It’s Friday. Warren has taken voluntary redundancy from Telstra, and will be finishing in a week. He declares with enthusiasm that we are to hitch up the Aussie Swag camper trailer (creatively referred to as The Swag) and hit the road. For around four months. Leaving in two weeks. All that is required is to buy a suitable vehicle, pack a minimalist bag, slow to 40KPM for a quick food shop, and we would be off.
Alas, no. We have the ingenious idea of installing some people in our house while we are gone, and I am granted a revelation. Apparently the hours spent bingeing Netflix had robbed me of the truthful vision that my home held grime ransom in every crevice. The gloves, magic erasers, and a toothbrush that would deprive anyone of gum margin came out and I was off on a Konmari* extravaganza with laser focus.
Have you ever inspected your washing machine? The thing that cleans everything else, that never actually gets cleaned itself? A quick check on what it would cost to buy and simply replace the Fisher & Paykel manky bits had me head back to the garage for another solution. The steamer, the water blaster, a bladed scraper later, and good deal of muscle later (hooray for pre-dawn winter pool kilometres**), I stood back with satisfaction. [At this stage I must mention our laundry lives in the garage. It’s a matter of priorities. Namely Warren’s wine storage trumps boring laundry that Warren is still in a quandary over what it’s contribution to life quality is.]
Then I noticed the wall behind the washing machine. Having just reorganised the entire garage pre-departure, I knew exactly where the painting stuff was. No multiple trips to Bunnings here. Two hours later, two walls of the garage were freshly white. I’ll leave you to imagine how this played out in every corner, draw, and crevice of our house.
By the time our incredibly lovely new tenants knocked on the door last Sunday, 16 days post declaration, I was at the stage of dually cleaning the fridge and flinging indiscriminate matter into the trailer. A bag of dry goods, dirty runners, and clean linen vied for real estate on the back seat. I paused and took a moment to appreciate the immaculate cream sheepskin seat covers, champagne interior, and unmarked ‘Liquid Bronze’ exterior of our newly purchased car. It would never look this way again.
We headed out the drive and north. We hadn’t actually had time to discuss an itinerary, but a pie at the Bindoon Bakehaus would be a good start.
And so it begins.
*Marie Kondo is an organising expert who introduced the KonMari Method™ in her transformative best-selling book, “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up.” She began tidying as a young girl and refers to “tidying adventures”, just like me apart from being half my size in every measure, gently spoken, and smiling serenely out from perfectly face framing sleek hair. Simply reading her book is an exercise is peaceful mindfulness. The approach is rooted in a single question: Does this item spark joy?
** Thanks Team Phoenix! xx
30 days of rain when your home is made of canvas requires becoming at one with perpetual damp. The irony of recently arriving from weeks of skin blistering heat, unfeasibly mobile dust, and sticky, biting, flies was not lost on me. The car smelt of a wet dog we did not own. Our bed was damp right through the mattress, towels reminiscent of forgotten washed laundry sitting in your washing machine after three hot summer days, the knives and forks grew rust, and our backsides sprouted algae from the winning camp chairs that attract and retain the tiniest molecule of moisture from the air.
The rain joined us the moment we reached Cooktown, chased us down the East Coast of Queensland, and did not let up until we cried ‘Enough!’ one especially wet evening at the tiny EJ Fahey Park, as rain blew sideways under our groundsheet cable-tied to the trees, and the fire limped through dinner. Blinking at each other through the mist we wordlessly agreed to drive 5000 km back to the West, to spend our last two weeks on the sparkly, turquoise, pretty-fish-filled Ningaloo Reef.
We have one week left of four months on the road and sitting at our camp, overlooking Osprey Bay in Cape Range National Park, time has accelerated and each day seems to last only 12 hours. We have driven 22,000 km in an overlapping circle and W is cleaning the Weber Baby Q, an annual activity, confirming that indeed, all things end eventually.
Cooktown is a beautiful spot at the base of Cape York (the pointy bit on the top right corner of Australia). Access is 4WD, and parts of it, fairly intrepid. Cape York was one of the few must-do’s on this trip, but our timing was a little off, and we reluctantly agreed the journey may spell the end of the camper trailer, so had got to Cooktown to at least put a virtual stake in the ground for when we would return.
The anchor of James Cook’s Endeavour sits in the Information Centre at Cooktown. I love looking at collections of relics from past times, specifically home and personal items, but the actual anchor of a ship I heard tales of as a child thrilled me far more than I expected. It must have been a really weird experience for both Cook’s mariners and the local Aboriginal people seeing each other for the first time. Quotes and writing from both perspectives at the time makes compelling reading.
At the watery inlets and outlets around Cooktown Achtung!* signs abound, as do water lilies and lush rainforest. There is something oddly humorous about a crocodile sitting just under the surface with a water lily on his head.
From Cooktown we took the coastal 4WD road bound for Cairns. The trailer seemed to enjoy the bounce from steep inclines and declines as we roared south. The road took us through the Daintree, tropical growth fresh and happy in the rain. Greenery is so restful on your eyes when you have squinted your way through the Top End, carving deep furrows in your forehead. The contrast is so stark, in a relatively short distance, that I am reminded again how incredible Australia is. We didn’t stay in the Daintree or Port Douglas, as we have been to both before, and the damp was beginning to seep in. At this stage we didn’t know the rain would become a lasting signature of our East Coast experience.
The Great Barrier Reef could be accessed from Cairns, so we booked the last two seats on a boat going out the next day, and reclined on a large day bed for a few cocktails at the marina. W had wandered off to make some calls, leaving me to the charming attentions of a short, older, gentleman in a genuinely antique Hawaiian shirt, who sidled onto the long day bed. We both inched left, a fraction at a time, until I was cornered. With nowhere to go, I made a bid for freedom over the side, sacrificing my Margarita in the process. Walking home via the Cairns Night Markets, I managed to avoid buying dream-catchers and multi-coloured beach cover-alls, but the cocktails I’d had managed to purchase a pair of two-tone gold UGG boots, the last pair, a half size too small, but at 70% off, impossible to resist.
We embarked the boat, and just when we thought legal capacity had been superceded, another 30 people got on. It was a rough day out on the water, with five metre swells, and we hadn’t read the bit in the brochure about the two-hour trip to the reef, followed by another hour to another reef, and back again. Around 65% of those on board had failed to bring their sea-legs, and while many proceeded to the open and fresh rear of the vessel as instructed, a stubborn few stayed amongst the rest of us inside, and shared their recycled muffin. As a person who just needs to think about vomit to start gagging, I stared resolutely through the window to the front of the vessel just in time to see a guy plastered to the exterior of the window clutching a sick-bag like it was his first born. A position he maintained for 7 hours.
Unfortunately, the popularity and fame of the Great Barrier means mainstream reef trips are worse than 30-hour flight on a no-frills airline to a small crowded atoll where the fish look rented. Staff flatly roll out the same jokes and routine every day, and flirt with each other to break the tedium. By the end of the trip, the Kiwi extravert guy had made solid headway with the Swedish lunch prep girl.
We set the TomTom for south, clinging to the coast in search of sparkling beaches, and richochet-ing in and out of small, beach-style towns until we reached Mission Beach. We had hoped to find somewhere to swim since the threat of crocodiles was no longer present, but the murky grey water and persistent rain was uninviting and a faint ache in my tooth nagged. By the time we neared Townsville, I had decided a tooth was attempting to grow sideways out of my gum, so I called Townsville’s 1300 Smile and managed to drive straight to an appointment. 48 minutes later, I left 1300 Smile relieved of one tooth, a gaping hole in my mouth, and a legitimate member of the Collingwood Football Club**.
I will continue this tale from Townsville, QLD, to Exmouth, WA, in my next instalment – Things That Make You Go EEK – where I have regular and uninvited encounters with a range of scream-worthy creatures.
*Crocodile warning signs read ‘Achtung! Warning! Crocodiles inhabit this area.’
**Collingwood Aussie Rules Football Club members are popularly described as being short of teeth and long of mullet.
Timber Creek is a small town in the Northern Territory with the three most common remote town signs; to the roadhouse, police station and medical centre or hospital. The roadhouse is typical, providing all manner of services including bar, bottle-store, restaurant, service station, and caravan park to locals and travellers alike.
We arrived on Saturday, and the roadhouse was doing a roaring trade in beer destined for a party up the road. Carloads of locals drove up, piled into the bar, emerged with slabs of beer, and yelled to other carloads of locals doing the same. The Eftpos machine sat silently trapped in a cage at the front door, and a cheery bunch of international staff buzzed about.
Travellers under 30 years of age to Australia can extend their tourist visa by one year, if they work for three months in a remote area. This means you can generally guarantee the people serving you in many small town pubs and roadhouses are a cheerful array of intrepid young people with exotic accents, seemingly well out of context, yet curiously at home.
The caravan park behind the roadhouse offered the twin attractions of crocodile and bird feeding. At 5pm, an eager bunch of kids, a couple of elderly folks, a handful of freshwater crocodiles, a varied flock of airborne raptors, and W and I excitedly gathered for feeding time. When the English girl from the pub dangled raw pieces of meat in the creek, the crocodiles looked a bit bored, but the birds were somewhat theatrical, and the kids and I were thrilled.
A whiteboard on the wall in the bar listed names of people banned from the bar, and the date they were allowed back in. Every now and then, a whiteboard person wandered in and attempted a purchase, or sat at the bar and charmingly argued why they should stay. Both the Chilean and the Kiwi behind the bar were barely 25, yet managed to deliver the bad news, wave farewell to the banned, and order a Barra and Chips at the same time with a smile. I wanted to suggest the publican run a detox program for city adolescents, currently gaining life skills from a screen, but he didn’t appear to possess the same charm as the gals.
We had left Kununurra at the break of day, and foiled the guy with the wheel covers, awning OCD, and dawn leaf-blower routine next door, determined to wake us. I like to ensure we have plundered the depths of local attractions, squeezing in The Mini Bungles and Kelly’s Knob at sunset the night before, and planning to swim at Valentine Springs, Black Rock, Marley Billabong and a handful of other watery delights on our way east. Alas, the swimming holes were in varying states of dehydration, but the backpackers were up for it, shrieking and smoking while splashing about the murky green water. We ventured to Wyndham where local artists had crafted an alien message into the saltpan, looked at another grey harbour, and deemed our work done.
From Timber Creek we drove straight through Katherine and north to Nitmulik National Park, a gorgeous park full of gorges and swimming holes just 30km from town, managed jointly by traditional owners and Department of Parks and Wildlife. Edith Falls is one of the beautiful camp areas within the park, offering shade, and , watered grass, wildlife (both two and four-legged), and a swimming hole replete with fish eager to nibble off your callouses. I am never at ease in fresh water, but became excited at the prospect of a pedicure of sorts. I watched the cute little fish dart about my legs until one took a wee chunk of my thigh.
Nitmulik is atypical for National Parks, with quirky personal touches. Edith Falls greets you with quirky quotes on a sandwich board, and the main caravan park features a rockstar-style lagoon pool, and resident 4 metre python (harmless but freaky all the same), that hung out at the pool in daylight, and on the path to the toilets at night. Moving to the main camp, we set up with haste, eager to make it in time for our Gorge Dinner Cruise, the only tour with vacancies. Waiting under the trees for our cruise to depart, a man approached enthusiastically and said “Saw you at the camp ground. You’re next to us. In the camper trailer. We’re in the Winnebago.” Pausing to reflect, I couldn’t remember anything about our fellow campers except the fact I thought there was no-one around as I changed into my bikini beside the car.
Our next destination was Karumba. The promise of abundant fresh fish and prawns, a fantastic azure vista, and location bang in the middle of the Gulf of Carpentaria took on a spiritual quality, and got me through two bush camps. To be clear, bush camp means off-the-grid, no loo in any form, no water, coverage or rubbish bins. Of course, a sweet little shower faucet in a box, some cigarette lighter power, and a bucket of pre-boiled water convinces you temporarily you need never live a civilised life again. Until you see yourself in a roadhouse bathroom, and realise your husband is not a details guy, and you need an intervention.
Karumba is all about fishing, just like the rest of the north. You cannot swim because of the crocs, it is hot as all get out, and the Barra run freely. At night the sunset pub hosts thousands of hermit crabs as they march about, pile up, then march again. At every point the road or a boat campmates the water you see signs warning of croc activity. They read “Achtung! Attention! Crocodile activity in this area”, and show a no-swimming icon. After a while we simply referred to these river crossings as Achtungs. Australia’s largest saltwater crocodile, ‘Krys the Savannah King’ met an untimely end at nearby Archer’s Creek in 1957, but the legend lives on in a life-size replica, over 8 metres long, in the main street of Normanton, where people take photos of their babies in its mouth.
Karumba’s Hotel offered two kinds of experience; the open air Animal Bar and air-conditioned Suave Bar. Alone in the Suave Bar, we were schooled by Maddie and Tae on the Country Music Channel, on being a ‘Girl in a Country Song’, which seemed to prescribe smiling over speaking, daisy dukes and cowboy boots, and a lot of admirable hair.
We had to stop at Mt Surprise for name alone. This is another small town with a tiny local population, residing in fields rich in ancient history and semi-precious gems. We made sure the pub could receive the AFL Grand Final transmission, then settled into the caravan park with resident Johnny Cash, miniature ponies, exotic birds, an emu, and another resort style pool. Always a fan of a gem, I convinced W to grab a prospector’s license, treasure map, and shovel from the gem store and we set out for the field of dreams. Before we left, I had probed the expert for tips, amongst which was the theory that good things lay two metres down. When I said we could easily dig that far, I saw a flash of focused attention pass across the eyes. It’s a look I have only seen in opal fields, carried by people living in corrugated iron lean-to’s for decades and in possession of an unshakeable belief that tomorrow they will find the mother lode. Three hours later, having dug over the well ground in the allowed areas other tourists has already toiled over, bitten by March flies, and with dust in very crevice, we departed in possession of a few small pieces of Topaz, unsurprised by the appraisal they were too small to do anything with.
Hanging up our prospecting boots, we investigated a once vast farming property owned by the entrepreneurial Collins family, the first white settlers in the Gulf Savannah, and who have owned the property since the 1860’s. Featuring caves formed by ancient lava tubes, and numerous unique geological features, the family decided to partner with National Parks to create the Undara Volcanic National Park, and developed a slick tourism venture on the property, called The Undara Experience, which thrives today. Of course the only way you get to see them is to take the tour. W and I spend a lot of time in each others company, so whenever we go on a tour I am freshly reminded that we walk at twice the pace of anyone else, and how I need to develop a more Buddhist outlook when it comes to that person in every crowd that dawdles at the back with their camera/eternally fusses in their back pack/stares into the distance/is last on the bus.
The next day we eyed Cooktown, at the base of the Cape York Peninsula, a new corner of Australia for us.
As a fan of lists, spread-sheets and Gantt Charts, you could reasonably expect an itinerary for our trip, but my companion is far looser in this regard, providing me with a growth opportunity. We usually head off with a rough destination in mind, and I call out attractions as we go. It goes something like this:
“In 23 km we will arrive in [insert name of town]. This is a great base to explore [insert region]. Gazetted in 1876, this is the quintessential outback Australian town. Drop a line from the wharf, eat a meal at the historic pub with unique memorabilia, walk the main street and soak up the rich history…Hey! They have crocodiles, lets do the crocodile tour!”.
It will depend on blood sugar levels but I can accurately predict that if it is lunchtime and near a river, or a town made famous by a country singer, a Barra at the local pub inexplicably festooned with underwear items from passing travellers, could be goer. If none of the above, forge on.
In the north, the year and all activity within it is generally referred to by three seasons determined by prevailing weather. They are The Build Up (around November to January), The Wet (roughly February to April) and The Dry (May to October). Several people have told me if you can live through The Build Up in [insert name of any north WA or NT town] without going around the twist or I suspect, committing a felony, then you are worth marrying/belong here/are a local. During The Dry, bushfires are common, and apparently 90% of them are deliberately lit. Great numbers of Birds of Prey circle above grabbing the rodents and locusts that flee in waves.
We wanted to do an overnight houseboat stay at the Horizontal Falls near Derby, around 220km from Broome, but the girl on the phone told us it was booked out and the next time we could book was 10 months from now. We also intended to do the Gibb River Road, a largely 4WD road joining Derby and Kununurra featuring a number of marvellous gorges, and privately owned wilderness park, El Questro.
We were travelling at the end of The Dry, which meant the road, at best corrugated and awash with superfine bull dust (yes, it is an actual thing, not just a euphemism), was in the worst state of the year. The dire portents from travellers just arrived, and the general disintegration of the camper trailer, assisted in our decision to avoid a 500 km test of both trailer and personal limits. We would take the Great Northern Highway from Broome to Kununura, (around 1100km) via Fitzroy Crossing and Halls Creek – a hop, skip, and a (maybe not so fictional) psycho away from Wolfe Creek crater. “He was a quiet neighbour. Kept to himself. Wore a lot of Camo.”
Largely uneventful, the Great Northern would provide us with ample opportunity to amuse ourselves with roadhouse ‘cheese and beef’ sausages, a food item suspiciously devoid of both, and a gift that keeps giving for hours after ingestion.
We were warned at Willare Roadhouse (good spot to pick up some Yeeda Station Grass Fed beef) that the road to Fitzroy Crossing may be closed due to a bush fire. Driving toward some pretty awesome smoke, we found ourselves diverted to Derby after all.
Making a campground decision based on the comments based on Wiki Camps is like reading between Real Estate Lines. ‘Adequate facilities’ means I will be displeased with cleanliness. ‘Sociable campground’ means the Sundowner drinks crowd will talk about you if you don’t join them. ‘No good for big rigs’, ‘Bins emptied noisily at 8:45am’, Didn’t have pool or children’s playground’ means probably awesome (for crying out loud people, its $20 a night!), ‘Rude reception’ means send in W, it will be his demographic.
The campground had an eclectic collection of folk, including a crowd from Mapua, a mere 10 km from my sister in the Abel Tasman region of New Zealand’s South Island. Given the size of Mapua and distance from origin, this is statistically significant.
Camp chat is such an education. I had noted with interest that an inordinate amount of women at campground Sundowner drinks drank Coca Cola, and always in a stubby holder. I had mused upon this, and marvelled at the popularity of both Coca Cola and the high proportion of tee-totalling women. Then Sandra From QLD let the cat out of the bag; “This? Oi’ve put me Bourbon in it already.”
By this stage of our trip, temperatures are regularly late 30 degrees celcius, mosquitoes, midges and March Flies simply feral, and estuarine crocodiles (the ones you don’t swim with) own every waterway. This is why glamping is a term devised by tricksy partners to convince those smooth of complexion, and fond of an unbroken nail, to get out bush. No. Unless you are travelling in a mobile home, your signature composure will be unattainable. Sure, I started out with wonderful West Australian, organic, chakra-balancing natural repellent, bio-dynamic sunscreen, and positive affirmations. But when my skin started looking like something you would fashion into a High Street tote and the high-pitched whine of a Ross River Virus-carrying insurgent made me wonder if I had tinnitus, I went full Agent Orange. It’s not all Akubra’s, glossy hair and honey coloured tans. Imagine a face and neck of bites gathered together by a rash worthy of a communicable disease, and similar in shape to a map of Europe.
Back on track, we headed for Kununurra, around 900km away. While there are notable Gorges worthy of stopover (Geikie, Windjana), we found ourselves relentlessly pushing forward, as if the gold lay at the end of the Great Northern. The campground options on this route generally boil down to roadhouse dust-bowls, or free camps labelled ‘gravel pit’ on Wiki-Camps. We usually start our hunt for a spot around 3.30pm, I reject the first six, then as dusk falls, we end up in said gravel pit, lulled asleep by the symphony of a road-crew generator, road-train refrigeration unit, or bore water windmill. The upside to this scenario is that you generally get motivated to go at 5am, giving you a grand start to the day.
On the final stretch to Kununurra, we decided to use our early start to check out Mollie Springs, a spring fed pool with a waterfall, and a ‘favourite with locals for swimming and picnicking’. W got in out of tradition, and turquoise dragonflies darted, while I chose a campground in Kununurra on the basis of its pool. W checked in for vacancies, and was given a very special site under a giant boab tree next to the pool that ‘everyone wants’. Uniformed staff buzzed about everywhere, tweaking pool chemicals, mowing lawns, erecting signs with rules, and manicuring the landscape. At 5.30pm on the dot, a staff member made their way to the pool enclosure to evict anyone still comfortable in loungers at the rigidly enforced pool closing time. Strains of 1960’s music drifted from the rear bank of permanent residents, and sprinklers circled relentlessly.
Kununurra is close to the West Australian/Northern Territory border, and sits on the banks of the Ord River. Everyone fishes, and Barramundi is on every menu. I like to investigate all local attractions in the limited time we have, so after a swift recconnaisance of the town environs, we headed to The Pump House, a great little restaurant/bar overhanging the river. At night, hundreds of creepy catfish pile up under the deck to dine on leftovers from Pump House guests. Far cooler than that however, is the eternally patient crocodile that hangs off the edge of all the catfish which annoying failed to launch into the frenzy.
The next day, buoyed by the lush descriptions of swimming holes in the Springs Circuit, we set off to explore. It quickly became apparent we were about four months too late. With enthusiasm fading we opted for a river cruise. Roaring up the Ord River, things were looking up. Three metre freshwater crocodiles (the harmless ones!) appeared on cue, and a back up one for tourists I am certain was rubber, sat unmoving on the rocks.
Riverbank bushfires filled our lungs and raptors soared. Tomorrow we would continue east.
We checked into the Cable Beach Resort, and took a mere 30 minutes to streak the white towels with red dust, scatter tiny Pilbara stones from our luggage onto the floor, and appear poolside looking like we had been rehomed from under a bush.
There were two pool areas, one for families, and one other, conveniently located on the edge of our room. The family pool area had funky Ku-De-ta style music and a lively vibe. Walking into our pool area was like walking into a scene from Coocoon. People draped over noodles smiled a little too brightly, bobbing slowly on the spot to an eerie silence. Those not in the pool appeared to be recovering from cosmetic surgery, with an over representation of compression bandages and overly large hats. A guy we identified as Solar Panel took up position at dawn, and rotated all day on the same lounger to face the sun, briefly moving to a particular chair in the shade to drink a beer every hour. I wanted to give the pool scene triage, and asked the terribly pleasant barman for some music. He seemed to have been swimming in the same pool, or may have been a droid as he looked blankly, before his eyes flickered, registering the request, and advising Management had told him to turn it off.At dusk, a queue of cars formed to tear down the beach. Ok, well, W tore down the beach at a disobedient 16kph. Irikandji (a jellyfish that requires morphine to dull the pain) danced in the shallow tide, camels plodded past, and a 3m croc decided to wait another few days before having a crack at the swimmers and dogs splashing enthusiastically about. Fearful I may get attached to swaying palms in pink sunset bars, champagne in glass vessels, chlorinated swimming, mirrors, and air-conditioned rooms, W drove at breakneck speed up the Cape Leveque Peninsula, to Goombaragin, one of the many campsites offered by local leaseholders along the coast. Our campsite was one of only two, both on the cliff overlooking the bay, with a charming rocky track down to the beach that I would not recommend to the infirm. Unfortunately, wind made the water pretty murky but we were desperate. The welts from something in the water receded within 48 hours, and being led back up the path by one of the resident pythons was a bonus. Traditionally guests gather at a daily fire with the host family and fabulous tips and local history are generously shared. The 17-year old lad of the host family was an inspiration, his enthusiasm for pythons (he had a Stimson in an aquarium), fishing, diving, shells, bare feet, and his overall sunny and open nature will take him far. I would love to know where his future takes him. There are a few must do’s on the Peninsula. A visit to the Hatchery at One Arm Point is a must. For a $15 fee to the community, I learnt more about local fish in that 30 minutes than I have with my multiple fish books. I got spat at by Archer fish and plotted to save a forlorn Barramundi Cod brought in by local kids, as it lay unmoving on the floor of the tank – this species mate for life, and pine away when they are separated. At low tide you can see Lemon sharks being herded by local dogs at the boat ramp. A visitor filmed it and the video became a phenomenon, but it happens regularly. At high tide, a phenomenal amount of water courses between offshore islands. And of course, there’s Kooljaman. When I saw the azure beach at Kooljaman, a resort at the tip of the peninsula, around 220km north west of Broome, I booked us into the campground immediately. It had nothing to do with the adjacent resort cafe and ice cream fridge. Tour buses, float planes and helicopters swept in at regular intervals, piloted and driven by clean-cut guys in their early twenties dressed in Steve Irwin khaki’s and R M Williams boots. Most of the tours were a ten-hour marathon that covered both Cape Leveque and the Deeby Horizontal Falls in one day, giving a parade of people that looked remarkably similar to each other every day an outback-meets-the-ocean experience in 20-minute segments. The Outback Pilot Uniform seemed to catch on as I noted a surfeit of women my age, in flowing layered dresses (as women my age are prone to do) finished off with a pair of R M Williams boots. I haven’t discounted releasing a Boho-meets-Jillaroo Collection when I return to Perth. I find the best sights are usually in the kitchen. A global fusion breakfast crafted by a young german lad with an evidently iron-clad constitution, wins so far. Layering white bread, a hefty squeeze of chilli sauce, a smear of berry jam, and plastic cheese presumably for stability, he flew in the face of standard backpacker fare – dry chicken and corn two-minute noodles, and teeny cans of tuna.
There is a meaningful statistical trend for the kind of travellers you find in campgrounds. The rougher it gets, the country of origin reduces down to three: German, Kiwi, and Australians under 40. You generally don’t see the guy in the t-shirt that reads: ‘This is Australia. We eat meat. We drink beer. And we speak f*kin English.’, anywhere that requires 4WD access. I reluctantly note another trend, and it is prompting a sense of vigilante-ism within. Each day I wish to be disproven, but alas, where Whizz-bangers (backpackers in forensically overloaded rental vans) have been, a trail of dry noodles and used disposable kitchenware appear on the bench, while cigarette butts, empty tuna cans, and egg shells pile up in the bush. PROVE ME WRONG people.While we were at Eastern Beach a group of 30 or so people of all ages gathered to enjoy a picnic under the day-use shade huts, near a shower for cleaning off sand. They had walked over the hill, carrying multiple eski’s (chully buns), and bags of food, chatting excitedly all the way. Children ran about, a ball flew back and forth, the water sparkled, and adults laughed easily, although no-one swam. One said to another, “Go ahead, you can get in there, but I’m not saving you.” I wanted to tell them I’d take them swimming!
A blonde woman walked up and said to the group, “Aren’t you wonderful? I’ve never seen so many Indians together. Where are you from?”
Without skipping a beat, a particularly stylish young guy said, “Broome. You had too many cowboys, you needed some Indians.”
Blond woman: “Broome? What do you do? Are you taxi-drivers? The only Indians I have seen are taxi-drivers.”
Gorgeous lad: “Yes and we work in hospitality.”
We talked to all sorts of interesting people around Cape Leveque, including a guy we discovered had killed his wife on the basis of infidelity, “but it’s ok, he did time”. We offered to show a lovely German guy the snorkelling spots and a lift over the hill (it’s about a four minute drive) and he said, “Of course you drive, you are Australian.” We covered multiple topics including the international phenomenon of pre-dawn poolside chair claim, and he said the most wanted gift at a Deutsche Bank conference he went to was a towel that read, “We have been here already”. Gold!That night a group of musicians on tour played a few numbers at Kooljaman in advance of their Ardi Reflections gig at local community, Lombadina. On the strength of the amazing sound, we went and enjoyed incredibly arresting and impassioned performances from the musicians, story tellers, and Bardi dancers from Lombadina, alongside a lot of other tourists. Sitting there being entertained felt a little colonial to me. On the one hand, events like these enable communities to share their culture and provide an income stream. On the other, it somehow made history stark, that there is so much wonderful heritage still to be shared, and that we all have a long way to go. Next: Across the Top End.
HIGHLIGHTS from this and the last post
Broome (2200 km north of Perth) – Eat great tapas at 18 Degrees, $12 cocktails on Friday and Saturday from 3pm-5pm. Have mex-inspired breakfast or a fab almond croissant with Broomes best coffee at funky The Good Cartel café, that also does drive through.
Karijini (1400 km north of Perth) – Do all of the walks, especially the spider walk, swim every day to cool down in Fern Pool, go to Phill Witt’s REMTREK Astro Tour.
Millstream Chichester (150km east of Karratha) – Go there in May/June, get there early, and nab a campsite at Miliyanha on the outer ring, under trees. The old homestead has loads of detail about the families who lived there, and a very charming and shaded Homestead Walk. There are loads of walking tracks, and you can swim in Deep Reach pool.
Kooljaman (220km from Broome) – stay in the beach huts (need a tent) or cabins at Eastern Beach.
Content warning: If you are close to convincing your better-half that camping is a really great idea, disavow all knowledge of this post.
Hello! I’ve been thwarted in my attempts to post in the last three weeks due to not having enough ‘fibre’ across the top end of Australia. I still don’t fully understand because W hasn’t drawn me a picture, but apparently having coverage and having speed to upload stuff is different. Stabbing my finger repeatedly on the return key doesn’t help either. W makes a dial whizz around on his iPad and declares the location blog-possible or not. As we have made it to the East Coast, the dial should whizz above 0.84 megabits and I can get back to where I left off…
When we packed up at Cape Range, a little surprise awaited me on the underside of the groundsheet; two poor little mice in pancake form, a vision now burned into my retina for the rest of all time. I had managed to forget the stowaway Huntsman spider, the ticks, and the poor man dismantling his two month old Toyota to evict the family of rats that were eating his vehicle from the inside of the seats out. Until then.
We headed in the direction of Tom Price, and at 4pm set up camp on the side of the highway, close enough to deter psychopaths, far enough from the road-train that would inevitably park nearby, and run their refrigeration units all night. Opening the back door of the car to pull out bits of tent, a tiny stowaway mouse freaked out and shot into the depths of our vehicle. A forensic sweep of the Silverado coaxed it out of the car and straight under the imagined sanctity of our tent. By morning, two of them made it out alive to examine their new digs in the local spinifex.
The last time I was at Tom Price, Stevie, Suz, W and I went to the only restaurant open at 6.30pm – the hotel – where no menu item escaped the scorching love of the deep fryer. Jump aboard the DeLorean and fast forward 5 years, and we found ourselves at Crave coffee cart that not only served a great heart starter, but oh my! smoothies with kale. I caught up with the lovely Matt and Kass, mid-roadtrip to meet photographers for new venture Austockphoto, started by Kass and business partner Clare. Hallelujah for beautiful Australian stock imagery, and hooray for tangibly supporting Australian artists! The Coles was another revelation. Jammed with every kind of produce you could want, we set new records in Paleo contraband (six kinds of kinds of cheese anyone?), and set off for Dales Gorge camp at Karijini National Park.
The numerous campsites at Dales Gorge were spacious and shady, the serenity broken only by the grind of the Parks generator, and the five flirty European 20-somethings next door, travelling in a tardis. I still can’t figure out where they all slept.
Karijini has numerous stunning walks, some a short wander, some a sweaty ridge top walk, and a couple of sweaty-palmed spider climbs, like Hancock Gorge, rewarded by a cool gorge pool. Everyone seemed to have the same idea. It was a race against time. We all wanted to do an Edmund Hillary and knock all of the bastards off, and the same faces showed up at every walk throughout the day. Most striking were the family groups, with home-school books pressed to the back window of their packed vehicles. A typical bunch had five adults with at least seven kids aged two to ten. A beaming three year old boy matched us walk for walk and stayed considerably more cheerful than I did battling heat and mosquitoes. The older kids raced each other up every rocky ledge and tricky incline with the agility of rock wallabies, while their mother told me they didn’t really bother with the home school stuff, they had adventures instead.
That night we took in an Astro-tour at the campground, run by Phil Witt, a sound and light spectacular. I thought the Milky Way was a cloudy blob, but no! Densely populated with up to 400 billion stars, I gained a new appreciation for how extra teeny Earth is, and how any number uttered with more than nine zeros recalls the horrors of Pure Maths and Stats at Canterbury University, before converting to white noise in my ears.
I had read about Millstream Chichester a few years back, and never got there. Lush with wetlands thanks to an underground aquifer estimated to contain 1700 million cubic metres of water, the surrounding country supports a wide variety of species. It was worth tackling 200km of corrugated 4WD thick with bull-dust. Arriving at any campsite at dusk usually means you get the sole remaining camp site, next to the rubbish bins, and out in the burning sun. Which is exactly what happened. It was a breathless 39 degrees on the last campsite, as we paused to draw smiley faces in the red veneer of dust on everything outside the vehicle. I said to W that it’s ok, AT LEAST there were showers. Opening door after door to over-ripe bush-loos, I was confronted with the irrefutable fact I need reading glasses.
The aquifer, along with the Harding Dam supplies water to ‘industry’ and residents in Dampier, Karratha and other surrounding towns. Unceasingly through the night, the inescapable drone of an industrial water pumping station sliced through the silence, but the brochure reassured me that this is to just to keep the Park wetlands topped up and ensure the survival of dependent species. Hmmm. Awake since 3am, waiting for first light, we thundered out in a cloud of red dust headed for Point Samson, an idyllic seaside spot for a shower, power, laundry facilities, and the promise of the ‘Best Beach in the world’ at Hearson Cove.
There are many things to do in the West Pilbara Coast, ideally in the early dry season, and ideally if you have access to a boat. Having failed in our search for snorkelling and swimming, almost being carried off by midges and devoid of waterborne vessel, we headed out to the Burrup Peninsula in search of one of Australia’s most prolific Aboriginal rock art sites, with over 10,000 engravings and etchings, dating back 30,000 years. Their location is somewhat mysterious. Three hours and five failed attempts down nondescript trails later, I can confirm they are 2.2km from the turnoff to Hearson Cove from the Burrup Peninsula Road, down a gravel track. Despite the noonday sun leaching all colour from both the landscape and my life-force, the rock art looked freshly pressed.
Our next stop was Barn Hill Station, champion of corrugated iron architecture and the authentic bush experience (covered in this post). We went from Barn Hill to far fancier digs at the Cable Beach Resort in Broome, where the rooms are lined in corrugated iron.
NEXT: Broome, Cape Leveque and Derby
Two weeks ago a dear buddy of ours lost his Mum, Maureen. It was unexpected, and came as a great shock. She will be farewelled today in Perth, and we are 2400 km away, so I would like to pay a tribute to a wonderful Mum, who left an indelible impression on Warren and I. Although we called Blaise’s Mum Maureen, I always wanted to call her Mrs P, so today that’s what I’ll do.
We met her at Blaise and Raechels’ wedding. Mrs P was an absolute hoot. I don’t think she intended comedy, but she calmly rolled out outrageous stories of Blaise’s spirited and youthful exploits (often in cahoots with his siblings or friends), with deadpan delivery, as if that went on in every household. Whenever we saw her we encouraged her to tell us more, which she did in the same matter of fact way, to our immense delight.
Mrs P knew how to put an outfit together. Whether we were whizzing along in a boat, or she was support crew at a mountain bike event, Mrs P was stylishly turned out. No shrinking violet, Mrs P was keen to get in amongst the action, a vision of classic style in the dusty heat at the end of the Cape-to-Cape Mountain Bike event, in firm possession of an esky with icy cold champagne and beer for us all. When we were on the boat, Mrs P effortlessly produced fabulous onion tart, and other foodie goodness.
We didn’t get to spend a lot of time with Mrs P, but we feel lucky to have the time that we did. She was terribly proud of her children, and although we only know Blaise well, I am sure all are testament to the amazing job she did as a Mum.
To Mrs P; Although we cannot be there today, we know you liked a bubbly, so we toast you with a Champagne, and imagine you are having a glass with us. You were an impact player, a jolly good stick, and you will be missed. x
Imagine building an Outback-themed wilderness camp. There would be buildings made of rammed earth and corrugated iron, open air showers like Mash, but with higher walls, and painted tyres with names like Redback to indicate camp spots. At sunset, campers bring chairs and a beer and enjoy Johnny Cash and Paul Kelly covers from a guy in a singlet with a guitar, sound system and good yarns.
Barnhill Station Camp is ACTUALLY like this, without trying. The unbelievers on Wikicamps say things like “we drove in and drove straight out. WE WILL NEVER RETURN.” Was it too tree-lined? Are the station beef sausages at $3.50/a pack of seven too expensive? Is the croc-free ocean too warm? At the end of a 10 km access road on bulldust, I find clean flushing loos with a live green tree frog on the paper dispenser, hot showers, bore water at your camp site, and a pristine beach, a veritable gift for $25 a night.
Our campsite was on the ridge top overlooking the ocean, next to a site with an unfeasibly grassy front lawn, and a selection of veges and herbs flourishing under a tree. Vacated by a guy who spent a few months there, an annual pilgrimage, the new inhabitant took his duty of care seriously. A gregarious racing identity, our neighbour was a hoot, regaling us with hilarious stories about any topic you care to name. Both he and his wife, early retired, super savvy, knew all the good spots to fish, walk, swim, and the closest shower block within 24 hours of arrival. Despite the dusty drive in, their Winnebago was immaculate. He talked about backpackers and Whizz-bangers (the sound a mini-van camper side door makes – GOLD!), about his friend up the other end with the four drones and an undeniably cool 4WD motorhome complete with winch and simply everything that opens and closes. He generously offered his hose, grassy shade, gas, anything you could need. Aghast, I realised, we had become THOSE campers.
Looking back, the signs had been there for a while. At Tulki, our need for optimal view, necessitated a camper angle that was arguably the most inefficient use of our site. Our tent ropes splayed out beyond our site in all directions, and we eyeballed everyone on their way to the loo. At the time we labelled this Own the Road. What began as an apologetic wave to passers-by, evolved into This World domination, and foot traffic diminished as campers found alternate routes in. The undeterred few that kept coming started dropping by for a chat. The chatters were always fisher folk, and a new species revealed itself, the FIFO* Fisher Folk. Who knew fly-fishing in the ocean was a thing? Clearly, a gaping hole in my knowledge. It was either a Bony day or a Permit day, the fightier the better, unless the freezer was running low and they needed meat fish more than sport.
At Osprey, we had taken a similar approach with trailer placement, we were effectively invisible and inaccessible to others, so they had to grab us emerging from the surf, to let us know we had the prime site. Throughout the day, campers wandered by, scratching down our site number. We knew to enjoy our time, as it would probably be booked out for the rest of our lives.
After Osprey we urgently required power and water so made tracks for Tom Price via the dusty and corrugated Mt Nameless Road. With dust in every crevice, we set up for just a night at the campground in a blistering, windless, 35 degrees. We finished the last peg when I noticed our shaded location straddled two sites. Cue apology to immensely friendly camp office, who mercifully allowed us to stay put, preserving the last of our good humour.
We managed to keep it together at Karijini, but we clearly needed help at Point Samson. A combination of downward pressure by W on the coffee pot and the swing out nature of the kitchen was too much to bear for the hinges and giving way, rendered us denuded of Means to Conjure Coffee. Inexplicably, the caravan park had a blow-up castle, carwash, and toaster, but no means to cook other than a microwave. To get the trailer kitchen hinges fixed, we formed a contemporary installation out of possessions on the concrete slab, and set off for Karratha, 60 odd Km away. Several hours later, we returned to new neighbours who called out from their pristine caravan annex, “Oh hello, we thought you were having a garage sale.”
But the kitchen wasn’t the only issue. The only way to know whether our water tank is full, is when it overflows; a shameful waste of desert resources. So W fills the tank, and notes the unceasing cascade of water splashing down on the concrete slab, spreading inexorably toward the aforementioned neighbours. Hours later, in the growing mass of red mud under the trailer, W determined the source and it was off to Karratha again for parts. Fixing it meant draining more litres of precious water out onto the concrete, and then filling the trailer up again. Picture frowning caravan-ers in all directions standing hands on hips watching all of this unfold, and you get the vibe. The only people not taking noticing was the family with four children under four, the naughtiest of whom was Brydon, fond of hitting his sister Charlay, and waking the inconsolable baby with colic, prompting Dad to threaten tying him to the front of the car. “BRYDON. To the bull bars. Is that what you want, mate? One, two….”
Under the watchful eye of camp residents, we set off for Honeymoon Cove, at the end of the campground, for the ‘best shore snorkelling in the Dampier Archipelago’. It was deserted, save for a high pitched whine in the distance. Ten minutes later, bare skin freckled with welling Midgie bites, we trooped back. That night, shambolic pile of possessions hastily hidden in the tent, we took comfort in cooking on our gas burner, by the ambient light of the caravan park. Some hard-core retirees in an off-road trailer offered us their lamp, and enquired after our repairs. They suggested Barnhill as our next coastal destination, in direct opposition to the freshly pressed van-ers who told us “DON’T go to Barnhill, it’s really bad. 80 Mile Beach is much better. Our friends looked at Barnhill and drove straight out.”
And so we found ourselves at Barnhill, inadvertently taking up two sites (seriously, again?), enjoying the entertainment without taking our wallet (no-one mentioned passing the hat!), drove to the beach (prohibited unless launching a boat – didn’t read the flyer), and attracting offers of gas and amenities from our jovial neighbour. I hadn’t noticed that we were the ones in a rig worth about 1% of almost everyone else’s. People actually felt sorry for us! To put them at ease we let on that we were booked into the fancy Cable Beach Resort in Broome in a couple of days, but W felt compelled to explain to quizzical looks that we won it as a door prize. Equilibrium, restored.
*Fly In Fly Out workers, usually employed in the remote mining and affiliated services industry
A massive factor in the enjoyment of a roadtrip is the company you keep, and I have a great travelling partner in crime, the Chef de Mission, all round awesome guy, AND chief cook with Executive Chef countenance when in cooking mode, otherwise known as W.
Chef tirelessly drags deceased Roo’s off the road for me (I can’t bear seeing them gradually disintegrate under multiple tyres), sherpas a massive bag when we have a hike to snorkel, keeps fridges stocked, cold, and operational, and produces gastronomic wonders with one key ingredient – flame. Once bereft of inspiration when denied a campfire, Chef has since reimagined the Weber Baby Q as a camp oven/poijke without wood, and as a result, moist Chicken Wrapped in Pig (prosciutto), Goldband Snapper in Butter Caper Reduction, and Steak with Chargrilled Sweet Potato has returned to our table as business as usual.
Chef has a bad back at the moment (L5/S1 ruptured disc flare up), which every now and again tests his patience for the otherwise delightful. Aloha the dancing hula girl on our dashboard, once madly squeaking and jiggling, only shimmies silently since her solar panel was removed. Until Chef intervened, I didn’t even realise if you grabbed her and yanked upwards, she unclipped from her base (a tip for everyone I have given one to with similarly tested patience).
I am so lucky to have a snorkelling buddy that loves it as much as I do. We go out at least twice a day, in the morning and late afternoon when the fish are busiest. Snorkelling is an exercise in time. The more frequently you go out, the more you see, and every time is different. Every time we go out we are excited; “it’s a moray!”, “it’s a cuttlefish!”, as if it is the first. We see turtles that take us on tours, reef sharks that circle around, tetchy morays with toothy mouths open, rare Clarkes yellow, black and white anemone fish, schools to swim through, and countless other magical fish in myriad colours.
Chef is an excellent tracker. He can spot the tiniest movement in bush or water, which means he finds all sorts of things, but his specialty is octopus. My gift is remembering colour and pattern. Chef will point at something and all I’ll see is brown coral and and rock. I’ll say, “did it have a yellow margin on the fin?” to a blank look. Luckily, Chef has turned out to be a far better underwater photographer than me. I took the Sony version of a Go-Pro out, and after following a turtle for 10 minutes, produced a movie of the turtle’s head, my head, and the surface. We happened across a shark we hadn’t seen before under a ledge. I couldn’t duck dive long enough to get a good look but thought it looked pale yellow. Chef couldn’t tell me any more than it was grey, but got a close shot. Back at camp the fish book told us we had performed multiple fly-bys of a 2.5 metre Sicklefin Lemonshark, a short-tempered individual known to act out.
Chef likes to chat to fellow travellers when at work in the camp kitchen. He managed to gather up a lovely Catalan guy one morning, and swept him along snorkelling with us for a couple of days. The Catalan had travelled to Alice Springs with a ‘big real Aussie man’, but elected to shorten his trip without reimbursement, after his travel mate got on the phone once they were in range, and made a call that involved debts and breaking legs. On the second day with us, the Catalan had met a keen diver from Hong Kong at the Cape Range info centre, so the four of us set off for Lakeside on a blustery afternoon.
A flood in March 2014 washed away our treasured camp-site at Lakeside, along with a few tents, a camper trailer, and almost one campground host. Tons of soil was washed into the pristine reef. The reef was in excellent health, but conditions not dissimilar to a washing machine developed a thirst. We sat on the sole remaining picnic table in our old spot for sunset, with a chilly bin/eski Chef had prepared earlier with cheese, snacks, and a wide variety of beverages.
Since the flood, Parks have expanded the campgrounds in flood-proof areas, and closed others permanently. We heard Osprey now boasted around 40 sites, and we tsk tsk-ed. Shame on us! Using funds from Royalties For Regions, the new and expanded camps are better than OK, they are paradise for $10 a head. The airy and stylish ‘eco-loo’ has beautiful Jarrah doors and a swift, fresh, breeze charging through. It is a fitting place to end our time in the world heritage listed Cape Range National Park, Ningaloo Marine Park, and the world’s largest fringing reef. Tomorrow we swap salt water for fresh, red dust for white sand, and further north, Chef will be on croc watch. When the moon hits your eye…it’s amore.
I have cured my Exmouth Banoffee fixation. Nothing like a year away from a restaurant and the idealised memory of a dessert, to ramp expectations to other Everest proportions. For 7 years we have driven straight to Whalers from Woodend or Perth, ordered takeaway Banoffees, then proceeded with less important matters like finding somewhere to sleep.
Practically inhaling soft shell crab tacos and a great gumbo in indecent haste at Whalers latest incarnation, the reason I had come arrived. Disassembled chocolate biscuit crust fought for air under runny toffee keeping the kitchen’s last few slices of banana hostage. As if embarrassed, the historically firm piped Kahlua cream ran over the lot like a blanket, as if to say “keep moving, nothing to see here.” It was never traditional, but I will never forget. RIP.
Exmouth is a great little spot with three shops you can buy beach gear from (#eternalsearchfortheperfectbikini), a massive fishing and camping shop, great coffee, and fabulous fish and chips. It is the kind of place I would choose to work if I needed country practise time in my imagined life as a Doctor. It grew around a once sizeable UN-Australian naval communications base, established in the late 60’s until 1992 when it passed to the Royal Australian Navy. The buildings remain, with faded signwriting hinting at bar and bowling alley good times, and the 200 American cars flown over to help the US families feel at home, cruising the wide streets. In 2002, all naval personnel departed, but multiple communication towers remain. An awesome retro swimming pool is fenced off presumably to LA skateboarders, and wildflowers gradually takeover the paths.
W told me we would park the camper trailer and stay somewhere a bit flasher for my birthday, but first, a snorkel. Pulling up to the South Mandu snorkelling spot, a wee golf cart grabbed our bags and disappeared into the dunes.
Sal Salis is a self-sufficient safari-tent eco-resort located within the National Park. Virtually invisible to the rest of the Park, its continued existence relies on being invisible, and adherence to closely monitored strict environmental requirements. This means the delicate flora and dune eco-systems around Sal Salis actually enjoy a far greater protection from those random visitors that stomp around the fragile dunes in the rest of the park. It attracts all sorts of people, but I would wager a heavy international patronage by current or retired IT professionals, or engineers working in the Emirates. The young teenagers that get to tag along seem to be extremely bright, immensely down-to-earth, and in the same sentence as saying “Pancakes for breakfast!!!” tell me they will go to either Oxford or Cambridge, as if it is the same thing.
Making the most of our precious 42 hours at the resort, we decided to jump in the resort kayaks and explore the reef. Still traumatised by a self-inflicted wobble into the Artic jellyfish rich waters of Norway’s Grimstad harbour, I had not chanced a kayak since. Before long, we were slicing through the water like Olympians, and en route to a spot called Blue Lagoon. W wanted to get out and snorkel so I offered to hold his kayak. Sitting in a Zen-like state I glanced over my shoulders to discover my immediate proximity to the reef edge. As waves crashed over the kayaks I realised I had hold of two paddles and a kayak, no free hands to navigate, and a one-way ticket to the outer reef. Mindful of preventing a cheese grater experience for both kayaks and myself I yelled to W to swim over and get his boat. Fighting the tidal flow, W struggled to make ground and my Zen made way for shrieking. As W reached me, I ditched the excess goods, and paddled like a steamboat on the Mississippi for shore. Meanwhile, W fought to swim out of the current, before he could mount his craft. Around 500m away I checked my wingman. Short on oxygen, W’s kayak technique improved significantly that day.
Luxury tent time over, we repaired to Tulki, a campsite 5 km away, and took up position in the only available spot. It was sun-downer time, where the camp residents gather for drinks and discuss with mirth our camp establishment. Faced with the options of looking at other campers or the drop toilet, we went for a hybrid solution where we looked at the sunset flanked by the toilet and one campsite. We had a rock-star size tour bus next to us, but the paint job spoke less of all-nighters and more of ‘10 year old insults Pro-Hart’. The chirrup of settling birdcall fought valiantly against hits from the 50’s to the 70’s, booming out into the night from a massive video screen on the side of the bus. The occupants with radio call-sign ‘Dogs Balls’ had a jolly time, oblivious to my curmudgeon-y cursing until shut-down at 9pm when George Thorogood had his last Bourbon, Scotch, and Beer.
The Navy Pier is allegedly one of the ten best shore dives in the world. Another world-class thing! The cyclone in March 2015 caused mayhem in the town and damaged the Pier preventing diving until further notice. Unfortunately access to the Pier is only through restricted naval property or via boat, but W heard from a local we could walk to it from Bundegi Beach and it was well worth a snorkel. We arrived at the beach at 3pm in a cloudless 31 degrees. We were told it was about a 30-minute walk, which translated to about 15 minutes knee-and-Achilles-busting W pace. Sweet. We suited up and bounced down the path to the beach. In the far distance I saw a shimmering oasis in the form of a pier. And so the trudge commenced. Collapsing into the shade of the pier, I felt somewhat uncertain about the swirling tide and the volume of liquid pouring into it from a pipe running along the pier. Having almost perished in the pursuit of this place, I got in, freaked out at a giant wall of fish (Bait-ball! Bait-ball!), the three white tip reef sharks on the bottom, cashed in my Wingman membership, and made like Thorpey for the shore.
Back at camp, we had used the last of our power, and it was time to head to Yardie Homestead, ‘Home of Serious Fisherman’, for a powered campsite, laundry (hallelujah) and showers. The lad refuelling the giant commercial fishing boat with two immense outboards, sporting a cap featuring plush style two dimensional man-parts on the front, alerted me to a new species of the Fisher realm.