My Camp-O-Matic opens up like an accordion on a grassy slope at the bottom of which is a large pool of primordial soup. Sure enough there are freshwater crocodiles in there, grunting and splashing and generally exciting the curiosity of the Nomads who do their best to die prematurely by sticking their cameras in the crocs’ faces.
Across the WA border the state’s riches are suddenly evident. Kununurra is a well-tended town. Jets fly in and out. The Speedway features on Saturday nights. Parks flaunt crisply mown green grass. The liquor laws are tight. No full-strength beer available before 12 noon. You can buy low-alcohol bellywash until 5pm and then you can buy full-strength beer but only until 8pm. Individuals can buy a maximum of two bottles of wine per head and then only after 5pm. You should see the queues! For us this is akin to Armageddon but the bar staff tell us “Buy your two bottles, go outside and put on a hat and sunglasses and come back. We guarantee we won’t recognise you.”
Lake Argyle (Ord Dam) and Lake Kununurra feed the lawn town’s sprinklers 24 hours a day. Hordes of Nomads crowd the van parks – we’re staying in the one named ‘Kimberleyland’, which fits with the Disneyesque world view preferred by the superannuated. Van parks are unreal oases in dramatic isolation from life on the road, where the eagles wheel and dive above dead roadkill and blacker-than-black crows simply cock one eyebrow and step aside for you to pass. They don’t bother to lift off, the cunning buggers. Whether you’re in a town or not, there’s always the paler blue sky, vast, never-ending, cloudless, exhilarating.
The eye and the mind are attracted by visions of creatures and men struggling for life against the elements and so it’s a surprise when you realise it’s starting to absorb you, too; a transition so subtle and deep that words fail you. If you try to talk about it people look at you as if you’re a big girl’s blouse.
