Bulldust Diary columnist/illustrator/matelot, Peter Burleigh, on a culturally enriching tour of the outback, reluctantly foregoes a trip to the famous El Questro Station in WA ; instead, he heads- yet again- to Kununurra for a wheel alignment and to visit his unfortunate travelling companion, Bermuda , in hospital to get the latest report on his mysterious leg bite
We sort it out. At the airport he sits in his wheelchair staring forlornly at the heat-shimmering tarmac. A pimpled supervisor in an iridescent jacket, not far short of his twelfth birthday, rolls him into a portable lift, wheelchair and all, trundles him out to the rear door of the aircraft and raises him up like a levitating potentate. With luck he will now leave the ill fortune of the Bermuda Triangle behind, and not take it onto the flight with him.
Back at Kununurra’s Lakeside Caravan Park I decide not to return to El Questro. Right now I never want to see another corrugation as long as I live. I have a few days in Kununurra to pick up my neighbour from Nowra and then take off in a two-car convoy for the Gulf.
After so many weeks of living communally I’m unused to being alone. Camp life gets repetitive when you don’t have people with you to discuss the failings of the hot showers. Life shrinks to waking at sunrise, sleeping at sunset and eating all day in between drinks. Whingeing is tempting, but that’s negative Grey Nomad behaviour and I pretend I’m not one of them.
The rest of our travelling party hits town after staying at El Questro, which is described as “pretty good.” This is only a bit better than “not bad”. Maybe I didn’t miss much after all. As survivors of the Gibb River Road, we freedom fighters are entitled to be critical of accommodation on outback stations, consume more beer than usual and profess to have huge resources of courage but I suspect our touring fulfilment is getting diluted as the distance increases between natural spectacles.
Like other parks, The Lakeside stacks us in like voters in a Labour branch pre-selection stoush. There’s no privacy whatsoever. Small tampon-like dogs, fluffy things on string leashes, snap and yap. Motorbikes rumble. Car alarms scream. Boxes of empty bottles are emptied into wheely-bins . Some bastard sings in the shower. People have loud arguments early in the morning or late at night. Garbage trucks arrive at 10pm. Political whining is pervasive. And yet everyone seems pleased to be here rather than out on the road. They talk incessantly of their mastery of the bush.
“Where’ve we been? Yeah, we’ve been there, we did that. Nah, we didn’t have a problem-I’ve got special tyres / shocks / spotlights / steering gimbals. Saw a Winnebago / Hyundai / Range Rover/ Mercedes broken down (or overturned, smashed, stripped or in pieces); it'll take a month/2 months/ 4 months to get it out. Then yer gotta get the parts. They’re dreaming if they reckon it’ll be shorter than a month / 2 months / 4 months to get ‘em. But who’s gunna fit ‘em, eh? I’ll tell you who. No one!”
Incredible Advice
Uninformed advice abounds around the bars, and you’re asking for trouble if you heed it. Tonight at the van park’s restaurant it’s Fish & Chip night (Snapper & Chips, $22), but I am to attend the Farewell Dinner of our group at the Kimberley Grande. The name may be a tad pretentious, but I am expecting us to be our normal uncouth selves-see Burleigh's artwork at head of this post . Except Mr JW, who understands what “couth” really means, and without much prompting promises a donation to my wallet in anticipation of this piece of independent journalistic observation.
After Harry Robertson arrives tomorrow there’ll only be three of us to forge on to the east...to Burketown, Normanton and Karumba. This diary is now up to date, and there will be an Intermission so readers can buy a drink in the foyer.
