Category: Tripping

So who suggests this bloody walk, anyway? The brochure and the hotel concierge both say the trek between Lake Louise across to Lake Agnes is clearly marked, spectacular and takes 5 to 6 hours return. We’ll be at the point where, before global warming, six individual glaciers converge.

Late summer, a cloudy, cold day but with sunshine forecast. Our day-packs include an expensive bottle of French fizz, several chocolate bars and smoked salmon wraps. We each wear hiking boots, jumpers and windcheaters, with the capacity to strip down later. We are on the track by 10 am, with excitement and smartphone-cameras setting the pace.

Sheila and I have been planning the trek for months, a highlight of our Canadian sojourn. We tackle the steepish gradient, stopping often to savour the jagged, snow-capped peaks high above. The lakes below have this opaque, impossibly whitish-blue, snow-melt colour.

Off the trail, we wander and find a perfect picnic spot. The scenery is breathtaking, a magical setting and the sun appears. The bottle of Verve Clique induces a post-lunch snooze.

We oversleep. The chill air and long shadows lend an urgency to our return. The sun is disappearing behind the mountains. Ten minutes and we still aren’t back on the trail. Strange, as we both think our lunch spot is close by!

Thank God for the windcheaters. We know the track is somewhere close, as our pace quickens, hearts pump just that little bit faster.

After an hour of blundering about, dusk comes and goes. We share a mild panic. Are there bears in this part of Banff? What other beasties are there in the Canadian wilderness? A branch snaps somewhere; the sound echoes eerily in the stillness.

“We’ll be right”, I proffer, my croaky voice discredits my confidence. What do the Mounties suggest we do? If lost in Australia’s Outback, you always stay with the car or sit tight; take stock. With no car, we sit.

What if we light a fire? Will that help searchers find us, or will it just attract curious wildlife? Kindling is plentiful and we huddle close to the fire’s comforting glow.

No Mounties arrive and we endure a cold, sleepless night. There is little talk, but our imaginations work overtime. A couple of owls begin a mournful duet; real or imagined terrors lurk in the darkness. Are those wolves howling in the distance?

First light, a dead fire and suddenly a moose lumbers into our clearing. We scream. I wonder who gets the bigger shock. Wow, those antlers? Do moose attack people? We’re up and running.

We’re on the trail before we realise, it’s just a hundred metres from last night’s encampment! To the right, it goes slightly uphill. We go left.

A misplaced step. I trip over a tree root. My ankle’s not happy! I try to hobble but it’s too painful. We’re sitting anxiously, wondering. Tears don’t help.

We hear, then see the chopper. It circles. Salvation. Thank God I have Comprehensive Travel Insurance!

I was with a group of friends on an outing from our Israeli Kibbutz, Beit Kama. We were walking along narrow stony paths, bordering wheat fields. We had no specific destination, instead, enjoying the sunshine and pursuing an opportunity to get out from under the slightly oppressive blanket of Kibbutzim. I suppose it must have been a Saturday, as we were not rostered to work in the fields.

A few kilometres to our left was the coastal city of Gaza, and on occasional elevations, we could make out the Mediterranean expanse. Twenty kilometres to our right was the Westbank, with the Dead Sea, and the Jordanian border, beyond. Northeast was Jerusalem and to the south, Beersheba, the town forever associated with the Charge of the Light Horse. Such a geographically tiny country, historically fascinating and at the centre of so much international upheaval!

For the locals, the area was forever on alert, and armed guards patrolled the Kibbutz’ perimeter twenty-four hours a day. For us, a ragtag group, drawn from Sweden, Denmark, Belgium, France, the US, UK, and Australia, were collectively known as ‘Volunteers’. We were pursuing the age-old tradition for youthful adventure, extending our limited financial reserves with our strong backs, in exchange for food, shelter and the prospect of a good time.

We worked across the Kibbutz’ various enterprises. Over the three months of my stay, I worked in the vegetable fields, in the orchards, and drawing the short-straw, worked late at night to catch and pen live chickens, destined for the local markets. There were a couple of small factories that I think made specialist radio parts, but they were off-limits!

So there we were, about six of us walking northward. Without warning, I had a snake twirled around, and up, my right leg. I felt a sharp puncture just below the knee, and I had the barest glimpse of an 18” grey and white, thinnish snake as it dropped to the ground, and disappeared.

Jesus, did they have lethal snakes in the Middle East? Cleopatra came to mind; I remembered Shakespeare recording her chosen exit strategy! That raised my heart rate a tad.

The things you do in a crisis! I got the mob to look around, to see if we could find the bloody snake. We left no stone unturned as we searched crevices, tussocks and other potential snake-refuges – all to no avail.

I reviewed my situation. I estimated it would take about 2 hours to get back to the Kibbutz. One of the girls used her bra to tourniquet my thigh, above the bite. I started a slow walk back, while a couple from the group moved ahead quickly, hoping to achieve a vehicle-retrieval.

I ended up walking back. I wasn’t feeling any ill-effects, but I reported to the clinic. The nurses asked me to describe the snake, but it didn’t fit any known species. I spent a couple of days under observation in the medical centre, before returning to the fruit orchards!

“So think about what is most important to you about this community. Put thoughts on the stickies.”

I am at the whiteboard, marker pens and yellow stickies distributed to the assembled stakeholders. The Mayor, two other Councillors, Council staff include the CEO, the Business Manager and the Tourist Officer. There were eight other prominent, ‘ordinary’ members of the community.

Morning tea had provided me the opportunity to mingle, to establish my can-do’s and we were now ready to start the distillation, drawing down thoughts, throwing marketing wizardry around the room, gaining stakeholder commitments.

It was 1987 and I was on a role. Six Local Government bodies completed, nine to go. It was “money for jam”, a consultancy to end all consultancies, and I had landed it. Recruiters had sought expressions of interest from suitably qualified marketers to assist Local Governments to identify, develop and promote their regional strengths.

Freshly graduated from my MBA, I was the full bottle, absolutely squeaky, an early convert with a website, and an email account. This was my first consultancy, but I was confident that I could nail it! I had won the Newell/Oxley delineated transport route – Shires covering Moama through to Byron.

It was a time where aspirational statements were all the rage – everyone needed a shorthand quip to reaffirm who and what they stood for. Psychic Telemetry had arrived from the States, along with the early forms of psychographic segmentation, new, essential tools with which to dazzle, refine target audiences, potential new investors, tourists most suited to your patch, zero in on the unwary!

“The Murray River is our core”, said the Echuca/Moama Mayor. “Proximity to Melbourne” said Sarah, the Business Manager, “Friendly people” said Alex. We were away, the yellow stickies were starting to flow, thick and fast. “We’re Country folk, and friendly, too”, said Phyllis. “We need to control where visitors wander. If ya let’em, they’ll leave poo tickets behind every tree” said Jim, from the Friends of Echuca Association.

“What do you think the visitors value about their visit?” I posed. “Riverside camping”, “a camp fire”, “access to shops”, “boat launch facilities”, “good coffee” “country hospitality”: yellow post-its filled the board. Lunch arrived. Informal chat as sandwiches were munched, juice glugged. Everyone engaged, exciting side play, even Jim, from the Friends group, was enenthused.

That’s it folks. I restated the process from here, a promise of a draft report within the month. I thanked everyone, collected the post-it notes and moved on to Deniliquin.

·         Echuca/Moama – “River Country” ·         Deniliquin – “Home of the muster” ·         Narrandera – “Gateway to the Riverina” ·         Bland Shire – “Nothing dull & boring about Bland!” ·         Parkes – “Home of the Dish” ·         Dubbo – “The hub of the west” ·         Gilgandra – “Linger, enjoy, grow” ·         Coonabarabran – “Discover new horizons”

·         Gunnedah – “Open new horizons” ·         Tamworth – “Opportunity & commerce” ·         Armidale – “Unleash the opportunities” ·         Glen Innes – “Celtic country” ·         Grafton – “First city on the coast” ·         Ballina – “Coast & hinterland” ·         Byron/Lennox Head – “Don’t spoil us, we’ll spoil you”

 

It has been a long day on the river, too much sun, sore muscles and it was pleasing to have the Amity secure, the fire alight, and the second beer about to be broached.

We note another couple, one hundred metres or so downstream, and as the stubby tops are opening, Gail, wielding a plate of nibbles and Ivan, esky in hand, monologue-in-mouth, approach. “G’day, nice boat. Been fishin’? I’m Ivan. You gotta table to put the nibbles on. Oh, this is the missus, Gail.” Ivan briefly retreats, returning with two camp chairs.

River protocols are upon us, it seems, or is it simply the fact that we obviously have firewood and a cheery fire on the go. Regardless, there is a neighbourly arrival.

“Er G’day. I’m Bill.” “Yep g’day, Chris” and “Hi, Steve” completes the circle work, as our camp table is brought out and the semi-circle forms. Ivan’s bare chest make a statement. Gail’s chest, squished into a smallish, Richmond AFL jersey, reiterates a relaxing holiday escape!

“Wheresya from? Whees’ from Bendigo. Love the river, and this South Australian bit – wide, deep, the cliffs, great!” Gail passes her snacks around, while I mentally consider what we might have in the dry goods store, to complement the cheese squares, sliced cabanossi and alternating red and green cocktail onions. I draw a blank, but Steve noodles deeper, and finds a box of Shapes.

Ivan quickly moves on to his deep love for fishing this river, the holiday shack they have on the Edwards, the family holidays, the boat, water-skiing. Bill demonstrates knowledge of parts of the Edwards “Yep, Balranald, Moulamein, and those tricky channels”, before the spectacular Cod catches, some that got away, the problems with the bloody Carp, and about how some bastard had left a dozen to rot, next to their shack, again seeks ascendency. He and Gail match each other, beer for beer – possibly one of their matrimonial necessities?

I mention that I come from Ballarat, but the “Jees that’s a cold hole!” indicates that that line of social intercourse isn’t going to fly! We learn that Ivan has a construction company. I’m not sure if we learn what it constructs but the boat, the shack, the free time spent on the river, demonstrate that Ivan assesses he is a successful constructor.

Gail endorses titbits, as their adventures are told; the delight of the kids, whenever the shack visits are on, the cubby they build in a nearby gum, their enthusiasm and skills behind the boat. She passes the cheese squares again. More beers, more shared glories from Ivan.

I notice that Steve is engaging Gail in a side conversation. It takes another couple of minutes before Bill and I are able to switch channels, to politely disentangle. “I count money” I hear Gail declare. “Waddaya mean”, we collectively query, and I sense a bit of a party starter. “I am paid to count money. I work for the Bendigo Bank, and my job is to count the cash deposits coming in from across the state.”

We three are tuned in, obviously an appreciative break from the previous piscatorial monotone, but also expressing a genuine interest in what sounds like an intriguing job. Ivan starts to recount a particularly exciting Cod episode.

“I thought we were all using credit cards.” “No way, you’d be surprised how much cash is still sloshing around the system, especially through the fast-food outlets! Maccas, KFC, there the biggies but JB HI-FI deposit lots!” Gail has our total attention.

“I usually count about twenty to thirty million dollars every day. I have a machine that does most of the counting, but I am there looking for damaged or counterfeit notes. Ballarat and Warrnambool are the major counterfeit hubs; fifties and one-hundred-dollar notes!” “Do ya get any coins?” “Yep, but we don’t bother to count ‘em, simply accept what their deposit slips declare.”

“So how do you pick the dodgy notes?” “There are a couple of tell-tale signs. The polymer notes have a very precise weight, the machine is calibrated to not only count but to actually weigh every ten-thousand-dollars. It stops if the weight doesn’t tally, and I then go back manually and look through the hundred individual notes.” We pause, grab another drink, a cheese cube, and Gail continues.

“Counterfeiters try to get their hands on the polymer blanks, but they are held securely at the Mint. They mostly bring paper in from Thailand. But it doesn’t have the same look and feel. My fingers pick them straight away. You know, last month we had two-hundred-dollar bills that were only printed on one side! Can you believe it?”

From the corner of my eye, I could see that Ivan is getting a bit antsy. He floats ‘… outrage at the National’s ongoing water trading scams… ’ – that’s desperation for you. He starts to wiggle his arse in the chair, he inspects the now empty, esky. He takes the last piece of cabanossi and then proffers a throaty cough. He stands, declaring that it is “time to get tea on the go.”

Gail stands, a twinkle evident in her eyes, probably confirming that with a mob like us, money will usually out-interest fishing. In farewell, we note a grin, that we discuss later around the fire. We take it to mean that there has been a movement within some marital, point-scoring log. “We probably find eight or ten counterfeit hundreds amongst the stacks every day, not so many fifties. Be careful with those green notes, boys” as she turns and follows the esky, chair and Ivan back towards their camp.

Over our chicken casserole, we continue to reflect on the intricacies of the cash economy, the jobs that none of us would ever have imagined existed, the technology and the intervention and reliance on humanity, to make these finer calls.  We finish the evening acknowledging Ivan’s point about the lack of integrity surrounding the water trading activities within the Canberra bubble. Disgraceful bloody corruption!

“This is silly. We passed that clump of trees on our way to the car. Remember the way that branch, yep, that one on the big old gum over there, on the right, sorta looks like a body, arms outstretched? We commented upon it.” Nancy nodded, and a slight shiver moved down to her hand, onto my arm. I quietly took comfort from recognising that tree, not wanting to countenance any suggestion that we might be off the track.

We had been to the car to get our camping chairs, now slung off our shoulders; not heavy, just slightly uncomfortable. “We’ll be at the campsite shortly,” I volunteered, as we both heard voices in the distance, some children’s playful squealing. We soldiered on, along the narrow, dusty path.

Fifteen minutes later Nancy expressed surprise that we hadn’t arrived at the glade where we, with the kids and grandkids, had pitched our tents a few hours earlier. “It’s just around the next bend”, I proffered. Another ten minutes, the afternoon was closing and we both felt that sudden, subtle drop in temperature, as the evening nudged the day aside.

I saw that same old gum tree, but it was on the left. How could that be? I didn’t mention it, but Nan tentatively queried its squat presence. I privately wondered how it had changed position, surely it’s a different tree? I took us both carefully off the centre of the track and came up to the tree.

“Whose tracks are those, heading back that way, hang on and that way, and there, again,” I posed and we looked down into the dust, seeing a jumble of tracks, hither and thither. I lifted her left leg and checked the imprint on her sandal. Mine too, as we acknowledged our previous, several passings, writ large on the track. There was still plenty of light, we just needed a moment to reorientate ourselves.

“Are we lost?” “Of course not. No, no, we have just taken the wrong track back there. I suggest we retrace our steps back to that last intersection, and she’ll be tickety-boo.”

I was starting to feel the chairs, just a bit heavier. We’d been carrying them for maybe an hour, and I could feel a bit of a rub on my shoulder. “I wouldn’t mind a drink, have we got that water bottle?” “No, it’s back at the camp. We’ll be back there shortly.” I gave a half-hearted ‘coo-ee’, feeling a bit of a dork, as I delivered it. The air was still, quiet, save a distant kookaburra responding to my call. I could hear cicada’s too, pitched against the hitherto unheard silence. The bush too seemed to be settling for the night, quiet, exuding that particular Australian, eucalyptus sort of smell, clean, fresh, bushy.

“Nance, I reckon we have taken a bit of a detour. The kids will be wondering where we have got to, I betcha they’re posing lewd suggestions!” Nancy giggled, a little too nervously, but gave my arm a reassuring squeeze. “What are we going to do?” “Well the 101 Getting lost in the Bush manual says stop walking. Wait for somebody to find us. I have a lighter. We’ll light a smoky fire – it’ll ward off the chill, keep any mossies at bay, and provide some beacon for the kids!”

We scratched around, gathering the necessaries and had it lit in a couple of minutes.

There was a surprising comfort provided by that fire, a sense of normality, boundaries restated. It cheered us both. I let a few more coo-ees go up into the ether. We chatted, wondering what the children would be saying about their missing Nannie and Grandpa. Would they be worried?

Of course. But surely the four of them wouldn’t come looking. They’d split up. Jeanie would stay back at the camp with the children, Rob would be out here: somewhere! I thought I heard a noise and I let a full-throated call issue forth. We both held our breath, listening intently. A minute, another. Nothing. Had we heard something? There, that was a crack, a stick breaking. We moved closer to each other, another crack, a thump, as two wallabies broke cover and bounded off across our clearing.

I looked at Nan “Well at least the wildlife are at home!” We collected a bit more firewood and sat. We were both cooeeing at regular intervals, with the evening chill circling, ever want to waft around to the backs of our chairs. The mopokes, several families I think, tossed their ever mournful, syncopated night-time chorus between themselves. We stared into the fire, both of us drawn to our own reveries.

“What if they don’t find us?” “They will. Maybe it won’t be tonight, but we heard the children not long before sunset, so we aren’t that far away from them.” “Well, why can’t they hear us – our calls?” “Mmmm. I don’t know.”

I was wondering the same thing. Surely we had just drifted off the track. Thank God we had jeans on, and jumpers. It might be a long night! Nan mentioned her thirst again, and noted that we would not be taking our tablets tonight!  We hunkered down, grateful for the fire.

At some stage, I drifted off. I dreamed of a night, long ago. I was working in Arnhem Land; our vehicle had broken down on the Bulman to Maningrida track. I was with Michael Brown and we were walking the fifty-odd kilometres back to town. Despite the tropics, it was a chilly, dry season night.

Michael showed me a trick to generate a little warmth, and sleep. Three small, smoky fires were lit, with space for us to lie down between them, a fire at each side of us, sharing the one in the middle. We positioned a quantity of wood at our heads, to feed the smouldering fires as they died down during the night. I remembered a fitful night, stones digging into my shoulder, hips and knees, but snatches of sleep achieved.

I heard, maybe felt Nan crying. “Hey, it’s OK. We might be spending the night out under the stars, together. People pay a fortune for this experience.” “Yes, but they have a bottle of sparkling wine, cheese, strawberries and a comfortable bed” she hiccupped. We both laughed.

Nan positioned another log onto the coals and our attention again drifted towards the coals. We both must have dozed off, slouched into the chairs, hands intertwined.

I awoke to Nan’s screech, torchlight in my face, Rob hugging her. “Am I glad to see you two. I have been out here for ages.” He unshouldered his day pack, handing Nan a water bottle. We both drank deeply and we disregarded the doctor’s orders, and each wolfed down a chocolate bar.

“You led me on a merry dance. I have been following your tracks – around two long circuits. I am not sure how, but you’ve ended up in the next valley from where we are camped. Not far from here, really. I reckon less than a kilometre but there is a range of hills in between. I eventually saw your campfire.”

We still go bushwalking, but not camping. We each carry a small daypack, water bottles, muesli bars, a light jumper and each pack is equipped with a lighter and a torch.

I am sitting in an Adelaide boardroom listening to colleague, Lisa talk of a forthcoming trip along the Strzelecki and Birdsville Tracks, to Innamincka, Birdsville, Mungeranie and Maree. I have my ears pricked attentively as she talks of her recent appointment as Regional Tourism Manager and of a need to make contact with some of her more distant ‘operators’, to say g’day and get a feel for the lay of the land in the distant, north-east corner of South Australia.

A priority task for me next morning is to check the diary and make some fast calls; which appointments can be postponed, which can be brought forward. An hour later I was on the phone to Lisa pressing my claim for a seat on the trip. A couple of “yeps” later and I was on the phone to colleagues explaining a pressing and unavoidable engagement.

We rendezvous at Quorn on Friday afternoon. A few hundred dollars later, Woolies has the car full of the necessities for life – some really smelly camembert, a stilton, roll mops, lumpfish roe, tinned dolmades, pate, a bottle of Johnny Red, another of Bombay Sapphire, tonic, an assortment of bread, biscuits, a yard of cabanossi (to munch as we travel), cashews, a couple of tubes of Pringles and ah, what else? Oh yer, some healthy vegetables, water, coffee beans and smokes, a carton of tailor-mades for Lisa and two rollies, for me.

Dinner at the pub gives us a chance to go over the trip, to check off lists of to-dos – extra fuel, water, food, booze, smokes. “I reckon it’s just ‘bout all done” she says as I order another couple of beers. I ask Bruce the barman about the weather forecast for the next few days and “… wouldn’t have a clue, Mate”, was the informative response.

I am up a tad before ‘sparrows and a first smoke and I meet under a clear, innocent sky. It is chilly but offers the promise of hot, dry warmth to come. The Southern Cross is standing on its head, the night shift finishing as Venus tries to outshine the approaching light. I roll another smoke and contemplate the Morning Star, that potent Arnhem Land night watchman and referee, the boss dictating an end to nighttime Bungal.

An off-stage, orange fireball is approaching from the East, silhouetting in absolute blackness, distant hills. Pastel colours move in, some pinky-yellow washes and my reverie is broken with the thwack of the screen door slamming. “How’d ya sleep? Jees this coffee hits the spot!” as we sit companionably broaching the new day.

We throw the swags and bags into the back of the 4WD, load boxes of tucker and check that the Engel is working! How did I survive 25 years in the Territory without one of these marvels – a car fridge! I remember tinned Frey Bentos pies, tinned stews, vegetables, warm beers and mouldy bread.

It is at Parachilna, as we pull into the Prairie Hotel that we remember the 2 empty water tanks! We fill them and accept the offer of coffee and cake. Publican Jane also shows us the walls of the interior where inadvertently stones containing the oldest known fossilised lifeforms were used in construction. Ediacaran fossils, dated about 550 million years old, where discovered here in the 1940s. I also realised that this was the area that supplied the slate floors for our Darwin house, 30 years earlier.

There are a few young backpackers mooching around the hotel. I wondered why they were there and Lisa explains the growing significance of the northern Flinders Ranges for young international travellers.

They look decidedly out of place – sunburnt and red, shorts, thongs, new akubras and some with flynets. One youngster strums a guitar and a bevy of buxom, scantily clad young things lounge nearby. While we sip lattes, a friendly Kelpie saunters up, sniffs to ensure our cake is OK, lifts a leg on the nearby verandah post and leaves. A flock of red-tailed cockatoos squabble in a gum across the roadway.

The road north passes through Leigh Creek – that oft mentioned spot in the weather report. I belatedly take on the realisation that this place is a mine – we stop and look through a high wire fence encircling a huge hole in the ground, a long conveyor belt that is responsible for towering mountains of coal, trundling Wabco trucks, and an industrial tangle. I don’t think I ever made the connection of this to “…hot, dry, 33 degrees at Leigh Creek.”

The bitumen abandons us as a family of emus scoot across the track in front of us. Lisa is driving and swerves around the last chick. “Jees, that was close, and with all of this country – ya gotta wonder why this moment was chosen to cross the bloody road!” She is a little shaken and reaches for a B&H to steady her nerves.

We munch on a length of cabanossi as the rough gravel stretches out before us. Talk turns to the hassles of Local Government and their difficult relationship with tourism. “I had a meeting with Joy the other day to explore funding subsidies in the next budget. Her only issue is the cost of maintaining the public dunnies in Port Augusta.” “Yer, I used to get similar responses from some of my Councils, too” I offered in support.

A billowing cloud of ochre can be seen in the distance. A yellow blob at its centre starts to take shape and in the next minute or so evolves into a thundering road train, 50 metres of steel and rubber desperately trying to outrun its dusty veil. “Ya know they have 72 tyres on the road and about 6 spares” was gratuitously offered and met with “Yer. Da ya wanna drive?” “OK”

The country was changing. Low mulga was giving way to cassia, spinifex and saltbush, small spindly gums and sand dunes paralleling the road in a north south companionship. The soil had changed colour too – from a dusty orange to somewhere between Gold Oxide and Burnt Sienna. There had been recent rains and I think I remembered hearing “…patchy rain for Leigh Creek…” not long ago.

We stopped to boil the billy beside a long water-filled ‘borrow-pit’ – the scrapes created by road maintenance crews when they needed surface fill. There was a flock of ducks loudly protesting our arrival. “Ya gotta wonder about ducks in the desert, eh! I mean, are they lost or sum’ent?” We chuckle, smoke and settle with strong black tea.

I was reminded of another time, maybe 25 years earlier when I was living at a small community on the WA/NT border, out from Uluru. I was driving the community ute, loaded with 6 or 7 old Pitjantatjara men. My lead man was old Lungkata and we were travelling out to his country around Lake Mackay. It was late October and as hot as hell. I thought we were vaguely following a sand dune-restricted, westerly direction. Not so, as Lungkata tells me to turn very precisely in between a narrow opening in the towering dunes. On resuming our course we abruptly came upon a small rocky outcrop, a crop of reeds and what I suspect is some water. A thump on the cab roof told me to stop the car.

Lungkata led a low chant, quickly picked up by the others as everyone leaves the Toyota, with thigh slapping and hesitant steps towards the outcrop. Before being told to withdraw back through the break in the dunes and camp, I saw a mob of ducks flying up from the grubby pool.

“We’d better keep moving or we won’t make Innamincka before dark,” Lisa breaks into my reverie.

We kick the fire out and get back on the track. There is a lot more sand drifts across the road, a couple more trucks and we see in the distance a complex of white tanks, pipes, dereks, low buildings and a sign advising us to Stay Out. “Cooper Basin oil and gas complex” advises Lisa.

I was seeing a new side to South Australia that I had only vaguely been aware – here amongst the redness was a sizeable industrial richness. We pass a couple of more mining sites as we move steadily north towards the Queensland border. Twenty minutes south of Innamincka we come across another one, this one immediately adjacent to the track.

We learn later that night at the pub from workers that this complex reflects a Japanese consortium seeking to harness “hot rock” energy sources. Apparently the earth’s crust is quite shallow at this point and they are drilling a 12” diameter hole 7,000 metres down to tap into the 270degree temperatures. The intention is to force water into the hole, generate super-heated steam that will be directed into a second, nearby hole that has been equipped with an electrical turbine.  The guys told us that the hole is now so deep, and the temperatures so hot that they can only drill for about 30 minutes before the drill bit melts – necessitating spending 48 hours lifting the rods and replacing the bits!

We had made camp beside a long waterhole, Cullymurra, part of the Cooper Creek system about 2 kms east of town. A fire was pulled together as dolmades, olives, scotch and water appear. I had earlier marinated fillet steak and as it hit the griddle, the garlic, soy, Dijon and cold-pressed oil quickly brought taste-buds to the fore.

A quick couple of beers at the Innamincka pub brought the long day to a close. Swags were rolled and Lisa’s gentle snores from across the fire lent a gentle domesticity to the camp. I too drift off, a satellite blinking overhead and a couple of long, shooting streaks rushing to the horizon register in a rapidly slowing mind.

“Jees, didja see that dingo last night? It was into the griddle with a vengeance” I admit to a deep, unbroken sleep as I stir the mulga coals into action and get my old black billy on for coffee. “Wherdja get that Billy?” asks Lisa of my spouted veteran. “I reckon it might have been from the store at Yuendumu, out west of Alice. Years ago.” Spouted billy cans were always popular and practical. Campfires and billies – mmm as the words of Dick Diamond’s 1950 musical form in my head. I start to hum and then sing:

I’ve humped my bluey, thru all the states

My old black billy the best of mates

For years I’ve tramped and toiled and camped

Though the road was rough and hilly

With me plain and sensible, indispensable

Old black billy

It’s a lazy day spent mostly doing bugger all. A bit of reading, yarning, interspersed with some historical sightseeing. Here we were at the site of one of Australia’s most celebrated cock-ups – the ill-fated conclusion to Robert O’Hara Bourke’s continental crossing. I had just finished reading Susan Murgatroyd’s novel, Burke and Wills and we’re here!

We drove east beside the waterhole for about 20kms crossing briefly into Queensland and back again into SA to stand at The Dig Tree, that infamous tree inscribed by their back up team, instructing Burke and his party to dig for residual supplies. The irony, of course was the fact that the support team had left only a few hours before Bourke, et al actually returned from their trip to the Gulf of Carpentaria.

We visited the site of Bourke’s and subsequently Will’s death and later that afternoon joined a small group of travellers on a punt that quietly motored down the Cooper to the spot where the only surviving member of the trio, John King was eventually found, in the care of the local Bardi people.

Innamincka, so small and dusty yet so sought after. There’s the pub, a focal point for the many thirsty travellers, a small general store, a few corrugated shanties and the old Australian Inland Mission hospital, now hosting National Parks and an interpretation of the natural, cultural and historical significance of the area.

We spend another evening at the pub and try not to overhear too much of the traveller’s banter. Like so much of Australia’s inland regions, the area is being over-run with a steady stream of four-wheel adventurers. They arrive in all shapes and sizes, both the vehicles and the travellers. Vehicles are decked out with myriad bits of essential kit – wallaby jacks, pvc water tanks, shovels, extra jerry cans of fuel, vhf radios and tall aerials. The drivers are here to escape winter chills, to try their hand at off-road adventure. They breast the bar with fly nets jauntily pushed back off dusty headgear, livid sunburnt right arms poking out from T shirts emblazoned with I’ve been to Birdsville and survived decals.

We move on, across the Cooper Creek towards Mungarannie, about 500kms further west, on the Maree to Birdsville Track. A missed turn adds an extra 100kms to the day and raises fuel anxieties. The recent rains have left the two-wheel ruts boggy and a tad slippery until, of a sudden we literally turn a corner and from low acacia scrub, we are confronted with an unending dry gibber plain stretching to sunset.

This is Sturts Stoney Desert. There is a burnt sienna, high sand dune to our right, on the left, the gibbers. It is startlingly dramatic. Such a sudden contrast and to absorb the change we stop, boil the billy and open a can of dolmades!  G&Ts also seemed appropriate but bugger, we were bereft of a slice of lime so had to do without. Such decadence sets the tone for the remainder of the day and primes us nicely for our late afternoon arrival at Mungerannie – the pub, not the station homestead.

Lisa is expected and welcomed with hugs and kisses. There was a round of introductions as I meet the locals “G’day howsyagoinmate – thisis Chris” and we again find ourselves breasting a bar. A long, whispy salt and peppered beard has the name John – the publican. He has a glint in his eye as he knowingly throws the cork from a fresh bottle of Bundy.

Word spreads that Lisa is back in town and the local blacksmith, a couple of ringers, John’s missus Shirl and a few others blow in. The CD-player is cranked back to the 70s and the talk turns to The Drive, last year’s tourist extravaganza, the Outback Cattle Drive that first brought Lisa to these parts. The Drive attracted thousands (if you believe the subsequent reports) from SA’s main domestic and international markets, for a dude-cattle drive, sectioned into two and three night parcels between Birdsville and Maree.

As the rum flows, the Drive is on again. Somebody has got a stock whip and nimbly misses the assembled crowd, demonstrates the finer points of the “Double Cracker”. Tables and chairs are pushed to the far wall, later removed altogether and the party gets serious. At some point biker mates of Johnnos appear at the door on their Harleys and decide the overnight dew might damage the chrome. The bikes quickly replace lost chairs and one by one the boys decide to wheel stand the front wheels onto the bar! As the rum flows, someone suggests burning rear tyres into the floorboards and down to the joists!

I remember staggering through acrid smoke and mayhem, mumbling something to somebody and falling off the front verandah. Oblivion.

A couple of crows are perching somewhere above me – I wonder how they got into my room? The guys were right about the dew – my bed is soaked and come to think of it, the mattress is bloody lumpy, too!

I prize open an eye and stare into the questioning gaze of a mongrel bloody dog. God my head hurts as I stumble up from the garden bed, picking a couple of forlorn Dissy Lizzys from my shirt. I look around in case of witnesses – the coast is clear and I head for the kitchen to get coffee on the go!

I nurse a head. Lisa appears an hour or so later and I hear Johnno and the bikers in the bar – hacking coughs, the cha ching of a bottle top hitting the barroom floor. “Wanna Bundy , whatsyaname?” I shuffle on and inspect the deep burn marks in the floor.

Lisa agrees to beat a retreat. We stop 50kms down the road and cook up some greasy snags to quell delicate stomachs. Strong black tea and a few Asprin help to pretend sobriety as we drop in to a few more properties enroute down the Birdsville to Maree. Lisa is mostly pensive, quiet and I suspect feeling as seedy as I.

A 100kms out from Quorn we spot a big Grey kangaroo on the side of road. She’s recently tangled with a vehicle and not dead. We stop and I walk back. I hate this bit as I raise a stick and put her out of her pain. There is a little joey anxiously hovering. I kneel down and he hops over and head first straight into the neck of my jumper! I estimate he is about 6 months old, fully furred and standing about 25 cms.

I’ve been adopted and I thank heaven that an immediate decision has been taken out of my hands. Lisa knows of an animal refuge in Quorn, hoping that the little guy survives the trauma of his predicament. We phone ahead as we near town and they suggest we bring him over in the morning. He sleeps that night in a pillowslip, snuggled up against my warmth.

Its Friday again, pre dawn and the stars are at it again. A roster sounds a call somewhere and I contemplate the trip. It has been an exhilarating week, a vast emptiness on the map now populated with new country, new faces, places and experiences. I was surprised at the extent of the mining activity, the changing landscapes, flood outs, semi-permanent creek systems, sandy and gibber expanses and the chance to yarn with and learn from the locals.

Back to the office and a mountain of dross awaits, next week!

I was still trying to figure out why I had cleared customs. Three of the twenty-four flying hours done, twenty-one still ahead of me, and I am wandering through the Duty-Free section of Auckland International. I’ve still to get over the Pacific to Santiago, onwards to Rio, another change then five hours to Fortaleza, in northern Brazil. And then? Make the necessary arrangements to collect my very sick colleague, and bring us both back to Melbourne.

French bubbles to the left, special offers if buying the twin gift pack, boutique gins to the right, perfumery ahead, and then the cigarettes – everything presented so tempting. Hang on, I have given up smoking – forget the smokes. Glitter and presentation tempt the excited or weary traveller. The marketing is just so compulsive, hats off to the retail strategists.

As I continue to blow time in amongst the glitz, a young girl approaches “Sir, would you like to try some unique, 45 year old scotch?” I’m bored “Why not” as I accept her disposable thimble. It was wonderful. “Only $65 for a 200ml bottle.” Oh what the heck, a few nips will help me sleep en route to Chile.

“Do you have any liquids in your hand luggage?” the check-in staff asked. Oh shit, there goes my scotch. I declared it and she indicated the disposal basket. “Do you drink scotch?” I asked, loathe to see such ambrosia disappear into a rubbish bin. She discretely accepts my gift and smiles. “Can I see your Boarding Pass, sir?” I handed her my Row 3, J Class window seat allocation. “Mmm, I think we can do better than that” as she ripped it up, fiddled briefly with her keyboard and delivered me Row 1 Aisle to Santiago – first class!

Well, this is a turn-up for the books. A proper bed and twelve hours before we land. I order a large black label aperitif as we make our way up to 30,000 feet. The beef is superb, and the bearnaise jus matches my rare fillet beautifully. The crème caramel was an extravagance, but what the heck? I turned to my fellow traveller to compare notes. He was dozing but it gave me a moment to observe the outrageously floral eyewear, the pink paisley-patterned jacket, the mauve shirt, clean-shaven, delicate hands and manicured nails. Maybe the jacket was just a smidge over the top. Mid-60s, I was guessing.

I held my own council and started to run through my very sketchy list of famous people –it can’t be Elvis; he’s dead. President Macron, ah, er hang on, the bloke’s a musician, plays the trumpet, maybe. It’s gotta be somebody famous to be sitting in first class.

I changed into the airline-supplied PJs. I woke to orange juice and an omelette. My fellow traveller had changed into an even more flamboyant suit, huge blue-framed glasses and still no obvious ID.

As we disembarked, I did overhear the steward wishing my companion “Have a great tour, Sir Elton.”

“Hey look at that” Bill said, indicating a small, swirling spot in the water just ahead of our canoe. My mind’s eye had also registered a little flat-beaked head and beady eyes, momentarily looking at us, as we paddled. “It must have been a fish” Bill conjectured “I don’t think Platypus are active during the day.” Ten minutes later and we saw another little plump, flattish stick suddenly arch and glide slickly under the water. That was definitely a Platypus!

We had just 30 minutes before launched our four-metre-long Canadian open canoe from Thornton, 200 kilometres northeast of Melbourne into the fast-flowing Goulburn River. It was the start of a four-day adventure paddling 90-odd kilometres down to our planned ‘take-out’ at Trawool, near Seymour.

The river was flowing at about 5 kilometres an hour and was going to provide a lot of help with the down-river trip. In the last week of October, the Water Catchment Authority had released significant flows, for both the farmers and environmental well-being. A week later and the 300mm dark stain on the banks confirmed that levels were already falling, but there was plenty for our needs.

I was a canoeing novice, having years before hired canoes in the Northern Territory’s Katherine Gorge. But Bill had had the Canadian for 30-odd years and learned to understand her temperament and moods. It was reassuring, as were the floatation vests.

Captain Bill was at the stern, me in the bow and in between was an assortment of swags, tents, cameras and spare clothes all packed into waterproof bags, along with cooking gear and an esky. Everything had been tied and linked together to facilitate retrieval in the event of a mishap. Despite the heavy load we rode high out of the water and were ‘drawing’ 50mm –plenty of clearance to safely clear submerged nasties.

The first rapids arrived. Previous advice was that if we survived these, the rest of the journey should be trouble-free. Bill explained the circular patches of smooth water that appeared regularly. “They’re pressure waves,” he said, “the water coming up against rocks on the bottom and pushing the water up to the surface”. They were not an issue. “Our guiding principle is to keep her nose-first, always heading straight down the guts” he advised. “She’s not a kayak, doesn’t have the same manoeuvrability – built for comfort, not speed so our paddles are the trick. Use em.”

I was nervous as the rapids arrived. They probably only represented a drop of 150mm but the series of short whitecaps and bumps had my sphincter clenched! But we glided majestically through – nary a bump. I relaxed, a little and a few more had me gaining respect for both Bill’s canoe manship and the strengths of our craft.

That first day was an introduction to the delights of “…mucking about in boats”. While we both maintained wary eyes for snags, the chatter between for’ard and aft took on a more relaxed form. The platypi (I use the plural) continued their shy inspections, sometimes allowing the canoe to within a metre before their bum-up glide beneath the surface. We lost count – maybe a dozen in that first afternoon.

We found a pebbly beach and pulled in. We had been going about four hours and a G&T beckoned. The river bubbled in the background as camp was set, swags unrolled, the kitchen established, the esky broached. A Taramasalata dip, blue cheese, biscuits and an iced G&T confirmed that ‘knock-off’ had arrived.

A small comfort fire was built as the sun-bleached away. The portable gas burner had Chow Mein in the offing and a full moon appeared over the nearby hills. To top things off a mob of kangaroos were silhouetted on the ridgeline, coming out to graze as the daylight gently mellowed.

Two young males were magnificently silhouetted on the ridge, sparring with each other. Tails were being used as backstops, while arms sought purchase, freeing hind legs and their sabre-like toenails to practice what might one day deliver mortal wounds.

There was an orange wash across the sky, reddened streaked on the underside of the clouds and we settled for the evening, tossing around the highlights, a quaffable Merlot agreeably dulling slight aches and niggles!

It was an early start next morning. A bit chilly but I nudged the fire back with a few leaves and a couple of twigs. Priority was to get the coffee pot going and a clear blue sky suggested another beautiful day on the water. Bacon and eggs – protein overload to fuel the day!

We were on the water by 7.30. Our little aquatic friends were there from the start and continued to enquire our form throughout the day. The birds, their squarks and chirps of initial consternation as we rounded a bend – this long green intruder with the orange-bladed sticks coming rapidly into their domain until the tree-topped crows sounded the ‘all-clear’ with several lazy faarrks.

The wood ducks were forever distrustful of our intrusion and were the first to be off – a noisy commotion to left or right and a dozen flew off down the river, well before we approached. I never saw them returning up river and idly wondered if we would eventually come across a huge, down-river duck-convention?

We stopped for morning smoko and another for ham, castello and salad rolls. By G&T time we both did our separate calculations and reckoned 35 kilometres. We had stopped at the little town of Molesworth and treated ourselves to an ice cream and another bag of ice.

There had been more rapids, a few close shaves with submerged logs but Bill and I were working effectively as a team. There were discussions about channels to follow, when the river divided around a clump of willows. Mostly we made the right choices. On one occasion we didn’t, going into the left channel and ending up pinned against a tree that had fallen across the entire width. There was mild anxiety from me, a little consternation and instruction from the Captain to “keep her upright – don’t let water come over the upstream side, whatever yer do.” Bill was out into the knee-deep water and in a flash we had manoeuvred her around and through the dead branches and away we went.

A signpost would have been good at that last river junction! There were a couple of bridges connecting someplace to another. We saw a couple fly fishing and another family camping beside the river. Apart from that, we had the river to ourselves – and it was a Spring weekend!

Night two, in hindsight was a bad choice. With camp set up and the light fading I went for a wander. I surprised a wombat, recently emerged from its burrow and then saw the stagnant water of an oxbow lake, just behind our camp. The mosquitoes were friendly and the Pork and duck snags over Cous Cous was hurriedly eaten and we retreated into the tents.

Another early start – the hot, strong black coffee kicked us into gear and we were underway by the time the kookaburras had cleared their throats. There were several tortoise-sightings and trout were evident in the shallow backwaters – we had a license, a couple of lures and one reel borrowed from an old rod. We trolled unsuccessfully for a while. I was surprised that we didn’t snag the lure.

Another beautiful day on the river – another 30+ kilometres downstream. We had been passing through a bushland corridor that buffered the rich, river flats behind. Some areas were infested with the ubiquitous blackberry scourge, but there were long stretches of seemingly pristine, mixed eucalypt, acacia and callistemon bushland. Much of the river was lined with willows and despite knowledge of their impact on river health, I admit a delight in the fairly constant, lemony-green corridor.

In the lower reaches of our journey, huge granite boulders protruding from the adjacent hillsides extended into the river as rounded sentinels. Occasional gravelly spits narrowed our options, as the river changed its course. Remnant tree stumps and submerged logs were there but a cautious eye quickly learnt to identify the tell-tale signs – the increasing water speed, the sound of rushing water, bursting around tree trunks, or through the branches of the willows, the subtle change in water colour as shallow water is approached.

A third night out. This time we inspected thoroughly before a final site selection was made. A pebble beach; a small corps of young eucalypts – plenty of firewood; a low grassy flat leading to unfenced fields of cereal. Perfecto and G&T O’clock, here we come!

We considered having a bogey in the river but it was cold, cold, cold water. A quick flip up and under the pits, a face wash and pretence that the odour enveloping the canoe was a new bush scent! Bill cooked up his specialty pesto pasta, avec tinned salmon. A couple of Merlots’ and campfire reverie got well and truly underway. Reminiscences were back into the 70’s and 80s – times when we were both working in the NT. But that’s another story…

That flick, just a lick of burnt sienna with my 3 mm brush, but it failed, again. I had recently delighted in walking through the Fredrick McCubbin exhibition – his effortless expertise – a whitey-ochre streak, travelling up the canvas, interrupted with highlights from the easterly sun, dark scratches of peeling bark, shadows underneath the intersecting branches. I had studied the same results in Ashton, Streeton, Conder and that wonderful highlighted leg Roberts achieved in SA Gallery’s Axeman! My despair put me in a funk.

Bill and I bought paints, fine paper blocks, had water carried in old vegemite jars, travelled far and near. His sisters even paid for him to attend classes, and I think there was a set of the finest Derwent pencils included in the present. I am not sure if he ever went to those classes, but we made up for any lapse with earnest discussions around the evening campfires.

We took two days facing some fine looking sandhills, east of Coober Pedy. We sat beside the Murray River, in the open woodland. Our appreciation of the subtle play of colours, the way the grass played against a wetland display often held our gaze, we knew the theory, just the odium settling as the pallets are cleaned-off yet again.

There have been a few finished paintings that we individually take comfort from. Bill produced a masterpiece at a Flinders Ranges waterhole, my seaside landscape, from Mundoo Island was also appreciated. But for twenty years, not much outcome to cover the walls!

We drank deeply of honeyed coffee, sought stoutish inspiration of an evening, even occasional weed consumed to mellow the inhibitions, to inspire. But artistic outcome continued to allude.

One late afternoon, camping on a bush block on the upper Yarra, near Heidelberg, something changed. I remember there was a sunset, flecking through the young saplings, orangey-yellow hues, as a pipe smoking bloke approached our fire. A huge bushy moustache dominated a youngish face, a red kerchief wrapped perfunctorily around his neck, knee length boots, calico breaches, paint-spattered shirt, a knapsack over his shoulder. “You fellas here for the school?” he queried. I said we were, and he suggested we come down to the river early in the morning to meet the others. We said we would, as he passed on by.

We made our way through the trees towards the river. There was a light mist in the valley, a fire’s smoke competed for attention, a billy of tea sat off the flames. A gent broke from the assembled group and proffered pannikins of tea and we wandered over. Was it a dress-rehearsal, a fancy dress, it seemed that we were in some sort of a time warp – all were smoking pipes, hairy-faced, dressed as the chap from last night, someone, introduced as Tom was talking of his recent years spent in Paris, the new Impressionist Movement gaining a following, Tom’s shipboard companion, enroute to Tahiti, Paul someone, a key devotee.

The turbulence didn’t worry Ray. His mate Bill had told him years ago that bumping over air pockets in the sky was the same as bumping over pot holes on a bush road. However that persistent knocking in the right engine did have him a little rattled.

He distracted himself by looking out onto the magnificent, whiter than white, mile high cumulous clouds. It always felt magical to glide in and out of these billowing monoliths.

“Hello everyone, sorry about this but we have a problem with the right engine. I feel the safest course would be to make an emergency landing. So can I ask you all to keep an eye out for a dirt road or even a clearing so we can put down.

 “Jesus!” “Can’t rely on him I’m afraid.” She let them know in Darwin that she was attempting an emergency landing as soon as it was safe to do so.

It wasn’t long before one of the four passengers in the six-seater, twin-engined Cessna called out. All Ray could see out of the left was trees, mangroves and a river. “Over to the right there is a clearing”. “Got it” said the pilot reassuringly calm.

It was a very bumpy landing but to the credit of the young pilot she kept the plane on an even keel and pulled up safely before the bush started again. Unfortunately the radio no longer worked. The pilot assumed wires had been dislodged in the heavy landing.

They all climbed out not sure whether they felt elated that they had landed safely or distressed that they were in the middle of nowhere, with a buggered plane.

“Who are we going to eat first?”, some bright spark said. “You, ya clown”, replied Ray.

“Ok, we need to get our ducks in a row if we are going to get out of this as quickly as possible. We are not far off our flight path so they will start looking for us along that corridor. Could you all start collecting fire wood. Some small kindling and some larger stuff so we can build up some decent fires to light if we hear an aircraft.

Ray looked at his phone optimistically but “no service” was all he got for his trouble. He headed off in search for fire wood. As he hauled the wood back towards the group he noticed a tortoise lumbering through the grass. Amazing, he thought to himself, you are just going about your business here, able to survive quite happily in what we see as a hostile environment and we won’t last at all unless we get help.

They worked together to build four fires at the four corners of the clearing to let any searcher know the size of the landing space. Although a search plane wouldn’t land here after dark it could mark the location and note the dimensions of the landing area for a morning rescue. The fires would also indicate survivors rather than bodies.

As the sun started to set each of the five found a spot to rest, some in the plane others on the ground. Ray had just put his head down on his briefcase when he thought he saw lights at the far end of the clearing. He sat up quickly. They definitely were lights and he could now make out a Toyota heading straight for them.

A tall man stepped out of the truck with a huge smile on his face. “I thought I heard a plane in trouble. So I thought I better have a look. I knew this clearing was here so I thought I’d try here first. My outstation is just an hour or so south of here and we have a radio. So jump on and come back with me. We can contact Darwin and you can all have a drink and a feed.” “Thank you”, they chorused and climbed up on the truck.

In the jargon of all pilots and with enormous relief in her voice, the young pilot shouted, “Thank Foxtrot, Uniform, Charlie, Kilo, for the outstation movement”.

Celeste’s leg was broken, maybe in a couple of places, and there was a bone splinter poking out through her trousers! She was in a lot of pain, and she and I were on the side of a bloody mountain, on an island, off the south-west coast of Tasmania. Brilliant! No mobile coverage, of course – I needed to think, fast, as I sensed Celeste was going to get a lot worse.

We had been trying to photograph an active nesting site of the endangered Swift Parrot. Birds Australia wanted the article in-market next month, adding some urgency and probably, some ill-considered timing for our outing – the weather was terrible!

I started to look for stuff to splint her leg. I looked in the camera bag. The fall had destroyed her 600mm lens, there was a Tombola marble, lens cleaners, scissors and not much else. Her trouser leg would do, as I cut it off, and ripped it into several lengths. A Tombola?

Two stoutish sticks, and I ignored her shrieks. My teen-attained St John’s Ambulance certificate finally earnt it stripes over the next couple of days! The four-hour ascent took me fifteen, in reverse. I stumbled three times, but I just had to turn-off from the cries, that, over the journey, turned to grunts, eventually – to nothing!

For such a lightweight, she weighed a tonne. Periods between rest breaks shortened. An audit of our food came up with three muesli bars, a bag of marshmallows and two fruit boxes. I also had my two-litre water bag, and I remember thinking that the sugar intake would be important for Celeste. She had one of the sticky treats at each stop.

There was a full moon behind the clouds, it actually broke through a couple of times. I reckon it was about ten o’clock, and I just had to rest – I was utterly exhausted. My shoulders were on fire, my legs felt like jelly, and Celeste was only vaguely conscious. We both drank, she had a marshmallow, and I know I fell into a sweaty, slouched sleep for several hours.

A kookaburra was quarrelling with a murder of crows somewhere. The dawn light showed me the inlet, not far below, and our little red inflatable boat, still tied off to a tree, temptingly close, but still a few hours away!

I forced a drink and a muesli bar into Celeste. We talked, we cried a bit and my words of encouragement cheered me up. I lifted her again, up onto my shoulders.

At midday we achieved the inflatable. Water, a muesli bar each and with one pull, the motor roared into life. What a deliriously joyful sound, and we were making headway without my legs and shoulders screaming!

We rounded a headland and tringgg – my mobile jumped into service! Bloody marvelous. I called Emergency Services. I could see the harbour wall, soon I could see that ridiculous, old red telephone box.  A collective sigh, a slump, tears “we’re delivered”, I said.

Am I awake? Jumbled thoughts, tumbling. Images whizzing back and forth, trailing comet-like tails. Projected black and yellowy shapes dance inside closed lids. My mind, an ever-active attic is doing a review of my recent night wanders.

An eye briefly tests the day. It’s still dark, but a sliver of moon dips towards the horizon. Misty coldness envelopes.

I stretch. Toes first, towards the bottom of the swag, dragging cramped legs, hips and spine through a deliciously reflexed assault. Again, a slightly different position works a spinal crick. I break wind, I desperately need a pee, as I throw off the warmth. Instant chill, bladder pressed in urgent release, crawling back into the fuzzed jumble of blankets.

I become aware of a lump; something digging into my hip. I roll over. It’s still there! I move again – gone, and I argue for another hour’s sleep. Dawn is off, maybe still over towards New Zealand, as I muggle back down and drift. Thoughts intrude, like sharp sticks, teasing me, challenging me to wake.

Last night’s fire was tamed by a watery fog, although I can taste that dank, near-dead fire smell, drifting through the camp. I open an eye and search out the hearth – yep there is still a red glow flickering from under that log.  I close my eye and desperately try to ignore intruding thoughts. Bugger it. Stop it! I scrunch my eyes tighter. I hear a fart from a neighbouring swag.

I must have drifted off. Coffee. Smelt first, seconds later I hear the pot starting to gurgle. I lie still, doggo, then use the blanket to wipe the drip off my cold, exposed nose. Eyes are still closed, thinking about that first sip. There would be a generous spoonful of honey stirred in.

I could hear the spoon scraping around the mug and I cracked an eye. The old chipped pannikin – my designated red one, was approaching and it was plonked unceremoniously, a foot from my head. The damp earthy smells were instantly replaced with a steamy, sweetened cloud.

I wonder about a straw. Could it be bent, reticulating coffee between mug and mouth? Maybe an intravenous delivery? Nah, that wouldn’t deliver taste. If I lie here, could I manoeuvre my blanketed arms around the mug and sip, without spilling the brew?  Probably not. I grumple upright, scalding noisy slurp. Oohh, wunderbar!

Two camp chairs at the fireplace, one is occupied! The fire had been kicked into gear and looks like it is delivering some usable heat! There is movement underneath the table. As I focus, I can make out a trail of sugar ants making off with the remnants of last night’s damper.

A couple of kookaburras cackle – I wonder if it is at us, or in competitive chorus with the murder of crows somewhere off in the scrub.  A family of blue wrens arrive and compete for the damper.

“Cold last night!” “Yep, sure was” as I cracked my swag towards a new day!

I could just make out “…quum tumultusitas vulgi semper insaniae proxima si.” My schoolboy Latin was being tested, but a couple of the words triggered memories, took me back to a classroom’s endless rote conjunctions. ‘I love, he/she loves, they love’, “amo, amas, amat …” torturing young minds insanely, as the hot summer sun beat through the windows; the buzzing, window-knocking blowflies sharing our desire to be outside that room.

 

The broken ancient tablet, frail, crumbly. The powdery blue text flaked, was barely hanging on to the whitewashed pottery. ‘Tumultusitas’ gave itself away, but ‘vulgi’, something to do with the mob, the common people, and ahh ‘insaniae proxima’ – ‘madness is close?’ On a whim, I haggled and we settled on a price, but I insisted that the old crone wrap it up for me. She grumbled but found brown paper and secured the parcel with string.  My money moved to her apron pocket.

 

I continued to meander through the Grand Bazaar. The narrow, crowded alleyways, jostling hijab-shrouded mothers quibbling over the groceries, smartly dressed men moving purposely, visitors, like myself, self-consciously and ineffectually trying to blend. By mid-morning I have settled below the vine-entwined lattice of a taverna, a pomegranate juice, a refreshing interlude. The noisy touts, the smells, the sights, the crowds were wonderful: people-watching, par excellence.

 

Two delightful weeks in Tehran, almost every day this market has drawn me, tempting wares, souvenirs, a suitcase bought to accommodate my trinkets. My Latin continued to elude, translations just out of reach, but intrigue continuing to justify my impulsive purchase. My best effort concluded that the crowd, maybe the unruly mob, were mad?

 

Three days ago, I had heard loud voices, maybe screaming somewhere, muffled, echoed, distant. There may have been gunshots. There were young women moving past my taverna, intent, hurried; definitely not shoppers. Slight unease replaced my worrisome Latin. A short time later I saw police moving down the alley, purposefully intent.

 

Midday heat and uncertainty saw me retreat to my hotel. The TV carried a story of some public unrest. The images, not the voice, grabbed my attention, as a group of women were shown publicly shaving their heads. One of the signs was in English and in bold lettering stated ‘It’s not Islam or the West, we want choice.’

 

Al Jazeera carried a comprehensive coverage, reporting on the martyrdom of a young girl, in custody for defying the strict dress codes. Cars were being torched on the streets, Police, and then the Army were out as the demonstrations grew, women, young and old, some with their men marching in the streets.

 

My empathy was with the marchers, but without the advantage of language, an incapacity to read the nuanced inflections of the uprising, it was time to leave Iran.

 

At home, I hung my pottery shard on the wall in my study. In the weeks since my return I have reinterpreted its text:

 

“Quum tumultusitas vulgi semper furor proxima si – the local people were furious, not insane.