Kununurra to Broome - Phil's Birthday Behind Bars

A forgotten fuel cap is replaced (again)by Argyle Toyota

The day was hot and damp and steadily, not spectacularly, raining as we left Kununurra and made our way along the Great Northern Highway for our next intended stay in Broome. It had been a hot night in Kununurra. Sweat and rain intermingled. We had seen the night sky turn from dark blue to a deeply bruised purple as its ominous growling and churning yielded to spectacular sheet-lightning and the growling boom of thunder.

The strobe-like illuminations of an electric storm had flashed intermittent and when the threatened rain came it rattled the corrugated iron roofs with an assaulting drum-roll, cascading down, overspilling gutters within seconds, while the drains lustily drank the deluge.

The air that morning was still heavy and damp, the build up continuing. It had been raining a lot and would yet for another two months. It may be this fact, or it may not, that contributed to the story circulating that neatly encapsulates how small town Australia, small town anywhere really, works.

Kununurra is the Aboriginal word for "meeting of big waters", and where the waters meet they have been diverted into the Lake Argyle Dam. Lake Argyle covers an area 18 times the size of Sydney harbour, 1000 square kilometres. At full flood level that area increases to 2100 square kilometres and with 150,000 litres every second pouring into it from its catchments during the flood, it is a mighty contribution to the towns water supply and irrigation.

Told, undoubtedly as a joke it quickly became the rumour which caused a lot of stress for the residents of the Mirima community in Kununurra. The story spread that the Lake Argyle dam wall had cracked, was cracking, had breached, was spilling and in the way of all that pent up water waiting to burst its way down was firstly the Aboriginal settlement of Mirima then the town of Kununurra itself.



The Police received a number a calls from concerned residents, the locals were terrified and with the heavy, heavy rain still falling they were concerned the whole wall would break. According to the local paper one resident said that: "I was sleeping in my house, when I got a shock one night because one lady comes up and told me; "get up, get, up, get up" the dam is going to bust. So I got up, wake my brother in law, wake my grandson, I got a shock that night."

The Water Corporation, the Police, their experts and engineers, all concluded there was no foundation to the rumour, and while the locals concerned themselves with the foundation of the dam, the rumour grew and more worried calls flooded in.

Notice was issued by those experts and engineers, refuting completely the whole affair; the rumour was the work of malignant drunks or innocent fools, and that there was absolutely no evidence to support it. It was completely, unequivocally untrue. But the fact that they sent all those people there to look at what they claimed to be a blatant lie seemed to signify there had to be a problem.



Panic ensued. If a drunken yarn, or tall story it really was, then the Water Authority and Police would not be so involved or so worked up about it. Stricken locals, unable to get through to the overloaded switchboards, and driven to fever-pitch by their own hysteria, considered evacuating, those that had one took to their cars, others barricaded their homes, boats were readied, supplies stored away, the boatless residents demanding something be done to save them as they could not even swim (a dam bursts, the front end of 10,763,000 megalitres starts coming towards you, but you're ok, you have your water wings inflated and rubber ring on) and the more it was denied there was anything the matter, the more they demanded something be done, and the rumour ran riot as their imaginations worst nightmare struggled to contain itself and idle conjecture turned to solid fact.



It reached its height with tales of the dam having already broken and with witnesses reporting a concerned engineer conducting emergency repairs (150,000 litres per second pouring in one end, an engineer's thumb blocking up the other?) and with that the Police got on air and on radio and told everyone to stop it! just calm down ok! And as far as we know, they did, but that crack there, hairline, you can barely see it....

We spent the day driving and it became clear that we would make it no further than Halls Creek. The Roadhouses and Service Stations we stopped and asked at along the way could not help and it was with a diminishing supply of fuel that we approached. By the time we got there we had emptied the second of our three Jerry cans into the thirsty tank and still had 600 kilometres or so to go until Broome.

Halls Creek is not much. In fact as far as not much goes it is probably a little less. We did bump into Bernie though, Lou's other half, on his route through from Karratha in his Road Train. He could not talk long and we had to find someplace to sleep. We shook him by the hand and thanked him again for all he and Lou had done for us.



We found some accommodation quickly enough at a Motel. Phil did the talking then we settled in and I was startled to discover that the price of the room was my presence in the kitchen of the adjoining restaurant, washing up, as I was the only one with 'proper' shoes, and it had anyway already been arranged. I took it for the team, though it was hard to watch all the steaks and chops disappear from view out the swinging door, while I had instant noodles and cold beans for tea.



The job for the morning, before we could really head off anywhere, was to find some fuel. With limited choice we had to find it at one of two places on the main strip we had been told were the only Servos in town. Both said they could not help. But undeterred as only the truly desperate can be, we asked again whether there were any more, and hold on, said one fella, hang-yer-hat, if there isn't another one just down the way, round that corner and on the left.



We saw the Toyota Garage, parked up, went in, and asked. Delia the bosslady said yes, of course, no worries. Relief. Just use that diesel pump there, number five. Anxiety. We're on unleaded, we said. We have no unleaded left, Delia answered. A bitten fingernail, a chew of the lip, attested to the tricky spot. But I'll get on the phone to my husband and see what we can do. Hope. Good old Diego, he and Delia agreed to donate to us $90 for fuel, here you go have it. Anxiety again. Erm, we can't actually handle the cash we murmured, any cash we are given must go to Book Aid. Back on the phone to Diego, and it was agreed that Delia would accompany us to the Servo and pay for us after we filled-her-up. That we made everything as hard as possible for them and that they still came through it testament to the good nature of these small towns and its people.



It was Phil's birthday today, and as usual we all forgot. Or were we unsure, and not wanting to admit we didn't know (erm, I thought it was last week..?) and besides who knew how old he was? either 19 or 27, possibly 29, what with his mercurial existence making him elusive to the confines of chronological ageing and all (I'm a name not a number!) but we pretended we knew all along as Phil made subtle then not so subtle hints as to the specialness of this special day. Special boy that he is he was duly awarded the pride of place window seat position in the van.




We had been warned that the Fitzroy River was liable to flood at any time but that it had been crossable for the past couple of days, but not to delay much, as it rose quite quickly. Reports came to us via various sources (yarns, everyone loves telling travellers these yarns, especially one with a dramatic twist) that the River had at one point been ten metres above the bridge, and in danger of flooding the town. Equally dramatic had been the assertion that it rose some forty metres in under an hour, when the rains came and drowned out the dry.


In Fitzroy Crossing we discovered these claims to be true. The Fitzroy River can be one of the fastest flowing in the world. Its flow rate down the 15 kilometre wide flood plain has been estimated to be 30,000 cubic metres per second. In flood, it is probably the largest river in Australia. Fact, for those who like them. It was, thankfully for our safe passage over, probably ten metres under the bridge when we passed through and into Fitzroy Crossing itself.



We headed for the Crossing Inn, the local pub/hotel/motel/restaurant, figuring that we should probably try to find somewhere to stay in which we could toast Phil's (alleged) birthday with a couple of schooners of the cold stuff. Terry the manager gave us a donga (Australian word for a basic unit, or cabin, transportable, but not on wheels) and as Phil demanded we make him birthday tea, I went to talk with Terry alone, to bargain for some beers, and he agreed to a few each if I wash his car. Duly done, Terry fed us, and the beers came, and we toasted Phil's (possible) birthday with as much joy as people who-are-not-even-sure-if-it-is-his-real-birthday-at-all-but-that-are-going-along-with-it-because-Phil-is-making-such-a-fuss can be.

The pub was teeming with life as the seemingly all the Aboriginals in the area were having a party. I asked the barlady, Hilda, if it was a busy night an she said 'nah', in a way that made me think of the response Capitain Ahab would give if you went fishing with him and exclaimed as he pulled up a Spanish Mackerel that it was 'a big fish eh'. Hilda had seen worse, or better, I don't know.

Lulled into a false sense of drinking comfort and security, we sit at the bar, swaying away to the harmonica playing on the duke box. We are just getting merry with our third drinks and then all of a sudden the jovialities are cut to a prompt finish with the sound of a loud siren. The girl behind the counter shouts last orders and we quickly get our last green cans and rum cokes. I still have one drink to get but I’m not allowed to get it. Can I get two? No, you can only have one because it is one drink per person. Can’t I drink it really quickly and get another? No. Can you just give me a double then? No.
Ten minutes after the last order is called everyone is booted out the bar, metal cages come down around us as we are asked to move our drinks. I notice the signs behind the bars stating no spitting, fighting or humbugging. Left sat on stools, stunned at the change of scenery around us in the space of ten minutes we are asked to drink faster in a firm tone.
I am in no position to complain, I haven’t exactly paid for the beer, Gareth has worked for it but we had no money crossing palms. If I was a paying customer I would have had some words to say to the boss.
The staff left and the lights were turned off.
It is eight thirty five. Apparently the day ends early here.

Phil is stunned. Happy birthday.




The mossies were busy that night, situated as we were not far from the Fitzroy River, but we were by the time we got back to the Donga, merrily inebriated (Anne had oonl ha-d two drinks- hic!) and prepared to admit that it was Phil's birthday if he were prepared to take the joke this far.

We were up and-at-them the next morning with 400 kilometres to Broome, along country that it is hard to describe the barrenness of. With no trees in all four directions, as far as the horizon blank and featureless, without even an undulation pretending to be a hill. But it was all verdant and lush thanks to all the rain, with the deep rich red-ochre earth framing the picture of the thirstily thriving flora.

Presenters of Fitzroy Crossing local radio gave us Tshirts and caps, showing us around their station as the signal was down

With much water still on the roads, we were careful to avoid being too reckless as we drove over the flooded roads (cautionary yarns by well-meaning Aussies, of wheels snapping! and axles breaking! and people stranded! in the middle of nowhere! for days! because they didn't know the road was not there anymore under all the water) with care and made it to Broome around five o'clock, heading for Cable Beach besides that other vast tract of water the Indian Ocean. Read a cheeky bit more!

Wa Border and What do you Eat when you have No Money?

Anything and everything!


Sorry but this is going to be a little bit of a four month without money fuelled whinge. One thing we have prepared ourselves for is to go hungry. We knew right from the start that with no ability to purchase food that we would sometimes have to go without. However, we are yet to starve, and although we are eating strange things, we are well enough.


Flies plague our food

We had been on the road all day, stopping only for a camping stove tea and stale biscuit break and we were all famished. Phil is cooking. I was hovering around the stove with little patience, willing the food to be ready with the fortitude of a girl in a toilet queue on New Years Eve; time drags, the minutes canter the wrong way up the down escalators.
Without seasoning, oil or proper cooking implements Phil tries to make something of the meagre ingredients, mostly being pulled from aluminium tins, squelching as the cylindrical food matter, falls out of its self made vacuum and slides into the pan with a big plop. We are so hungry it really doesn’t matter what we eat, anything will do, but we are looking forward to the meal to come due to the lavish way Phil is sprinkling things to the pan and for the amount of time he is spending on food preparations. Unfortunately, to call Phil’s culinary repertoire limited would be boastful, and the only thing we could do to get the fodder he prepared down our necks was to cover it in the fish flavoured sauce we had. It is, I think, the first time I have eaten anything which you could honestly describe as being gruel.



As a test of our will power people eat ice-cream in our wake in the midday sun, eat T-bone steaks on cloth covered tables to the left and drink cold beer that we can’t get our hands on to the right. It is hard sometimes, it has definitely been brought home to me just how much I rely on my ability to go out and buy myself anything I want to eat or snack on, anytime I like [in my normal life], to cope with different situations: something cold and icy when I’m hot; something stodgy and comforting when I’m cold; something full of grease and carbohydrates when I want to veg out; fresh fruit and vegetables when I need a detox; something chocolate covered when I’m feeling a little down.


Tempting......


Now that we can’t do that we have to be inventive about keeping our mind, and our eyes for that matter, off those food and drink items we covet. With little in the form of provisions in the Cheeky Camper we often have to work for a feed. We have opened packets to find food crawling with weevils, opened long life milk to find it curdled after a few hours in the immense heat and taken mouthfuls of water to find it putrid and eggy, yes, sometimes it is tough.



Flies suck the moisture from you

I can’t remember the last time I had a piece of chocolate, a big deal for a girl, a piece of gateaux or an ice-cream, gees what I wouldn’t give sometimes for an ice-lolly in the heat of the day in the desert when I’m surrounded on all sides by hoards of tourists in service stations deciding if they should go for the orange or lemonade flavoured ices. We can’t have cereal and milk because we have no milk, or cereal for that matter. Meals have little distinction except for what time of day we eat them, breakfast containing pretty much the same substance as what lunch and dinner will contain the only difference being lunch is eaten cold out of a can, smothered in its own tomato sauce and dinner will be heated over the camping stove if there is any gas, which at the moment we also do not have. So, on the road without the money to purchase a beer after a hard days graft, nor the money for a soda or basics like bread, us three Brits don’t even have the means to make a cup of tea, a very big deal, which anyone from the UK can sympathise with.



Gareth checking out what food supplies we have left in the van

While we would love to have a larder filled with goodies and a refrigerator full to the brim of fresh produce, we don’t. We make do with what is donated to us along our travels and look forward to home made food at the homes of those who invite us for a feed, or to those restaurants and cafes which take pity on us. Sometimes we eat like kings and other times we open the tin of Christmas chick peas and the last can of spaghetti hoops.


We hadn’t had any fresh food supplies for a while, but Tony Milhinos, the guy in Darwin who had done so much for us, paid for our supermarket sweep and we carefully selected fresh fruit and vegetable we thought would last though out our long trip to the West Australian coast. We ate a few grapes and apples, rationing the rest of the fruit to last the journey. Unfortunately, we were completely unprepared for what was to happen to us next. We arrived at the Northern Territory/Western Australia (WA) border and we were told to hand over everything! Most of the food items we had been rationing were on their quarantine list, we had to give up our fruit, our onions, our vegetables, garlic, honey, coconuts and nuts, in fact, everything that wasn’t dried or in a tin. We sat at the border control, for a while, eating as much fruit as we could cram in.
We really regretted our previous rationing.





Read a cheeky bit more!

The Wet and The Smell - Katherine to WA Border

Phil checks the water level as we drive through a flooded road

After a soggy, damp night, we moved on from Katherine. The dash down the day before had delayed dinner, and we hardly ate, and we woke hungry and sullen next morning. That aside, we were looking forward to getting a move on and see what all the fuss was about. The Victoria River had been a thorn in our side, an obstacle immovable and for many, the talk of the town. It was the Vic River this, Vic River that. ‘You’ll never make it across… you’ll be at least 6 weeks marooned… might as well go another way (there is no other way)… I remember a time when it was up to the nostril of every man-jack this side of the Nullarbor…’ and we listened and nodded much the way we did when they (a different ‘they’) forewarned us about these floods that have a tendency to occur up here.



Phil takes a picture of the bushland turned raging river

Blithely we vie for having our heads in the clouds or stuck firmly in the sand. It isn’t easy living like that, but necessary, and productive. Had we listened to the ‘they’ we would not have been able to see what all the fuss was about when the Wet hits, nor being so daring to at the drop of a hat dash down daredevil fashion and attempt a bold crossing of this behemoth river during flood season.



Phil triumphantly raises his fists at being able to cross the Victoria river

Recent reports were that the Victoria River was now a metre under the bridge, which was passable, having been two metres over until two days ago, and passable only by boat, if you had the courage to fight not only the swift current but the hungry crocs too. Not knowing what to expect (“it [the river] goes down as fast as it goes up, but it can go up quicker!” they would say enigmatically to frighten us) and it was with some trepidation mingled with excitement that we approached, nervous that it had risen overnight (‘watch yer nostrils buddy!’) but eager all the same to see this huge surge of water in full flood.



We all walk over the Vic Bridge to imagine what the water line was like at its peak height of over 4 meters above the road

It was all clear to cross. The strewn debris and washed-up detritus along both sides of the bridge substantiated where the river had been, but it ran a metre or so beneath it. Submerging some of the ghost gum trees on the banks below, though, and maybe four hundred metres wide, the rich red ochre flood water raced down, and it was hard to imagine how much extra water could make it rise a further six metres to the level it was at its highest point over the bridge. Maybe ‘they’ had a point about the Wet season.



The Adelaide River Inn donates fuel to our cause



The actual bull that Crocodile Dundee hypnotises in the film!



It has to be done, we all did it.

One hundred percent humidity and the stifling heat keeps you wet at all times, the sweat pours down your back and pools around your arse soaking the seat. Legs sticking to the material on the chair and hair greased to your scalp, I mostly feel incredibly sticky, smelling about as attractive as I look and looking about as attractive as I feel under my layer of dirt.

A boab tree with climbing pegs hammered into it

Reflexions in the flooded bush make beautiful links between the skies and the land



A Wicked Camper signature painted door

Living in such a small space for such extended periods of time with two boys means that aromas fester, mutating into unbreathable, putrid, gaseous clouds if left unchecked. Our sleeping quarters, cooking area, washing area, larder and storage space, one unto itself, means that stray whiffs are unavoidable.

It hits you as soon as you open the van door, the smell of deodorant battling with the pungent smell of foist, sweat, feet and fart. Be it shoe, sock, a long forgotten rotten spud down the back of a seat, a soup spillage left to go mouldy, a damp dirty towel gone unwashed for an age or a lentil fuelled fart unable to escape the van due to rain forced closed windows, we have experienced it all. Add to that, the pong of the discernable flavour of carrion coming in from outside and the stifling heat to intensify all the stenches, you have a devils reek of a symphony for the nostrils. Read a cheeky bit more!