This segment will cover the first leg of our journey.

The first 5 months from our departure from Brisbane
up until we depart the mainland bound for Tasmania.

2 July, 2008

Our younger son graduated high school over 8 years ago. While attending his graduation ceremony I never thought I’d miss having school-age children. I certainly don’t miss ironing the school uniforms nor attending parent-teacher interviews. I also don’t miss tuckshop duty or digging out archaeological specimens from the bottom of school bags, which may or may not have been the remains of lunches from centuries past. What I do miss is being in the know as to the starting dates of school holidays. This thought actually only just occurred to me when we joined the exodus from Brisbane just as the radio announcer broadcast that this was the first day of the winter school holidays and apparently every man and his dog was leaving Brisbane in a Northerly direction.

Luckily we were turning off the Bruce Highway to join the D’Aguilar Highway heading for Kingaroy via Blackbutt. Whereupon I pondered the great sense of humour our forefathers must have had when they named our suburbs and landmarks. Departing Brisbane we had driven over the Hornibrook Highway, through Woody Point and past Humpybong. What were those guys thinking (or smoking)? But Blackbutt takes the cake! Even the local art gallery is aptly named “Butt Art”.

Blackbutt is an out-of-the-way hamlet, population; next to nothing. We had pulled over at the entrance to the township to let cavalcade of irate drivers, who had been stuck behind our slow moving vehicle, to pass us. Hubby suggested this was a good time to stretch his legs and, by the way, there was an art gallery across the road. Bugger the art gallery; next door I spied a bakery and the idea of fresh, homemade meat pies had my taste buds doing the Rumba. So here, in this sleepy, little one-horse town, miles from Brisbane, while standing in the local bakery, selecting a couple of pies to consume for lunch, who should I bump into but a colleague from work. Coral, and her family, just happened to be passing through on their way to the Bunya Mountains. Who’d have thunk it? It’s a small world after all!

Our next stop was Kingaroy where, in the local “Big 4” caravan park, we met up with our mates from Valla, Ann and Mike. This time it was no coincidence, we had planned to meet up some where in SE Queensland last time we saw them on during our sojourn in Coffs Harbour. Whilst in Kingaroy we visited, amongst other things, the Peanut Museum where we learned that a staggering 13,000 tonnes of peanuts are stashed away in the enormous silos across the road. Let’s not tell the squirrels!

That afternoon we drove down to Maidenwell to visit the observatory. It was a brisk, cloudless night and the stars put on a brilliant show. Jupiter was visible just above the horizon and every star in the sky was visible. We froze our little hynies off but it was worth it. As the roof rolled, back to the soundtrack of “2001, a Space Odyssey”, and the telescopes pivoted skywards we were afforded a voyeur’s view of the galaxy; up close and personal.

Our first night at a free campsite followed and it was not disappointing. By the shores of the Claude Wharton Weir we pulled our van under the shade of a coolabah tree and we sat and we watched as we waited ………. nah; we plugged in our invertor and attached the espresso machine; life’s too short to drink bad coffee. We are really roughing it out here, let me tell you. Apart from the lack of the reverse cycle air-conditioner, we really had everything we needed. In the morning, as an eerie mist rolled over the weir, we warmed ourselves by the campfire whilst frying scrambled eggs. Gee it’s a tough job; but someone’s got to do it!

7 July, 2008

Murphy’s law rules supreme.

Murphy’s law states that whatever can go wrong will go wrong.

At our first free campsite outside of Gayndah, Murphy struck. We decided to try out our new portable gas cooker. When we purchased it we asked the sales person at the camping store if it included everything we would need. “Yes,” came the reply, ” just connect it to a gas bottle and start cooking.” And it did include everything; everything, that is, except the attachment to connect it to the gas bottle. So that night found us cooking over an open fire.

The next day we arrived in Cania Gorge, where there is no mobile phone reception. We had to drive 11km to find a public phone booth so we could phone the Caravan Park at Carnarvon Gorge to book a powered site a few days ahead. We were informed that the whole caravan park is fully booked, because of the school holidays, for over a week. The earliest we could get a site would be 10 July. There goes our plan. Now we have to fill in a whole week. Hmmmm, the warmer climes of coastal Queensland look tempting. Yeppoon here we come.

A couple of months before departing Brisbane, hubby bought a new mobile phone. We thought it wise to get a phone that worked on the Telstra Next-G network that offers the optimum reception in regional Australia. The sales person who served us recommended a particular handset, as it needs a weaker signal and also can be used as a modem to access the Telstra mobile wireless Internet via my lap top. When I inquired what I would need to actually access the Internet he said; and I quote, “Just plug it in via the USB cable and click on Internet explorer.” What he failed to mention was that the software that it comes with needs to be downloaded and it is not supported by the latest version of Windows Operating System; Windows Vista.

If any of you have had to phone Telstra’s call centre in the last 12 months you will be familiar with their voice prompt technology. It starts with the very calm recorded voice of a female asking, “Please describe in just a few words what your inquiry is in relation to”. I can tell you now the recorded voice does not recognise any of the words, which relate to the real reason that I needed their help. While standing in that same public phone booth in Cania Gorge, my blood pressure rose a notch to match each rise in temperature inside the booth every time they forwarded my inquiry to someone else. At about this time I was almost ready to throttle the poor little girl waiting with her father to use the phone booth I was hogging.
“When is that lady going to be finished in there?”, she was harping on to her father.

Lucky for her, hubby was standing between her and me or I may not have been responsible for my actions. After many coins donated to the god of Australian telecommunications I was eventually forwarded to the phone manufacturer who informed me that the software I need to access the Internet is only available; you guessed it, on the Internet.

If I never hear Telstra’s ‘on-hold’ version of “I am Australian” ever again, it will be too soon.

“Please describe in just a few words where you would like me to stick this service”.

That night, as the temperature in Cania Gorge plummeted to sub zero, I warmed my heat-wheat in our microwave oven and blessed it’s little soul as I climbed into my toasty warm bed courtesy of that heat-wheat.

Next morning, as I attempted to warm the milk for my coffee in the same microwave oven, I was bitterly disappointed when the milk came out as cold as it was when it went in. Such was the demise of our microwave oven. As I added another item to our growing shopping list I pondered our contribution to boosting the economy of rural Australia. Luckily we could still warm the whole caravan with in minutes courtesy of the reverse cycle air conditioner which was still working….tphew, tphew, tphew!

14 July, 2008

From your lips to the ear of the Almighty.

Some days are like that; no sooner do you wish for something than it falls into your lap. Last Tuesday was such a day.

We had departed Yeppoon on a raining morning wishing for a sunny day and as we climbed the steep incline to Mount Morgan the clouds cleared. At the summit we pulled into a rest area. The views were breath taking but the coffee, alas, cooled too quickly at that altitude. Hubby lamented that what we needed was insulated coffee mugs. We did have one but had failed to bring it with us and it now lay in the bottom of a box somewhere in storage.

After our cool coffee break we pulled into the old train station at Mount Morgan, which is now a museum and tourist information centre. The town itself boomed during the gold mining era which saw the mountain levelled to harvest the gold, silver and copper which lay within. I wandered off, as usual, to take a photo or ten and discovered a fascinating 3D film being screened in a converted rail carriage about the engineering feat of creating the rail line up the razor back mountain.

Hubby had popped into the information centre/merchandise outlet. We bumped into each other each on a mission of our own. I to convince him to watch this 3D movie and he to convince me to fill on some questionnaire …something about getting some free coffee mugs. After hubby sat through the movie at my bequest I was then to fulfil my half of the bargain.

“What do I need coffee mugs for?” I questioned. But it appeared I had missed the point completely.

They were handing out free insulated coffee mugs to each mug who would complete their verkakte quiz.

“But how the hell should I know how many sheep Jacky Howe had sheared in the dot?” I lamented. 

With little time to swat for a test the country ladies and their big hearts had given hubby all the answers and all I had to do was copy them down. Don’t get me wrong I don’t usually have to cheat to get the perfect score, but I was prepared to compromise my principles for a hot cup of coffee…just this once.

Before departing I headed to the one place that is always on the top of my must-see list, the Ladies restroom. Here, apart from the usual array of porcelain was the last thing I expected to see in the Ladies restroom on a railway platform, a piano. Not a grand piano, nor a baby grand, just a plain old, everyday, upright piano. I guess you just never know when the urge may take you to tinkle the ivory while sitting on your stool.
 

As we were departing the generous town of Mount Morgan with our said stainless steel, insulated coffee mugs firmly in our hot little hands hubby commented that the scenery had not changed much and was getting a tad boring. As the last syllable was slipping from his lips we came over the crest of the hill to find a totally different vista; wide open plains stretched as far as the eye could see, replacing the eucalypt scrub land we had been in for ever. We looked at each other in awe.

“I think I spoke too soon.” Hubby gasped.

Beyond the open plains lay coal mines and on the outskirts of the next town, Moura, as testament to the Queensland’s resource boom, row upon row of demountable housing for the sudden influx of mining staff to this sleepy little back water.

After pulling into the free campsite by the side of the Dawson River, heading out of Moura, Hubby said with a twinkle in his eye, “Looks like everything I desire comes my way today”
“IN. YOUR. DREAMS, boychick,” I replied, “even the Almighty doesn’t wield THAT much power!”

16 July 2008

We are currently at the gem fields outside Emerald. The weather has improved immensely, so much so that everyone here at Rubyvale had to put their sunglasses on today. Not just because the sun was shining but because it was so hot I finally could don my shorts pants and my lily-white legs were blindingly bright.

We recently spent an amazing 4 nights at Carnarvon Gorge. We arrived in Carnarvon Gorge around lunchtime on Thursday and met up with a couple we had been neighbours with at the Cania Gorge Caravan Park, a thoroughly charming couple from Mooloolaba, Ted and Janine. We also became aquatinted with some of the locals, a family of Apostle birds. These noisy plump birds live in extended family groups of up to 15 with only one pair retaining breading rights. The whole group takes responsibility for raising and tending to that pair’s chicks.

The next day we decided to trek the length of the gorge meandering through primeval forest reminisce of the set of Jurassic Park. We zigzagged back and forth across the river all day. As we forded the river for the 19th time by way of conveniently located stepping stones, I pondered the theory that the shortest distance between two points being a straight line. I considered the concept of travelling back along the almost dry riverbed, but the large river rocks would have made the going hard and discounted this idea almost immediately.

We made it to the Cathedral, an outcrop protecting a wall of Aboriginal stencil art dating back to pre-European colonisation by lunchtime. At this point we turned around and headed back. Along the way back a large grey kangaroo was happily grazing on our path. It was not at all perturbed by our presence and standing at least 1.8m tall and with razor sharp claws on it powerful legs there was little doubt in either of our minds as to whom had right of way.

At a conveniently located ablution block along the path I decided to leave my deposit and was intrigued by the sign on the wall. "Please depress foot pump after use." I started out by telling it about the slump in the share market and its impact upon us self-funded retirees, compounded by the rising fuel prices the life of the Grey Nomad was seriously in doubt, though not yet to the point of extinction. I went on to say how my arthritis is playing up and concluded with a brief description of the plight of the refugees in Darfur region of Sudan. I still don’t see how all that helped dispose of my little souvenir in the bottom of the pan, and I don’t know about the foot pump, but I was certainly depressed after that lot.

All up we had trekked over 20km. We retired early that night with aching muscles but thankfully no blistered feet. In Rockhampton, a few days before, I had purchased a pair of good hiking boots with some money gifted me by my colleagues. So you guys were all on my mind as I enjoyed a pain-free hike along Carnarvon Gorge and again two days later (we needed one day to recover) when we made our assault on the Boolimbah Bluff. Although only 6.2km return this trek was, by all accounts, a strenuous ascent. And it was. Very steep and even a few ladders to climb. We enjoyed morning tea at the summit although due to the cloud cover the view was not as spectacular as it usually is. By the time we had returned to the Ranger Station the clouds had completely cleared and I suggested to hubby that we dash back to the top to get some good photos. Predictable this suggestion was not received with enthusiasm. Any muscles that had not suffered from Friday’s effort were put to the test this day.

While in Carnarvon Gorge, I even managed to catch a fleeting glimpse of an elusive platypus that inhabits a water hole near our campsite. Unfortunately it was so late in the evening that the light level precluded my taking a photograph to prove my sighting so you’ll just have to take my word for it.

Murphy has waved his dastardly wand over us once more but finally, after a dozen phone calls to our service provider, we have we been successful in obtaining satellite TV reception. There were some problems with our smart card (or not so smart card as the case may be) as all the channels were scrambled. Except Expo, the shopping channel. They were selling a machine that can turn your flab into a six pack and your water into wine for just 6 easy repayments of $49.95 plus postage and handling, but wait there’s more! For the first 100 callers who pay via credit card they will throw in a set of steak knives. Wouldn’t you know it; such a bargain and no mobile phone reception where we were; drats! Oh well, there really is no space in the caravan for one more useless item anyway.

20 July 2008

On the topic of Capricorns on the Tropic Capricorn.

For the past few days we two Capricorns have been tenaciously following the Tropic of Capricorn as it stretches westwards across Queensland.

After departing Rubyvale on Friday last, we continued along the Capricorn Highway; the slaughterhouse capital of Queensland. We have seen more kangaroo road-kill per square kilometre here than anywhere else to date. Though with the hike in fuel costs it could be a bonanza for some down-and-out grey nomads if one comes across it soon enough and one likes kangaroo steaks and one gets there before the eagles. Although if one is lucky enough and the eagle is slow taking off from his bitumen smorgasbord one could score a meal of red and white meat in one hit….so to speak.

We certainly won’t be buying any bush meat around here.

By Lunchtime we had crossed the Jordan River and we found ourselves on the Wast Bank in Jericho. Though there was no sign of Joshua or his band of trumpeters (Joshua 6.20). We free camped that night at the Jericho showgrounds along with a handful of other pilgrims.

Next day we came to the end of the Capricorn Highway at Barcaldine, home of the Australian Labour Party. We were asked to perform some ancient ritual at the Tree of Knowledge by our friend, Noga, but alas the tree has died and has been taken to Brisbane for restoration or fossilisation or cloning or something. Two years ago the Tree of Knowledge was poisoned, coincidently about that time wasn’t Noga in Barcaldine????…hummm….I wonder if there could be a connection between the two. Noga, is there something you need to confess?

After we left Barcaldine and the Capricorn Highway we motored on along the Landsborough Highway to Ilfracombe, a real west town where the highlight is Hilton's bottle collection. We met old Hilton and enjoyed his very eclectic collection of all things glass or rusty. From there we continued to Longreach.

Capital of the Cockies, you can’t swing a cat around here without hitting a Toyota Landcruiser. We have seen all the obligatory tourist sights while here such as the Stockmen’s Hall of Fame and the Qantas Museum. All icons of the outback.

As the average temperature hovers around 47 degrees Celsius in December they were celebrating Christmas in July here this week so as to have a more authentic winter Christmas feel. It was only 30 degrees Celsius here this week ….. yeah, sure, far more authentic!!!!!

25 July 2008

Rain Maker – Drought Breaker

That’s it! I’m hanging out my shingle. Farmers take note; for an all expenses paid two-day vacation on your property I will, all but, guarantee that much-needed rain so that this year’s crop may be planted. However, if you are planing on harvesting anytime soon, pay me to spend a few days on the property of your worse enemy; that’ll damped their spirits.

In theory, our plan was spotless. We travelled from Winton to the Bladensburg National Park where we bush camped for two nights. Bladensburg is on the way to the Lark Quarry Dinosaur Tracks, more or less and the plan was to save a bit of time by staying in Bladensburg before heading down to Lark Quarry. And it would have been successful had it not been for the rain. It never rains there in July, or so we were assured. However they didn’t know I was in town. The rain started on our second night in Bladensburg and continued all the next day. What should have been an easy hour and a half drive to Lark Quarry ended up taking 3 ½ hours.

After leaving the Bladensburg National Park, a slippery affair in itself, travellers coming in the opposite direction, warned us of the worsening road conditions. But did we take heed?
 
The road-train, stuck up to its multiple axels in the mud should have rung warning bells, but, as ever tenacious, I convinced Hubby to continue on. Given half a chance he would have done a u-turn and headed straight back to Winton. But onwards we pushed, sometime resorting to low range gears in 4-wheel drive just to maintain our slug speed momentum.

Finally we jack-knifed down the drive into Lark Quarry and arriving three and a half hours and 95 million years ago. The weather conditions on that day were similar to the one we experienced. The mud was wet and slippery. Thousands of small chook size carnivores and some slightly larger herbivores found themselves trapped between a rock and a hard place; the large expanse of water and a very large, very hungry, two tonne Carnosaur hell bent on making dinner out of them. Frozen in time by a freak coincidence, a period of dry wind blew a layer of sand and silt and over the deep prints. The ensuing years saw layer upon layer of sandstone cover and preserving the evidence until the late 1960’s when a hapless opal fossicker stubbled upon them by chance.

The helter skelter event of the panic-stricken hoards fleeing for their lives was immortalised in the dinosaur stampede scene in Steven Spielberg’s Jurassic Park. I wonder if our higgledy piggledy boot prints in the mud covered parking lot may be discovered 95 million years from today and some future palaeontologist may interpret our plight as having been pursued by some multi wheeled creature trying to trap us.

After extraditing ourselves from our mud encrusted vehicle we met our guide, Bill and were afforded a private guided tour as no more tourists turned up that afternoon. Hardly surprising after we were informed they had, unbeknownst to us, closed the road from Winton that morning. The guided tour was fascinating and Bill had an infectious enthusiasm for and vast knowledge of the subject of the dinosaurs of the region. He enjoyed a good chinwag and our extended time in his company was enjoyable.    

As there was little chance of our 4 tonne rig climbing back up the driveway out of the quarry let alone getting through to Winton again that day we hankered down in the parking lot of Lark Quarry. We settled down for a cold night with extra blankets on and prayed for sunshine a brisk wind to dry the road in the morrow.

As luck would have it our prayers were answered and the stiff wind and sunshine the next day made the road back to Winton passable if not completely uneventful. It took two hours to get there and another two hours to wash the tonnes of mud off our vehicle and caravan.

30 July 2008

Pickled

Arriving back in Winton the day before the scheduled Camel races, but were disappointed to learn they had been postponed for two more days due to it having been the wettest day in July in 130 years. Little wonder seeing as how I was in town, but I guess camel races in slippery mud would be like “Disney on Ice” meets “Lawrence of Arabia”. Unfortunately our schedule did not allow us to tarry in Winton any longer. After visiting the museum to "Walzing Matilda" we continued on our way.

Passing through Corfield the next day we discovered we were two weeks too early to attend the “Corfield Cup” and I wondered how many hapless tourists have been duped into travelling to the race day in this one-horse town instead of the “Caulfield Cup” in Melbourne. Well, I presume it’s not a one-horse town on race day or it would be a bookies nightmare as everyone would bet on the winner.

Anyway, as luck would have it Corfield was closed the day we drove through. At least the only building in the whole town, the pub, had a closed sign hanging up. So we couldn’t even buy a beer there. Can you imagine a pub being closed in Australia at 1pm on a Friday afternoon?

We continued on the dinosaur trail arriving in Hughenden. Where we saw the original Muttaburrasaurus; well not alive of course, but the fossilised skeletal remains thereof. We also trekked the Porcupine Gorge; an oasis in an otherwise dry landscape. It was an easy walk down into the deep gorge. The views were breath taking, as was the hike back up.

The next day we drove on through Richmond; originally part of an enormous inland ocean covering thousands of square kilometres and home to the Kronosaurus, a giant crocodile type reptile. Richmond shire is about as big as Belgium and as flat as Holland but void of any endearing feature, like trees or water; let alone chocolates.

After a long boring drive though some of the flattest, most barren countryside we’ve seen to date, we arrived in Julia Creek and found the Caravan Park there had its own thermal spa fed from an artesian bore. It was a toasty 41.5 deg C. By the time we extradited ourselves from the bubbly brine at beer o’clock we were almost pickled but not completely until we returned to the caravan and consumed a couple of cold tinnies with our names on them. The perfect way to end a long hot day on the road.

4 August 2008

Sinners, repent ye no more.

I have it on good authority that they’ve shut Hell’s Gate.

This piece of astonishing news came to us by way of the local tourist information office. After some small talk, one of the volunteers we were chatting with hit us with this bombshell.

“You know Hells Gate’s closed, don’t you” the cheery volunteer asked.

She seemed surprised that this was news to us when I added, “Since when?”

“Oh, a couple of years now.” She adds nonchalantly

Two years ago I was in a serious accident. T-boned by a car whilst riding my motor scooter, I suffered several broken bones and regained consciousness lying prostrate on the road. Perhaps that was when the gates were closed and for this reason I bounced back from the other side, no room at the inn.

I spent several weeks in hospital, maybe it was on the news then and that’s why I didn’t hear about it at the time. Or maybe world leaders have conspired to keep this hush-hush to minimise the pandemonium that may ensue if the general public gets wind of it and anarchy breaks out.

I made a mental note to check the CNN and BBC web sites and ‘Google’ it next time I have Internet reception.

“Permanently closed?”  I continue with my inquiry.

“Just till they can find a new manager.”

It’s obviously hard to get good help these days.

“Is that likely to happen any time soon” I wondered out loud.

“Not likely, no one wants to live there. It’s hot as…as…”

“Hell? ” I offer

“Well, yes, you could say that.” She agrees.

“Where would someone advertise such a job?”

“The local rag usually has such ads” She advised me, “It’s not far from here.”

What kind of town is this, I wondered, that they have such direct dealings with the dark side and are so free to admit it?

“So do a lot of locals go there?” I ask, eager to learn their dark secrets.

“Sure, they pass through there all the time”. She admits.

“But none have stayed?” I marvel.

“You really wouldn’t want to stay,” she continues, “you’ll see when you get there.”

“How do you know I’ll end up there?” I ask astonished that she presumes to know me that well after having only exchanged few sentences. Did she possess extra sensory perception?

“It is on the route you are taking from Doomadgee to Borroloola. Make sure you fill up with fuel at Doomadgee. Because they closed the roadhouse at Hell’s Gate there isn’t any fuel available there any more.”

“The roadhouse at Hell’s Gate is closed then?” I reiterate.

She looks at me as though I’m one sandwich short of a picnic.

“Bloody tourists!” I can almost hear her mutter as the door slams shut behind us, keeping out the flies and the midday heat.

Sinners, repent ye no less.

10 August, 2008

The Death of a Legend.

He was rapping even before rap had been invented. He put the true meaning of soul into soul music.

As a broken hearted teenager coping with first love lost, I found solace in his dulcet tones. My first love had waltzed in and out of my life too many times, treating my heart like a revolving door. Each time the ragged edges of the hole in my heart were smoothed away with Ike’s soulful rap. The groove in the vinyl deepened with each revolution of my turntable. I played the same record time after time.

When I left Australia to travel the world as a 17-year-old, I copied his records onto tape and took them with me.

In 2000 I was blessed to see him performing live at Milwaukee Summerfest. By chance he was performing on stage the day we were there. I was in raptures.

A few days ago the news was broken on the CNN satellite TV station. On the bottom of the screen the words that brought a tear to my eye, “Isaac Hayes, dead at 65”.

15 August 2008

The road less travelled.

Up here, the road less travelled is heavily corrugated and covered in red dust. Our only companions are a couple of emus, a few kangaroos, a solitary dingo and millions of flies.

After departing Karumba we left the sealed roads behind us and headed through Normanton to Burketown, a route that took us two days to navigate only 220km.

The whole way we travelled with clenched teeth to prevent the filings in our teeth from popping out and as we did we could feel the grit from the road which was bone jarring corrugated. We camped alone for the first time since departing Brisbane. As there were no gazetted campsites between the two towns we simply pulled off by a billabong and were kept company by only a herd of floppy eared Brahma cattle and their sweet faced calves and about a billion flies.

From Burketown we diverted from our planned route to venture into Boodjamulla the national park formerly known as Lawn Hill.

We canoed the gorge and hiked the cliffs. It is a place that surpasses even Carnarvon Gorge, so great is its natural beauty.

After three nights at Lawn Hill we braved the more rugged road to Kingfisher Camp. The route here was even more arduous than the trip to Burketown with dips filled with bull dust the texture of talcum powder and corrugations that shook us to the bone. Creeks filled with water, the abode of crocodiles, that had to be traversed on foot first to ensure it was not too deep for the car and van and as the designated sacrificial lamb I was the one who had to walk it. The current was fast and the waters chilly but the toughest bit was walking over the stony ford in bare feet. I carried a hiking pole as my only means of defence against any hungry crocodiles, but I encountered none, only a zillion flies.

100km of the 140km to Kingfisher, was through a corner of the Lawn Hill Station a piddling 11,000sq.km cattle ranch. The trip took over 5 hours not only because of the rugged terrain but also because every few kilometres we had to stop while the sacrificial lamb also functioned as designated gate opener and closer. There were more than 15 gates along the way and the code of the country is "leave the gates as you find them".

While in Kingfisher Camp we celebrated our 33rd wedding anniversary by hiring a tinny with outboard motor and spending the morning bird watching and crocodile spotting. After two nights in Kingfisher Camp we pushed onwards toward Hells Gate, which indeed was closed and from there to the border of the Northern Territory.

By the time we reached Borroloola we hade covered over 1,000km of unsealed, red dust roads, forded more than 8 waterways and swatted more flies than most people have probably seen in their lifetime.

As fate would have it, we arrived in Borroloola on their annual show day. Anyone who has ever been to the Royal Easter Show in Sydney or the EKKA in Brisbane should try imagining .01% of that and then halve it again. There was one dusty oval with some cowboys riding bucking bulls, one stall selling Dagwood Dogs and one tent with Dodgem Cars, no ferrous wheel, no fairy floss, but a gazillion flies. TOO MANY BLOODY FLIES…ENOUGH WITH THE FLIES ALREADY!

24 August 2008

To err is human

Whilst shopping around for a caravan, one of the things that attracted us to this one above all others was the voluminous kitchen storage. Of course voluminous is comparative. There was voluminous storage in comparison to all the other caravans that were on our short list. However when we packed up our kitchen and tried to fit 8 cubic meters into 2 cubic meters things went seriously pear shaped.

In an endeavour to bring with us more of the things we thought were absolutely essential, we emptied half-used bottles of just about everything into smaller plastic bottles. In my eternal wisdom, I thought I’d remember exactly what was in each identical plastic bottle and in a moment of complete naivety the idea of actually labelling each one flew out the window together with all common sense.

Two months down the track and the having shuffled endless bottles from one spot to another in a futile attempt to fit in one more thing and to ensure that everything always stands upright, my memory is showing distinct signs of early onset Alzheimers.

In an unlabelled bottle you would be surprised to hear how much butterscotch schnapps resembles cooking oil. While butterscotch schnapps is great combined with Baileys Irish Cream in a cocktail which draws its name from a particular act between two consenting cowboys, it does not make the chips very crispy when used instead of cooking oil. On the other hand, after eating half a dozen, no one seems to gives a damn. 

5 September 2008

Going Bush

This blog has nothing to do with the up coming US elections and all to do with the great Aussie preoccupation of communing with nature.

The “bush” is the Aussie colloquialism for the wilderness. Out in the rural areas of Australia the typical Aussie bloke (male) prefers to commune with nature on a recreation level. This usually entails a late night tryst into the bush on the back of a mate’s ute (pick-up), a spot light or two and some rifles (shot-guns) and results in numerous dead kangaroos and/or wild boar. At one Caravan Park we stayed at in outback Queensland, the owner proudly introduced us to his pet Joey (baby kangaroo). When I innocently asked if he had saved it when its mother had become a road-kill statistic he blithely answered,
“Na, I shot its mum and kept the baby for the kids to play with.”
“How humane of you!” I wanted to reply, but felt my sarcasm may be interpreted as a compliment by this Neanderthal.

Since embarking on our epic journey around this little Island of ours we have endeavoured, when ever possible, to free camp. It is a more cost effective way to see the country side whilst going bush and entails camping off the main road and hoping we are not trespassing on land belonging to any irate farmers with spot lights on their utes.

Around mid afternoon we start looking for likely tracks leading off the highway. Preferably far enough away so as not to be shaken out of our beds when road trains pass in the wee hours. A road train is a semi towing up to 4 trailers behind it, containing fuel or cattle or other paraphernalia, and is usually longer than the average Olympic swimming pool and frequently travelling at speeds of up to 130km per hour.

Recently we discovered the delights of the ‘Telstra Hilton’. Not just 5 star accommodation but 5 million stars. Our nation’s communications supplier has conveniently located their radio repeater towers just off the main highways. They provide well maintained gravel roads, big enough for a truck, or in our case, a caravan to turn around in and a jolly big directional finder, every 40 or so kilometres, sticking up hundreds of feet into the sky for us to locate them by. They make great free camps provided they are not located on a farmer’s property and separated from the highway by a gate. The only down side is that radio signal travels best in a straight line of sight and thus the towers are on top of hills and thus tend to be a tad windy. The last one we stayed at was so windy it almost blew us away.

When looking for a suitable bush-camp other prerequisites include a bit of shade, a suitable clearance to light a campfire and some private areas for when nature calls. As these free campsites do not usually come with handy conveniences each tree can be considered as a lav-a-tree. Now for all you blokes this is sufficient but we ladies need to lower our nether regions closer to mother earth and in some regions of outback Australia, spinifex grass abounds. Spinifex is an attractive spiky plant that, like coral, grows on the skeletal remains of its previous generations. The needle-sharp spikes are to be given wide birth, and herein lies the moral of this tale.

“Ladies, if nature calls when going bush; beware the Spinifex, or more to the point, (excuse the pun); be where it ain’t.”

18 September, 2008

On the sly.

In this neck of the woods, some things are forbidden. Luckily, unlike in many Middle Eastern countries we will not be stoned if caught. So here we hide behind locked doors and shuttered windows and do what people around the world do in Hotels.

I’m talking about drinking alcohol of course…. What were you thinking?

In an endeavour to curb child and wife abuse among the indigenous people of the Northern Territory the government introduced what is known as “the Intervention”. It means that there is a total ban on alcohol consumption in aboriginal communities and limits the time when it is possible to purchase take away alcohol outside these communities. No bottle shops are open before 2pm and it is prohibited to sell wine in casks after 6pm; a very small window of opportunity for the weary traveller.

While we were in Kakadu we consumed our last cask of Merlot and as we were passing through Katherine our stop over there had to be extended till 2pm to replenish our stock. We did a bit of shopping, collected our mail order coffee from the post office and basically twiddled our thumbs for a couple of hours. As the witching hour of 2pm approached we joined the throng of desperadoes standing outside the bottle shop feigning an interest in the adjacent music shop. We stood out in the crowd like the proverbial sore thumb; and not just because of our daggy cargo shorts. The intervention, so as not to appear discriminatory applies to all, even the traveller is not exempt.

So while in the less than picturesque hamlet Hermannsburg, even though we were the sole occupants of the Caravan Park surrounded by 2.4m high padlocked fence topped with four strands of barbed wire, instead of eating our dinner al fresco we sit in our caravan and drink alcohol on the sly.

28 September, 2008

The land of milk and honey and the 5c refund

We’ve watched the sunrise and sunset over Uluru and, out of courtesy to the original inhabitants, abstaining from climbing it. Further south along the road that divides Australia in half vertically, we came to a town in the middle of nowhere that the black fellows called “white man’s burrows”. Because underground the temperatures are a constant 23 deg Celsius year round while outside in summer it soars to over 45 deg on a daily basis the opal miners at Coober Pedy have been digging their dwellings into the rock face since the 1800’s.

The roadside leading into and out of Coober Pedy is a bizarre moon like landscape.  Created by the accumulated mounds of earth dug from the pits vacuumed out and deposited on the surface in neat conical forms. It resembles rows of tents in an Afghan refugee camp.

Heading south we made a brief stopover at Woomera. As an Army brat growing up in the 1960’s, Woomera was a name I heard mentioned often: a place classmates were either arriving from or departing to as their Army dads were transferred. The Cold War made missile testing the in thing to do and in Australia and Woomera was the in place to do it. A tidy town, though now almost deserted, Woomera still exudes an air of past anticipation.

Until we hit Port Augusta, the way continued to be hot, red and dusty. South from Port Augusta the landscape transformed dramatically into picture-postcard perfection. We drove past rolling green hills, thick like plush pile carpet with ripening wheat, pastures dotted with sheep, fluffy and white in their winter woolly coats with plump little lambs at foot and old stone farmhouses. At the free campground where we are staying, the beach is only a hop, skip and a jump from our caravan and when the tide is low people walk out and pick up crabs by the bucket load; free for the taking. If you think this sounds like heaven, you’re right, but wait there’s more.

We have been travelling nearly three months and every week we consume a few bottles of soft drink. To the average man on the street this may seem insignificant but to those of you who are observant you will have noticed that written in fine print on every plastic soft drink bottle. It states that each bottle is eligible for a 5-cent refund in the State of South Australia and that’s what really makes this state the land of milk and honey.

Knowing that we would sooner or later get to South Australia I’ve been diligently saving all those spent bottles. I have had sleep sitting up for the last month and a half because they have taken up all my bed space in the caravan but now it’s time to get my reward.  Let’s see 85 bottles at 5 cents each…..WOW I’ll be rich, well at least $4.25 richer.

Some spoil-sport has calculated they probably weigh over 5 kg and have increased our fuel consumption by .1%. With Diesel prices of up to $2.30 in some of the more remote areas, that equals $25 in addition fuel for the entire journey. But, gee, when I get that 5 cent refund it will all be worth while. Isn’t this really the land of milk and honey?

9 October 2008

A Case of Evaporation

I just went to the cupboard and found, shock, horror, that yet another bottle of gin has evaporated. It’s a shocking fact that while caravanning through the outback gin tends to evaporate at an alarming rate.

When we packed up the house to make our transition to Grey Nomads, as an after thought, I tossed in a half full bottle of gin we had purchased duty free while passing the time of day at Ben Gurion Airport awaiting a return flight to Australia.

It was 1996, the year Australia defeated Sri Lanka 2-0 to win the World Series Cup, Lisa Marie Presley filed for divorce from Michael Jackson, Prince Charles and Princess Di signed divorce papers, Jim Carrey was starring in "Cable Guy", a free internet E-mail service called HotMail was launched, the XXVI Olympic games open in Atlanta, Georgia, George Burns, Ella Fitzgerald, Ginger Rogers, Erma Bombeck and Carl Sagan all shuffled off this mortal coil and I bought a bottle of gin for $15 duty free.

By the time we had reached Burketown on the 6th of August, a mere 5 weeks after embarking on this epic journey, that original bottle of gin had completely evaporated. Burketown is probably not the optimum place to have to buy grog. Apart from the fact that it is virtually in the middle of nowhere and grog is twice the price as anywhere else, it is also smack bang in the middle of a restricted alcohol zone and thus grog is only available during limited times and in limited quantities. It cost me three times that of the duty free bottle of gin and damn if it hadn’t completely evaporated in just 6 weeks.

I’m going to try keeping this new bottle of gin in the refrigerator to reduce the chances of it evaporating.

Oh…will you look at that, it’s time for another G&T. See you all later….cheers!

14 October 2008

Three States in Two Days.

We spent the evening of Rosh Hashanah (Jewish New Year) in Adelaide. After attending the Shule we were invited to the home of a delightful couple, Allen and Vivian B. Together with the company of Miriam and Leon Z, Allen’s brother and sister-in-law and Vivian’s mother and assorted offspring, the evening was very entertaining and the meal most delicious.

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The next day we arrived at the Barossa Valley and sojourned there for six days. It was an unexpectedly long stay but most delightful. The reason for this long extension to our planned two-day stop can be read on my next blog, "The Barossa Bride".

On October 6 we free camped on the shore of bonny Lake Bonney within spitting distance of the waters edge. After a windy night we awoke to a cloudless balmy 1.9-degree morning. With no electricity we contemplated opening the door of the gas operated refrigerator to warm up the caravan.

The next day we crossed from South Australia into Victoria. That night we free camped on the banks of the mighty Murray River a hop, skip and jump from the 9th Lock. The following day we drove into Mildura arriving at almost the same moment at the Deakin Centre as the Governor General, Her Excellency Ms Quentin Bryce AC . Then just as quickly, we slipped across the Murray River and into New South Wales as the caravan park we were staying at was located over the boarder making it three states in two days.

After two days in Mildura we travelled deeper into NSW to visit the moonscape of Mungo National Park.

Abounding with kangaroo and emu it was the site of the discovery of the oldest human remains in Australia. Though in the days of Mungo Woman, 30,000 years ago, it was a very different vista, with vast fresh-water lakes full of ample seafood and wild life coming to drink from it afforded her plenty to feast upon. In the 1860’s it was home to thriving sheep stations. Today it is still a fascinating place to visit, though the lakes have completely dried up together with the water skiing industry. It now boasts immense mobile sand dunes resembling a scene from Lawrence of Arabia.

Today finds us whiling our time away in Swan Hill Victoria as we await the arrival of a vital part to our hot water system that has recently died. This caravan is starting to resemble my grandfather’s favourite axe; he only ever replaced the handle three times and the head twice.

The Barossa Bride

On October 28, 1841, 213 emigrants from Prussia arrived at Port Misery in South Australia. As impoverished Lutherans fleeing religious persecution from the Prussian King, Frederick William III they were perhaps the first refugee, boat people to arrive in South Australia.

Setting sail on 11 July 1841, the Skjold, a 460 tons sailing ship took 98 days to make the journey. Among the 213 on board were Johann Christian Henschke, his wife Appolonia Wilhelmine (née Sparmann) and their three surviving children: nine-month-old Johanne Luise had died on June 29 1841 while they were awaiting departure from Hamburg.

This was no pleasure cruise; there were 41 deaths on the passage, principally among the children. The disease was dysentery. Among those who did not survive to see Australia were Johann’s wife, Appolonia Wilhelmine who died at sea, on August 8 1841 and their six-year-old son, Johann Friedrich Wilhelm, who died at sea on September 30 1841: they were both buried at sea.

Upon arrival, with his two surviving children (Johann Gottlieb, 10 and Johann August, 8), Johann Christian stayed briefly at Klemzig and Hahndorf, then settled for a time at Lobethal where he married Dorothea Elisabeth Schmidt. In about 1847 they settled at Krondorf village near Bethany, where his house and outbuildings still stand today.

With the help of a son from his second marriage, Paul Gotthard, he planted a small vineyard on a property he had acquired in Keyneton during the early 1860s, probably initially with the intention of making enough wine for consumption by family and relatives. The first vintage in 1868 was about a 300-gallon production. Later, in 1891 Paul purchased land with a small planting of vines near the Gnadenberg Church, which was to become known as the Hill of Grace vineyard. Gnadenberg is German for “Hill of Grace”.

In the mid 1970’s Johann’s great-great grand daughter, Ingid Dallwitz married Richard Glastonbury in the Gnadenberg Church, the church in which Johann’s son, Paul, had been the organist for many years.

Having met Ingrid when we both worked at Office Interiors, I discovered that she and Richard lived only a few blocks from our home in Sherwood. For many years Ingrid and Richard had sojourned in Brisbane, only returning to the family land holding in Krondorf seven years ago.

During our journey around Australia I made a point of looking them up and was honoured when invited to photograph the wedding of their elder daughter, Ilona.

On Sunday 5 October Johann’s great-great-great grand daughter, Ilona Glastonbury married Craig Butcher in the same church where her parent had wed.

The reception was held at Kabminye, the vineyard, cellar door and restaurant Ingrid and Richard have built and run on the ancestral property in Krondorf settled by Johann Christian all those years ago.

How proud he would be to know that six generations have him to thank for taking that very brave step to leave his motherland to journey half way around the world to start a new life in the far off land of Australia. How lucky is Australia: a richer place because of the likes of Johann Christian Henschke and all the refugees who have made great contributions to our society, then and since.

3 November, 2008

the Australian Psyche

Our national song is about a thief, our heroes are bushrangers and our best remembered moments in history have been defeats. To say Australians love the underdog is an understatement. But where did it start?

In the 1850’s gold was discovered in Victoria. On the gold fields the miners were sentimentally known as diggers because of their propensity to dig holes; mines, many of whom where Irish rebels. More than 50,000 Irish rebels were exiled to Australia before the end of transportation in 1840 bringing their mistrust of British authority with them. Many of the transported convicts were also agitators, political activists and union organisers. When licences were imposed upon the diggers in Ballarat, the rabble-rousers revolted culminating in the Eureka Stockade that ended when the authorities launched a pre-emptive strike on the 120 diggers who were manning the stockade on Saturday, December 2, 1854. The battle was all over in 15-20 minutes. Five British troops and 22 diggers were killed or later died of their wounds.

Surprisingly, the Chinese, who made up the majority of foreign nationals on the goldfields, were not involved in the Eureka Stockade. It is well known that the Chinese saved all their earnings from their gold diggings and sent most of it home to their families. The English and Irish, of whom most Australians are descendent, spent the lot at the multitude of pubs in town before heading back down the mine to find more. When the going gets tough; the tough get drunk.

Today the battle and the flag that flew over the Eureka Stockade symbolise the birth of the Australian democracy.

If you ask any Australian today who is the most well known Australian most will say Ned Kelly.

Ned Kelly was the first-born son of an Irish Catholic couple. His father, John ‘Red’ Kelly was an ex-convict, transported for the theft of two pigs. In Australia, Red supplemented his income by horse stealing. After his arrest and gaoling for horse stealing, Red died before finishing his sentence.

At the age of 14, Ned Kelly was arrested for stealing 10 shillings from a Chinese man and reputedly announced that he 'was going to be a bushranger'. Ned and his Gang of misunderstood poor Irish settlers were declared outlaws after raids on several banks. After more bank robberies, the Kelly Gang had their 'last stand' in the small town of Glenrowan, Victoria in 1880, where they took 60 hostages in a hotel.  Following his arrest after the infamous Glenrowan shoot-out, Kelly was hanged on 11th November 1880 at Melbourne Gaol. His immortal last words were 'Such is life'.

Our best know national song, ‘Waltzing Matilda’ which was penned by Australia’s favourite poet, Banjo Patterson, is a tale of a bum who stole some landowner’s sheep to have for his dinner. When cornered with the evidence he chose to commit suicide by drowning himself rather than face the music.

When the going gets tough; the tough cop out.

In WWI, the Great War, the word 'mate' became interchangeable with the word 'digger'. The Aussie diggers, as our soldiers are still lovingly known, blindly followed British command and found themselves on the beaches of the Gallipoli Peninsula in Turkey. The campaign was an heroic but costly failure. Every year on the anniversary of the landing of the first troops at Gallipoli we take the day off to remember all those who died in all the wars, it’s called Anzac Day. Australians also flock to Gallipoli, and in particular Anzac Cove, in their thousands, young and old, on an annual basis to commemorate over 26,000 casualties and the nine Victoria Crosses won by soldiers in Australian units.

But if there is anything Australians love more than the under dog it’s having a bet. It is said that Australians will bet on two flies crawling up a wall. On the first Tuesday of November each year the nation stops to watch a horse race. Yesterday was such a day. In a year of catastrophic stock market falls, rising unemployment and the threat of a recession, Australians waged record amounts on 22 horses running the wrong way around a racetrack. On the same day the Reserve Bank of Australia reduced the interest rate by a massive 75 base points yet this was not enough to knock the Melbourne Cup from the headlines on the news that night.

When the going gets tough the tough go to the races.

And that, folks, in a nutshell, is the Australian psyche.

18 November 2008

Having been on holidays for over 135 days we desperately needed to have a holiday from our holiday and booked into a resort at Lakes Entrance on the south east coast of Victoria.

The sheer volume of available space here in our room at the resort is just amazing. There’s room enough to swing a cat, perhaps even two, though you might like to wear leather gauntlets if you want to try this. The kitchen alone has more circulation space than our entire caravan, which is so small that I have to go outside if I want to change my mind.

The unit even has a bedroom. Can you imagine that, a whole room just to sleep in? And a bed, big enough for two, maybe even three, though they will need to be very broad-minded individuals.

In the spacious bathroom there’s even a shower recess, yes there is actually a space dedicated to taking a shower. Unlike the bathroom in our caravan that is only a tad larger than your average shoe box and where all forms of ablution can be performed simultaneously, this shower recess is not accessible while sitting on the loo.

Did I mention the bathtub? There’s actually a bathtub! Halleluyah! The day we checked in I took a bath for the first time in months. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’m a smelly pig, I have had showers, albeit short ones, but not a real long soak in a bathtub with water so hot it puts a scarlet blush on my cheeks; all of them. Sheer luxury! The hot water system in the caravan, can only produce 9 litres of hot water at a time, unless someone (read: ME) forgets to turn it on, then all hell breaks loose. So if you think those four-minute shower restrictions that were imposed upon us during the drought in Brisbane were bad, you should try showering in nine litres of water. Just so you can picture what nine litres looks like, imagine you average household bucket, the type you’re allowed to use to water your pot plants with. That’s nine litres. For me, a four-minute shower is like a dream.

But best of all, as far as hubby is concerned, there’s a dishwasher in the kitchen. We do have a dishwasher in the caravan too but it’s the manual type and he doubles as the driver. And there’s a washing machine that I don’t need to put coins in, though it also functions as a drier and thus takes up to 4 hours to complete a cycle. It’s also on the small side, more than two pairs of socks and a hanky and it’s overloaded; not that beggars can be choosers, but it has taken me a whole week to complete all the washing we accumulated in the days leading up to our holiday. The machine seems to be running constantly. When they get the electricity bill they’ll suspect we’ve been operating a Chinese laundry from our apartment. I mean, who comes on holidays to do their washing?

The weather, unfortunately, has been less than kind to us. The day before we arrived the mercury hit 36 degrees C in Sale, a friendly country town that is very patriotic; many homes and businesses all have big signs advertising the fact. They all read “For Sale”. The first two days at Lakes Entrance the sun tried to shine for a few hours but the temperature struggled to rise out of the teens and it has yet to succeed.

But tomorrow all this luxury comes to an end when we return to dwell in our caravan and head towards the port of Melbourne to catch a ship that will ferry us, our car and our caravan overseas; to Tasmania.

The tall tales and true continue here.