What a headspin. One minute out on a baking road, covered in red dust and watching for snakes, the next sitting by the pool at a resort, looking out at waterlilies and listening to the gentle splash of a water feature.
More of that later, now where were we?
We are spending a few days in Broome before setting out again. It is Easter and the tourist trade is picking up. Cable Beach has some people on it, a little cluster of umbrellas flyspots on the immense sweep of white sand, but it is strangely pleasant to have a bit of activity and buzz around. We can only imagine how crazy it is in town at the height of the season, but this is nice.
On Monday we head out again, Zoe will be in Perth for work for the rest of her last week in Broome and then Warwick gets back, so we head for Sydney, going East, wondering what roads might be open other than the tar. “When that cirrus cloud clears,” someone said to us a couple of weeks ago, ‘That’s when the dry starts.” I make a mental note, it could come in useful, it sounds like the sort of thing you could casually drop into a conversation and sound as if you know something.
The water is going down fast everywhere, but there’s no guarantee that there won’t be roads cut still, or damage that would need repair. But it is just so tempting. We are on our way to Fitzroy Crossing when we take a dive up the road to Tunnel Creek. The sign at the turnoff says Road Closed for every section but then, leaning at an angle against a fence post, is a small one that reads 4 Wheel Drive Only. We take that as an invitation and spear off.
There is some lovely scenery, a little quarry full of water that would make a perfect camping spot, with people swimming and kayaking. “I drove through that last time we were here,” a grey nomad says. We look thoughtfully at the little lake and agree with him that there has, indeed, been a lot of rain this year. It had occurred to us, many times.
We are another half hour or so up the Tunnel Creek road, when a warning sign lights up on the dashboard. Red triangle with an exclamation mark. Probably not a good sign, and the manual agrees. Stop driving. This is a bit of a problem, as we are in woop woop and out of phone range. We stop to consider our options, sitting on the tailgate and having a cool drink. If the man who invented the Esky isn’t in heaven, there’s something wrong with the system.
Nothing is leaking, the car is driving perfectly, but the fact remains that if we keep driving and it blows up we have also rather blown our warranty. But what on earth to do; can’t drive it, can’t contact anyone, can’t repair it, shouldn’t walk for help, that’s a big no-no. Hmmm.
After a while a LandCruiser bursting at the seams with an Aboriginal family comes by. We flag them down; we have passed several communities along the way and maybe they have phone contact. They are very friendly and helpful, but no luck, no phone coverage at their destination, an Aboriginal station a few km away. If we drive out and break down, will there be other cars along? Yes.
So we try our luck, and drive back towards the main road without any problem. We are looking for somewhere to stay and are hunting for a place in our little Priceless Campsites book. Down a narrow track, don’t go too far in case we break down, then up ahead is an Aboriginal family group. We stop, R walks on to check out the spot, I stay and have a chat.
Grandma is reclining on a foam mattress, with a toddler climbing over her. Several children are milling around. Two women nod and smile shyly, duck their heads.
They have been fishing. There is a dead sawfish on the ground, with skin instead of scales. The little boys are excited, they nudge it with their feet.
“ ’E bleedin’, one says.
“How do you cook it?”
“In the fire.”
Of course; they could be forgiven for saying “der”.
They are nibbling something, what is it? Gooseberries. A man comes up from the river, and the group gathers up their belongings and heads off. R says the campsite isn’t really suitable for the Rocket and we turn to go. “Give us a lift?” one of the boys calls out with a cheeky grin. We point to the back, no room for a dozen people. We pause to let them straggle past. The boys crowd up to look in the window. One holds out a gooseberry to me; would I like one? He explains that I need to take off the papery skin. It has a sweet and unfamiliar fruity taste.
Geike Gorge, a famous beauty spot, is just up the road a few km, so we decide to go there and camp. It’s not a camping area, but we figure we have an excuse, if we are challenged. We don’t bother to look around, and the boat trips up the gorge haven’t yet started, so we didn’t get the feel of it at all, except to note that the flood that has roared through recently has left debris at shoulder height on the trees. Another place on the growing list of sights to see, when we come back in the dry season some future year.
R gets out in the night and is frightened half to death by rustling in the undergrowth; we are conscious of the possibility of putting our foot on a croc in the dark in places like this. Who would get the biggest fright? Don’t know, but our reflexes haven’t been honed since the days of the dinosaurs for just this kind of confrontation, so we wouldn’t want to put any money on us coming out on top. Talking to people later, it was probably feral pigs; probably a lot better. He lives to tell the tale, anyway.
In the morning we are accosted by an aggressive man who tells us in no uncertain terms that there is No Camping. No amount of explanation will shut him up until R asks him who he is: implication “Are you a Ranger?” He drives off, giving us a death stare.
We are leaving anyway, on our way (hopefully) to Fitzroy Crossing to ring Land Rover 24/7 roadside assistance (if you happen to be somewhere from which you can actually call them). As we go we think of strategies: maybe one of us should stay with the Rocket and one should go back; or maybe we should see if we can leave it in the police yard and both go back.
Just as we get there we see a sign for The Crossing Inn and camping area. We spear off to have a look. Merinda at Reception, a big, slow- moving, slow-talking country girl, is welcoming. There is space available, the camping area is fenced and locked at night. We set up, explore. There is a restaurant, don’t get your hopes up for anything fancy, and a bar decorated liberally with signs: “No Spitting, No Abusive Behaviour, No Humbugging, No Bad Language, Police Will Be Called!” We decide to mind our Ps and Qs.
The office also has a very old wall-sized photo of the reason for the town’s name: a mob of cattle being moved across the river by a drover. How remote Fitzroy Crossing would have been in those days.
Who would have thought; the nearest place we can deal with the car is Broome, 400 km away, backwards. It’s Anzac Day, the operator doesn't have their phones on, according to L-R Assistance. Could have to wait for him to get over his hangover tomorrow morning, we think, so much for 24/7. Can’t expect miracles, I guess, it is the tropics. But after a bit of a wait a tow truck is on its way and arrives after a few hours.
The driver, we never did find out his name, is wiry, aggressive, bad-tempered, sour-smelling, with a straggly little bikies beard and wearing a t-shirt with JiggyJig across the chest. Before we have even left the camping area he has snarled at R. Fortunately there is a back seat in the truck cab and we settle ourselves there and keep our heads down, listen to music on our headphones and doze. The one comment we make gets a rude response, and his only conversation is pointing out a group of guards from the refugee detention centre at Derby who are sitting at a roadhouse where we stop for a couple of minutes; he launches into a fierce diatribe about how he would handle asylum seekers that includes sinking their boats, shooting them in the water and saying nothin’ about it. He then lapses into a brooding silence again for the next couple of hundred km.
Back in Broome, who would have thought. Weirdly, Zoe is also here, having cancelled her plans to be in Perth in favour of teleconferencing, so we get to spend a few more days together.
We decide that we might as well become tourists, not much choice, really, so we go to the tourist information office looking hopefully for more things to do. Now Broome is a nice little tourist town, but the range is limited and we have knocked most things off the list already; we do our best, however. The dinosaur footprints in the rocks at Gantheaume Point, the history boards along Shady lane, fish and chips at the restaurant at the Port. We do walks along the beach, look at the sunsets, have a drink at Zanders at Cable Beach with hordes of newly arrived tourists suddenly crowding the bar and the lawns.
We see a couple of movies in the deck chairs at Sun Pictures. Treat ourselves to Choc Tops.
The Stairway to the Moon comes at 6.33pm one evening; it is a totally predictable combination of tide, time, full moon, which results in a ladder of strips of light from the water’s edge to the moon at sunset. It’s stunning and we dine looking at the spectacle but, honestly, we have run out of things to do.
So we head for the beach, do nothing for days on end but laze around, swim, take walks, keep house for Zoe. The water is warm, soft, flat, an improbable number of blues and greens reaching to the vast unbroken horizon. We are swimming one day when I feel a little tingle around my middle. Conscious of the possibility of Irrukanji stingers, which although very unlikely at this time of year can occur, I have a shower and then splash on some vinegar from the bottles strategically placed as first aid near the beach. I had said to Zoe previously, “Well, they say it is incredibly painful, but after all, it can’t kill you.” “Actually,” she says, “People do die.” So I check with the lifeguard, who reassures me, but cautions me that Irrukanji stings usually take 30 minutes to develop their excruciating pain.
I consider this thoughtfully, but I’m sure it’s not Irrukanji. It is, however, something more minor: less lethal stingers that also lurk in the water. I develop a violent rash that lasts a week, itching distractingly even with antihistamines and local anaesthetic lotion, and probably leaving scars. I sure wouldn’t want to meet an Irrukanji; I have a greatly increased respect for the thought of it.
Warwick comes home, with his Dad; they will be driving back to Sydney across the Tanami Track. My Tanami and outback adventure has ended, not with a bang but with a computer malfunction on the dashboard display. I have run out of time and have to go home, I will fly back on the same plane as Zoe. My brother is flying over to drive back with R on a Boys’ Own Adventure.
As everything is packed in Zoe’s house except for 3 plates, three towels, when Warwick and Len arrive R and I move to a tourist resort, the Frangipani, near Cable Beach, paid for by land Rover. It is surreal, we are spending the days beside the pool, we could be in a resort anywhere in Bali, Thailand, Fiji, a thousand tropical paradise destinations.
You just never know what to expect, do you, that’s half the fun.
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