still.  A guy came out from his van directly opposite us.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

Shana told him about the fire and roughly where it was in relation to us all.

“So the wind’s pushing it this way?” he asked.

Shana confirmed that it was and asked “Should we be worried?”

“Nah”, the guy said, “there’s a creek between us.  That should stop it”.  He then took note of the strength of the wind. “That is, unless this wind fuels it enough to jump the creek.  Then, who knows hey”.

He went back into his annex.  Along the road behind us two police cars rushed toward the fire.

“Should we pack up?  Just in case?” Shana asked me.  I didn’t know.  How would I know?  All I knew was that the sandwiches were nearly toasted.  No point letting them go cold and soggy.

 “I don’t think so” I replied.  I really hoped my desire for crunchy toast wouldn’t be our undoing.

A tour bus pulled into the reception carpark.  People alighted, confused.  We could hear snippets of conversation, some voices angry; some agitated; some concerned.  The road had been closed.  The police were turning people around, sending them back and away from the fire front.  The tour was headed for Gelkie Gorge.  People had paid $75 per head to take a boat trip along the river and through the rocks.  The fire had denied them access.

We sat and ate our sandwiches hot and crispy, the cheese melted beautifully across the tomato.  We heard somebody say that the road would be closed for at least two hours. 

“I wonder what happens now?” I said to Shana, “Do you think they get refunds?”  We both shrugged our shoulders and watched as another mini-bus pulled into the carpark, unloading its cargo of confused and disgruntled tourists.  The air around us smelled like smoked almonds.

My phone whistled at me, the sound I ‘ve set to say a text message has arrived.  I read it and became worried anew.

 The message was from the Department of Fires and Emergency Services.  I’ve no idea how they got my phone number.  I’ve no idea how they knew that my phone was in the area near the fire.  Some sort of satellite savvy I suppose.  Whatever, they were concerned enough to initiate contact with me.  The message read exactly as follows: Bushfire EMERGENCY WARNING from DFES for Junjuwa Community.  If the way is clear, leave now.

I had no idea how to interpret this message.

For us the message posed more questions than it answered.  Who or what was the Junjuwa Community?  And where was it?  Obviously they were being told to get out IF THEY COULD.  Bloody hell.  That was full on. But what did that mean for us?  Why’d I get the message?  Should we pack up now and go?  Was that the sensible thing to do?  We’d received a warning.  Surely it would be foolhardy and dumb to ignore such a warning.

I took another bite of my sandwich, chewing faster than before.

 I noticed that smoke in the sky had  lessened.  I noticed how nobody else in the caravan park had displayed any renewed sense of urgency. I wondered whether I was the only one to receive the message and should I therefore tell someone?  Or everyone?  Should I gather everyone around and read the message aloud?  Fuck! I didn’t know what I should do.

Then, as if on cue, the little green John Deere buggy drove back into the park. 

“He’s not driving as fast” Shana said.

 The park owner displayed two thumbs up as they drove toward us.   “No worries” he yelled as they drove past, “it’s all okay”.  He was gone before we could ask any questions about the text.  We’d just have to trust him.

We finished eating our sandwiches.  We each sipped on a glass of ice water.  The tourists and tour buses remained in the carpark.  I wondered where Junjuwa Community was.  I hoped the people got out okay.  I wondered how sooty our washing had got, bummed that it probably needed re-washing.