Days at Birdwood Downs start with a little breeze, birdsong, just a hint of the heat that will follow and the gentle sound of the staff breakfast gong from the corrugated iron buildings through the trees. There are little wallabies everywhere, maybe potoroos, delicate and small, a fine silky grey colour, that watch us and then hop neatly away. We sit around reading, take a long walk to nowhere and back, read, chat.
This is always a land of surprises; Hans far from being a sad loner, turns out to be having the time of his life , having chucked in his career as a IT management consultant in the city and taken to managing this station. Is he married? The horse-woman calls him “honey”, so who knows.
We go into Derby to explore. If I say that the tourist information suggests Hug a Boab, and Take a Walk on the Tidal Mudflats, it might give you a clue; discovering Derby isn’t something that will take us long. But we do go to look at the jetty. Derby has been a centre for loading cattle, later iron ore and other mining things and there is a long, rather picturesque jetty. There’s a little restaurant and we make a snap decision to eat there and watch the sunset. It’s a great idea; the jetty silhouetted in front of a tropical sunset is a great way to spend an hour or so. We hardly talk, just sit and watch as it flames into night.
What isn’t so fantastic is the food; in this land of fishing, the barramundi sounded attractive, but when it arrives it is a thin fillet of wet fish that has clearly come out of the freezer. Oh well, the waitress friendly and cheerful and you can’t have everything.
We drive back to Birdwood Downs and settle in for the night. But of course before long we want to move and we unhitch the Rocket and take off up the Gibb. It is scrubby country, little low bushes, the road lying out straight, but as we come over one small crest and onto the flat there is a man standing beside the road flagging us down.
“What’s the problem?”
“I’m bogged up there, been there since 10 last night. Could you give me a lift just back to mobile range?”
He is spattered with grey mud, wild-haired, with no hat, no water, his shirt draped over his head. He hasn’t wasted his time going to the dentist over the last twenty or thirty years. He is evidently in distress. There is a minimum security prison back a bit, and we wonder what his story is, but you can’t just leave him there beside the road. He gets in the back seat and we turn the car round and head back into Derby; I keep an eye on him and R is on full alert.
To begin with he seems quite rational, but pretty soon he slumps down on the back seat, groaning and swearing softly to himself. He tells us a few things but they don’t add add up. Are there really two cars bogged? Does he have a mate out there? He seems quite confused. We have given him some water. After a little while he brings it up again; fortunately he has been able to give us a few seconds warning to stop.
He raises his head a little bit, “Geez, I think you came along just in time, “he says in a weak voice. He hunches over again, rocking, his eyes closed. After a while he adds, “10 k out of town and you could die by the side of the road.” It’s true, It is becoming clear that he is suffering from dehydration and heatstroke and it was a near thing.
When we get close to Derby his mobile suddenly rings. It is his wife. “Come home quick, I feel like shit, I might need to go to the hospital.” We take him to his house. He climbs down from the car, staggers across the lawn, turns on a hose and pours water on himself. He has been begging for ice, but we didn’t have any, and he needs to cool down urgently. He can hardly hold the hose.
His wife arrives; when she gets out of the Toyota she is wearing a Derby Hospital polo shirt, so he is obviously now in safe hands. Somehow with her neat pony tail and clean clothes she doesn’t look as if she would be his wife, but this is another country, things are different here.
It takes a few minutes to get him up; only the threat of calling an ambulance makes him stagger to his feet. He climbs slowly into the car, barefooted, with a towel around his shoulders, and they drive off.
He has said that he owns the Bait and Tackle shop in town, Big Barra. We’ve noticed the signs, it is almost the biggest building in town. “Come in tomorra, I’ll fix you up,” he croaks. Next day, back in Broome, we track down the phone number and call to see if he's ok. Someone answers. “Maybe you can help us. We picked up a bloke up the Gibb yesterday. Does he work there?”
“Yes, it’s my son, I’m mindin’ the shop for ‘im. He’s in hospital for a couple of days on a drip.” We ask him to pass on our regards and that we are pleased to hear he made it. “Yes”, says his Dad, and after a pause, ”I reckon it was real lucky you came along just then.”
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