Mansfield, Victoria Sat 4-6-11

   Area once inhabited by several generations of bushrangers the likes of Ned Kelly and his tutor Harry Power. Now the home of Crawfords, the crew responsible for the creation of, initially, portable commercial kitchens – but now it seems, the inventors of any portable ‘you-name-it’.

   I exited the take-away with two hamburgers I could hardly lift off the counter and a minimum chips large enough for a family of six and nearly panicked because I could not immediately tell which 4WD was ours. 4WDs are not only numerous but necessary the further you get from a metropolis, proportionately so. It proved to be difficult to spot the 4WD we borrowed the day before as it sat camouflaged in a line of 20 other beasts. I think that’s the roo-bar… nah, wrong antenna. I wont mention that tiring and over-used whinge about 4WDs in the city – bugger it, I can’t help meself – you know, the ones about the ‘never been past Westfield shopping plaza let alone getting a skerrick of dust on it monster 4x4s in urban environments’. Surely the owners must know the large exercise in self-abuse they demonstrate as they reverse over 3 infants in the school parking lot before crushing old Mrs Simmons' cat as the blinkered-sighted Range Rover mum rushes little Siobhan to her 4pm lesson of whatever in a brave attempt to not only over-extend her daughter’s childhood and suppress her playtime but also chew 2 barrels of fossil fuel pushing an overweight-for-its-purpose automobile between red lights and peak-hour roundabout gridlocks.

   Ah, here it is. It must be ours because of all my personal and expensive equipment I left lying on the front seat with the doors unlocked; as you can in a great deal of places outside the city. No thieving bushrangers in sight. That’s progress, ay? It’s a decent drive back to a store that sells clublocks, kill-switches, car-alarms and sound systems with removable faces.

   Manu and I will follow and scout for the B-Double in this Toyota Landcruiser station wagon 1992 turbo diesel with over 520,000 kms already on the clock. ‘Yep, this’ll make Darwin,’ I think to myself as more dirt jams under my fingernails from under the door handle.