Longreach to Dalby, 29-6-2011

   We pass another sign that says ‘Waltzing Matilda country’ with side-view silhouette of the wandering swagman. Either this guy covered some serious miles or most new Australians were homeless wanderers with bag on a stick, corks on the hat brim and kickin’ up dust with their itinerant boots as they headed toward the rumour of a job shearing or clearing.

   During the heady days of imperialism, life was cheap and so were wages. Cheap enough to refer to as ‘slave labour’. When the white military and landowners elbowed their way into Australia they were blessed with an almost endless supply of complimentary convict workers. Even after criminal transportation ended, the idea of fair treatment for workers seemed a load of balderdash – except to the workers themselves. Various solidarities formed from the ‘screw this’ attitude and strikes/scuffles ensued. Mine strikes, stockade battles etc.

   Barcaldine (QLD), location of the Tree of Knowledge Monument. Built on the location of the original tree that ‘silently witnessed’ the struggle between shearers and pastoralists for better conditions in 1891. Arrests were made and subsequently these underpaid and maltreated troublemakers became champions of the ideals that formed the Union Movement and the Labor Party. What ever your political leanings might be – nobody likes having their nose rubbed in it by the boss.

Tree of Knowledge Monument, Barcaldine, QLD

Tree of Knowledge Monument, Barcaldine, QLD

   12 hours through sporadic rainfall, pothole dodging and oncoming road trains we hit Dalby. Manu books 3 rooms pub accommodation over the phone about an hour out of town. The last time such a manoeuvre will be employed on this journey: The pub must be observed in person before reservations are made. Our rooms on the first floor resembled early 1970’s backstage greenrooms but with three beds each and the oddest collections of mismatched furniture. My room had a fridge slightly bigger than the Brady Bunch’s, an outdoor glass table and a 70’s stereo system shelf that held the tea-making facilities. All the beds linen looked like patchwork quilts made from every item of clothing from ‘Woodstock’. 

   My prized chameleon and tie-dye t-shirt collection disappeared forever...

Camooweal to Longreach, 28-6-11

    Okay, alright, it’s starting to look like a Road Runner cartoon now. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not at all sick of driving these distances or shaking enthusiastic hallucinations from the side mirrors to the back of my cerebrum; Wile-e-Coyote follows us on an ACME assembled V2 rocket. 

    Buzzards circle patiently through the warm air – their peripheral view of the circle of horizon cut in 2 by a slowly spinning bitumen strip resembling a screw eerily loosening from the inside of a coffin but never falling out, broken only by a glimpse of potential food action. 

    Speaking of peripherals – it does seem ridiculously easy to look through CD pouches, dig out muesli bars, search songs on an over-complicated music system, check the fuel-temp-oil gauges, operate cameras and search for and plug in much needed chargers for electronic equipment while maintaining a flawless driving line on the road at speed. That is, until certain sections of the highway become liver-poundingly rough. We must alert the local council to urgently attend to these pot-holes 300 clicks from somewhere…

   “Where did you say that bad section of road was?”

   “It was just after… no, just before the… wait, there was umm… yeah, it was flat for ages right between these 2 slow inclines. You know, where the 3 dead roos are right near each other… there were some little clouds on the left…”

   “We’ll get right on it, sir.”

   McKinlay – small roadhouse on the western end of the crucifix of streets that shape the town: the highway goes across and a few houses down the upright. On the eastern arm, the last structure on the way out of town, is the 1980’s Paul Hogan watering hole ‘Crocodile Dundee’ pub.

WALKABOUT CREEK HOTEL, MCKINLAY QLD

  

                                                SELF PORTRAIT WITH BAD HAIR                                 

                                                                     ‘CROCODILE’ WHATARANGI

 WHAT ELSE ?

   We walked through the place to soak up the box-office history. But did the opposite of what you must, surely, be obliged to do and didn’t have a celebratory ale for the road. The logic-driven reason; because we were on a Caloundra Cup deadline. As it turned out, it saved us from permanent bladder damage from the kidney-pulverising Landsborough hwy to Winton and Longreach (the birthplace of QANTAS).

   On this piece of flat earth the only thing that wasn’t flat was the road. No car suspension system invented could cope with the pok-marked tar masquerading as a road. Even early 70’s Valiants and Fords that glide over speed humps smoothly would be reduced to a paper-machet gumball.

   The best shower in the universe after days of wind and bugs smashing against your teeth exists at the Lyceum Hotel in Longreach.

   It would have been enough to acknowledge the keen parking of the XXXX B-double round the corner on convenient government land – but no – it was Ben’s birthday, and no better place to celebrate than the Lyceum Hotel. Also, everywhere else was shut.

Katherine to Camooweal, 27-6-11

   Three days to get to the next event. 3000 kms. Firstly, south through the termites to 3-Ways, the 40 kms north of Tennant Creek roadhouse outpost and turnoff to the Queensland border. On the way Manu starts doing the small wave you do at oncoming cars on country roads. He does it relentlessly to every car for 3 hours to check the friendliness rating – at one point he got 11 from 11.

    The Retreat blows a tyre near the Daly Waters turnoff and Ben fits the remaining spare. A lack of phone signal prevents him from alerting us to pick up another one in the Land Cruiser at Tennant Creek. Later, Ben pulls the Retreat into 3-ways, tells us he’s got no spares left and continues to Queensland while Manu and I dash into Tennant Creek with the shredded one. The guy at the tyre place says, ‘No mate. Haven’t got one. You wouldn’t find one round here either. There’s probably only 4 places in Australia that sell ‘em.’ The tyres on the Retreat trailers are European size; slightly smaller than regular tyres to comply with height restrictions. Manu phones Kim at Crawford’s home-base and within seconds she finds 2 for us to pick up in Mt Isa. The truck has to travel 700ish kms with no spare.

   You can see along way ahead on the Barkly Hwy. And deceptively so; the underestimated distance you see in daylight is revealed at night when oncoming headlights take 12 minutes to pass. Driving 40 minutes without turning the wheel across a treeless landscape toward an evaporating horizon requires loud music, preferably Chisel. At one point I thought deafening opera would do the trick, but alas, I didn’t bring any. Aside from a concert hall with orchestral backing, desert driving seems an appropriate setting for a tenor filled opus; the tragic verse washing over so many deceased kangaroos, the barren earth joins the cloudless sky looking like the edge of the world once feared in opera’s time of origin. But don’t start me on opera in TV commercials – they should have stopped after the roller-door ad in the 70’s (even then, apologies to Carmen) – slow motion shots of shiny, monotonously designed cars driving past women in long dresses sipping cocktails over an ill-fitting aria. I suppose the look is to conjure something high-class – no doubt all on the back of the other current prostitution of opera with the ‘20 tenors’, or however many they can cram onto one stage. 86? Why not go all the way? Ladies and gentlemen: the 400 Tenors.

   Hang on, better not give them any ideas.

   Most roo carcasses lie on the side of, or just off the road. Every so often one is situated in the middle of the lane. Some are pulverised enough to fit between the wheels and drive over. Just a leg and a tail – that sort of arrangement. Others are huge lumps requiring you to swerve around. During the opera daydream a lump materialised from the haze in the distance. For a while it appeared to be sitting up. The reason revealed itself as we got closer – standing over the roo, having an afternoon snack, was a real live, for-heavens-sake, monster Wedge-tailed Eagle. I turned down Chisel and thought it necessary to go round. All hawks and crows who scavenge skippys always fly or hop out of the way. As the cruiser approached, the eagle stopped eating, looked up stared at us. It didn’t move a feather. It stood on the white line, motionless, regarding a large vehicle come toward it at 130kmh. It watched calmly over its left shoulder like a James Bond poster shot. Blue steel. The bird’s ownership of the roo and reluctance to budge raised the theory that it may have nailed the marsupial and was not merely taking nuts off the bar, as it were. In the revision mirror I saw it continue eating, no doubt shaking its head in exasperation of our rude interruption.

  

   Ben got the Retreat to Camooweal, about 15kms over the border, and crashed out in the cab immediately. We arrived an hour later, figured he was asleep, and went like moths to the only lights still on in town, the pub. There were 3 other people there and a motel out the back. The town looked so peaceful we thought it would be a shoe-in to get a room. But no, the whole town was chockaz. The publican said it was all the carnies passing through, not an inch of space anywhere. Except outside. We resigned ourselves to swagging it during the second beer. The publican kept the bar open for an extra hour and thoughtful, animated discussions erupted over certain government spending in the installation of the National Broadband Network around the area; of course the government would never just ignore the lobby-group red-tape that it spent thousands of dollars, digging unneeded holes under rivers and just trust a long-time local of the region to easily run the cable ‘just along here’ for a 1000^th of the cost. For another hour we talked about my other favourite subject – the ban of live cattle exports. We promised we’d take a photo of the Retreat in front of his pub and send it on. Eventually we shuffled off, rolled out the swags on the 2 metal platforms on the Retreat and slept under a very visible Milky Way. And no bugs crawled up my nose.

Post Office Hotel Motel, Camooweal, QLD

Honky Tonk Cowboy by Mister Muster (aka Stan Clear)

Lyrics to the humble cowboy song what I wrote. Inspired by the rodeo and stuff.

(played in the key of ‘A’ to a lively hoe-down, boot-scootin’ feel)


Honky Tonk Cowboy

Momma told me somethin’, and Daddy told me too

‘bout that girl who’d steal my heart

And I shoulda known it, right from the start

Out of all the girls I’d wrangle, she’d be the one I’d wanna strangle.

Yeah…

Well I’m a hard ridin’, hard hittin’

Hard shootin’, hard whippin’

Hard drinkin’, hard winkin’

Hard dressin’, hard messin’

Big beerin’, big cheerin’

Big eatin’, hard beatin’

Hard strappin’, hard whackin’,

Big shearin’, load clearin’

Roundem up, shootem up Cowboy

Well I fell in love, yeah I fell in love, oh I fell in love…

With a low down,  to the ground

Big cheatin’, guy meetin’

Hard kissin’, big wishin’

Skimpy dressin’, hair messin’

Chain smokin’, joint tokin’

Loose livin’, body givin’

Take a chancin’, lap dancin’

Runnin’ round all the town Cowgirl

Well now I’ve learned my lesson, and I’ve gotten over her

You can keep those girls who do too much boozin’

From now on I’m careful chosin’, ‘cause I don’t wanna be losin’

This ol’ cowboy heart to them ol’ blues

Now I’m a clean livin’, tea sippin’

Kitten pattin’, croche lovin’

Sweater knittin’, telly watchin’

Shoe gazin’, quiet walkin’

Mail checkin’, hard stalkin’

Pill takin’, loose talkin’

Nightmarin’, cold sweatin’

Shrink seein’, medicatin’ Cowboy…

Northern Territory notes... June 2011

   The whole time in NT I haven’t heard one good word about Rudd’s intervention in 2007 or Gillard banning live cattle exports. People whose livelihoods are directly affected by government knee-jerk reactions to extremist Greens pressure tend to be vocal quite often around these parts. And not in a calm way. There are rallies, marches, newsletters, many newspaper articles, websites and heated discussions that need to travel further south than Alice Springs. Aboriginal and cattle country has its fist in the air screaming for immediate action on these 2 issues. Indigenous locals want what the ‘intervention’ promised it would do, or end it now. The cattle industry needs to continue exporting or bovines will die on the wharfs.

   A curious and possibly soon-to-be remnant of the intervention is the ‘No Liquor, No Pornography’ signs that dot the Stuart highway and the back-roads. Q – Will a large yellow semi-trailer with pictures of beer advertisements and 8 foot photos of the XXXX Angels be run down like prison escapees and lynched by renegade authorities? Not likely. And by no means do I suggest the Angels are in any way pornographic. But the deterrent capabilities of this sign is about as effective as a one legged man at an arse-kicking party. Fair dinkum, I almost dropped my Playboy magazine and spilled whiskey all over myself when we drove past the first one of these.

   The All-Seasons motel restaurant, reception and whatever else at Katherine this Sunday evening was manned by a guy who believed he was destined for better things. And if those things were rudeness, snobbery and ungracious service then he was well on his way. As we sipped our overpriced drinks, we watched him heard elderly travellers like unruly livestock to tables they didn’t want and deliver food to people who were, in his gaping arrogance, below him. ‘This is still frozen,’ exclaimed a lady after trying her carrots. The only other food on offer was a meagre buffet of BBQ burgers served on cheap buns with listless salad accompaniments. Dessert was a choice of oddly coloured tapioca or a 1970’s Coles cafeteria-style jelly. Cost: $33

   He stormed our table, taking our dining involvement as granted. ‘Three buffets guys? I’ll charge it to the room, shall I?’

   We were still gawking at the cuisine. ‘No thanks, we’re going to get something in town.’

   ‘Okay, getting some Makkaz are ya, guys?’ he said.

   What I should have said as I rose from my chair and stared him squarely in the eye was, ‘Listen to me carefully fruity-loops, just because you missed the last train to the Boorish Olympics does not give you the automatic authority to urinated on the customers of this wildly mediocre business. And what makes you think that just because we refuse to fork over 33 bucks for a pissy hamburger, we are going to run straight to the nearest multinational fast food outlet. Do not assume that we or anyone else here is not your equal. In fact, all your conceited posturing, in our eyes, drags you down lower than whale feces. So, my man, learn some damn manners and stand aside while we procure more edible fare. Good day.’

   But what I actually said was, ‘No, we’re not.’ We got pizza.