The truck rolls out of Alice at 5.30am as the moon sets on the western horizon. 1180kms north to Katherine. As the sun rises, the western sky looks like a reverse spectrum to the colours developing from the east. Light to dark on the east and dark to light on the west.
Welcome to Anmatjere country.
No fences out here. Hundreds of termite mounds under a meter high almost outnumber the trees and bushes. They are curiously unaffected in colour by the controlled burning around many of them. North of Tennant Creek 2 buffalo pick at bushes next to the road. Flood damaged road is under repair by skeleton crews of graders and lollipop guys 150kms from the nearest town. Between Newcastle Waters and Daly Waters 4 monster tractors were mowing both sides of the road, a good 10m wide. Their work stretches for ages. A neat desert is a happy desert.
One question raised during this drive has been, ‘what would you do if you lived way out here?’ One possible answer, if you’re within coo-ee of the highway, is – Open a Roadhouse!
Low scrub gradually turns to trees as we approach the turnoff to Daly Waters. In the true spirit of human intervention, hawks adaptively circle above the road waiting for a car or truck to splatter kangaroo pedestrians. Vehicles travelling 130ish kmh that come in contact with the national emblem provide easy pickings for these ‘birds of prey’. Or are they anymore? Has a constant supply of roadside roo-mince stopped these hunters from earning an honest living catching the mice that have now become a plague in these parts? Allow me to start the rumour of the armies of mice herding innocent skippys across the blacktop to preserve their own tiny souls.
276 kms south of Katherine and 7 kms off the highway is the oasis Daly Waters. Tiny. A few cabins amongst the tents of a campground, a shop, a petrol bowser, an abandoned house and of course the all important pub – the sign on the front alleges it to be the oldest in NT. And people everywhere. At first glance it looks to be 20 to a tent. Ben rolls the XXXX Retreat over the red dust and parks it next to the pub.
The pub/antique display is famous for the hundreds of bras and knickers hanging from the ceiling like washing day at a Dutch brothel.
Across from the pub is Chilli’s shop. Chilli is an ex-rodeo clown, bush poet, collector of knick-knacks (from umbrellas to helicopters) and merchant of various local souvenirs including his own cut wood pieces with burnt-in Aussie colloquialisms. The temptation is strong to open up the truck for all the people who come to look, crank the music and party on – but schedules and Katherine calls.
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