Finally September. Someone switched off winter. The hot northerlies taste dusty. The sky a pale grey with an ugly yellow tinge. Even my keyboard is filthy. But no-one is bothered, minor irritations, if at all...
Despite that, one can still have heaps of fun. Enter the Charleville billy cart races. It's fiercely competitive. First the kids. Then the dads - keen to show off their builds. Understandably the local mechanic cannot possibly be outrun by next town’s plumber! By the way, more mass may get you further in the race - if the vehicle keeps its shit together that is.
The dry heat slowly sucks the green and the few remaining tourists out of the shire. And with it our last bit of energy. It has been a crazy season with Paul and myself working double shifts for the past six months. Not sustainable and frustrating. Especially when our cleaning staff earn the same money as us within a fraction of time. The owners were not upfront with the amount of work piling up during the peak. Yes, they said to take time off whenever possible, but that's a joke when running a motel and restaurant professionally. Turns out that our contract is shonky. It is set up in a way that the going hospitality award does not apply. The Fairwork ombudsman said that we should have not put our signature under that document. The combination of minimum wage and massive amounts of overtime is a killer. Amazingly, the owners were totally surprised when we decided not to hang around for another year. Seriously?
While our case was being followed up officially, we take off for one last time while in Charleville.
One should think that would be taking it easy: Less kilometres, less stress, better roads... Hmm…
Cameron's Corner - that's the place we are going to visit, where Queensland, New South Whales and South Australia meet. 1,750 km for the round trip. 1,000 km gravel and dirt roads.
The night before our departure we have had one too many drinks, so today’s start is a tad on the tender side.
Breakfast at Cunnamulla's Ginge Bean Café (always worth a stop), a Cider at our next stop, the Hungerford Pub.
Hungerford is right on the border to New South Whales and on the 5.614 km long Dingo Fence. The fence was built in the 1880's and protected sheep from marauding canines for close to 100 years. It starts just outside Dalby and stretches nearly to the border of South and Western Australia. The maintenance is a massive task. Its responsibility lies with the adjacent farms. Each one is looking after a stretch of about 60 kilometres. Curiously, there are still gated border crossings between the states, keeping out four as well as two legged riff-raff I've been told.
After eleven hours we arrive at Tibooburra: 66 souls, lots of character, old buildings, great food and wickedly funny people! Shouldn't have asked what it is like to live in the desert. Ended up with blank stares: "No desert here, mate." There is a rescue boat down at Pioneer Park - propped up high - in case the flood does come - WTF???
For the night we opt for the local caravan park. Smack-bang in the middle of town. Hot showers are just too tempting. Besides, the last 450 km of corrugations threw out the power supply to our fridge. Luckily mains power is still ok and enough to keep it ticking over until tomorrow. Probably just a fuse. Time for a good old pub meal and sunset drinks instead...
Day Two: Lots of crawling around in the guts of the vehicle, lots of testing, even more swearing. The culprit is the cable that connects the fridge to the car battery. Plus one of the shelves in the camper rattled loose and busted all electricals to the back of the trailer. That's gravel roads for you! No wonder Paul is a tad tense.
Late breakfast, off to The Corner. It's a great place to play golf in three different states while skipping between as many time zones. Like Marty in "Back to the Future" you may even travel back in time! Don't forget to bring your own putting green!
Instead of whacking balls you could equally pee in all three states. Apparently this is an Aussie tradition too. We ain't no golfers, so guess what my men were up to!
The famous Corner Store offers fuel for all types of mobile devices (including aircrafts) and their passengers. There is eve a bottle shop. Had a good yarn with the local publican, the chef, the mechanic, the gardener and the care taker who are all the same person: What an interesting place. Could I live here: No rain for the last three years. Drinking water is carted in from Broken Hill. Water for toilets, cleaning, showering is pumped from a well some kilometres away. As this one is dry now too, it has to be carted in from a ranger station about 20 k's away. The only reason this place exists is because of tourism and its geography. Hm, perhaps a tad too remote...
We are taking off through two gates, across South Australia, back into NSW and into the Sturt National Park, our first real desert.
We stop at a jump-up. The size of the place and the colours are just mind boggling. Remotely reminds me of the northern German marshes where I come from: Endless skies and plains that stretch all the way to the horizon - just the ocean is missing, and the sea gulls and the continuous wind blowing salt into your hair.
There are dry creek beds in the distance like veins under the crusty desert skin. Like pubic hair, low shrubs mark the depressions and indicate remnant moisture. Dig in one of the ancient creek beds and you may end up with a soak slowly refilling with fresh, drinkable water. The indigenous ancestors knew all the right spots. We Westerners can only marvel at that and perish while blissfully ignoring millennia of knowledge.
I read that the idea of "river" is quite a European one. In the old world rivers get fed by rain and melting ice, year round. It creates vast moving bodies of water, following depression in the country side eventually emptying into the ocean. Rivers drain the land of access water, pee and poo. To allow easier and faster access rivers get straightened and deepened.
Try that down under! Rain is sparse which means Australian rivers are at best a series of billabongs or water holes. On rare occasions they fill up, reconnect and slowly following ancient river beds. On the way the precious wet slowly disperses, replenishes nature, never making it to the sea. Wow!
I think we ought to find a more suitable name for this phenomenon and while at it a different attitude towards drought as it appears to be the norm rather than the exception.
The northern road through the park is pretty amazing: From jump ups and desert pubes to gibber plains, covered in small, polished pebbles, to low shrubby areas with abandoned stations to ancient lakes filled with fine, talcum-like white dust. The powder sucks colours and textures out of everything. Challenging not to drive off barely noticeable tracks. I imagine us drowning in a maelstrom of dust - just to be spat out eons later as spandex mummies. Little critters probably only get around armed with fluorescent goggles and snorkels as they crawl through nothingness.
Wednesday. We are heading towards Thargomindah via Silver City Highway and the Bulloo Downs Road. The tracks are surprisingly good and the vistas simply breathtaking, crossing a mountain range, driving through pretty rich black soil forests, down another jump-up and then following a track along the flood plains of the river. Lots of green, flowers, shrubs. Life must be great after a wet and the region pretty productive.
Not so today. The wind is picking up. Every breath draws hotter air. We stop for a cuppa at an antique tractor. Bad idea. The coffee is now gritty. Dog cancels his pee and escapes back into the truck. Not comfortable in there either. The air is getting thick with dust. The horizon is blending in with the sky, turning into a dirty haze. Not good. Visibility less than 50 metres. Hope no-one is heading towards us. No other option but slowly crawling on for the next hours.
Amazingly, perfect weather in Thargomindah. We decide to set up camp. Stupid idea. Didn’t see the next assault coming. Howling winds, rattling canvas. Whiteout! Quickly the dog into the car! Trying to find my bearings, covering eyes and mouth, while feeling my way along vehicle and trailer. Eternity to get to the camper. Paul is already hanging onto the canvas for dear life. One of the posts is giving and I fear we will get ripped apart and taken off into the abyss. Damned, shitty storm!
As fast as the wind starts, it ceases and rain drops turn the dust into a greasy slimy coating. Oh Boy! I don’t think we have ever packed up our gear that fast - while the next gale is already approaching. Trembling, tired, filthy, devastated yet happy that nothing more happened! We are upgrading to a cabin at the caravan park while the storm is furiously rattling at the windows. Could be the end of our trip.
Dust storms often precede a massive rain front over the dry parts of our country. As soon as the different air pressures equalise, the gusts die. Rain may follow or not. The dust can stay in the atmosphere for days, blocking out the sun settling hundreds of kilometres away . We will experience another two of these storms on our way to WA and I tell you, you don’t get used to it. I do wonder if a soft top camper is the right set up to face mother nature’s anger on a long trip. Could a dearer caravan be the alternative? I think we still may be too young for that…
With the weather clearing over night, we decide to continue our trip and stop over in Toompine, the pub without a town. Without finding opals 120 yers ago, this place would not exist. It still attracts the odd council worker. Food and beer are served by a heavily tattooed bear with attitude. I have never heard so may swear words strung together by the occasional adjective in my life. Lots of f’s and c’s and everything in between…
As quirky and weird as Toompine appears, it is not a happy place. It’s demise is - as always - caused by The Others who by up surrounding farms and swap sheep for cattle. No more labour intensive shearing required and that means loss of cashed up patrons. And tourism is far too unpredictable. Frankly, there is not much here that might attract visitors: Buildings as well as owner desperately need a make over. The garden is not appealing, the menu boring and drinks expensive. Despite attitude and colourful language no trace of the places colourful past. Toompine lost its soul some time ago. What a pity…
The afternoon we stop for coffee at Quilpie’s beautiful main street: Restored buildings, museums, street art and curiously hardly a soul. The tourist season is definitely over. Here Paul in front of the pictures theatre. His mum would refer to places like these as The Talkies - an exciting progression from films that previously required subtitles and a piano man.
And who would have thought that the next pic - taken at the public amenities - would excite people in the near future.
Olli and me riding one of the concrete sheep that race down Quilpie’s main street.
We finish off at a farm stay on Lake Houdraman. Dog is off for a swim, Paul kindles the log fire and I am evenly spreading last day’s dirt.
Great food, spectacular sunset, icy cold drinks and a yarn or two to tell.
That’s what I call happiness.
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