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Published: October 6th 2013
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I left Adelaide and began the journey that would take me slightly north and then west across the bottom of Australia. It is a long way and I feared not for the car, but for my sanity. I had taken all of the correct precautions: I had made playlists of songs on my iPod, copied a multitude of books to my Kindle, made sure I had writing paper and pens, but I still didn't know how I would fare with several thousand kilometres of me and road. Would I meet others on the way? Would I begin to talk to myself (even more) and invent new personalities? Would I start referring to one of my possessions as Wilson? I did all of these things but the last, with mixed results, but it's fair to say looking back on that part of the trip I was never actually bored, and it was a good experience, though admittedly one that I probably wouldn't want to do again without some decent company.
From Adelaide I drove to Gawler to pick up a few supplies. My flight had been delayed which was actually good, as by the time I got in the car I
was no longer hungover, just a little tired, and after picking up supplies I went onward to Parham and found a free camping spot by the beach. It was here that I met Barry. My first, and to be fair, only crazy. He approached me as I was cooking dinner, a scraggy beard on his face and that unkempt look that is only possible to develop after many days of not showering and living fairly rough. He had a huge truck-like camper, and I quickly found out he had been living in this spot for several months. To paint a picture, Parham has about twenty houses. The campsite was by the beach, but the weather was windy as anything, and there was nothing to do there whatsoever. It's closest town was Dublin, which itself was also tiny. I discovered that Barry had been stranded there due to not renewing his truck license. He was travelling the country. He worked in IT - just like me, to use his phrase - from his truck. I didn't ask exactly what he did, but he said he had several online friends. He told me how he had had to move from his last
location, as a 'man I started to know' became too friendly with him, and one night confessed to Barry how he had murdered someone. And, when Barry arrived at Parham and looked into its history a little, he discovered that the murder had taken place nearby. Nice. My noodles boiling, I excused myself before Barry could invite me back to his for supper, and spent the remainder of the evening in my tent, tightly fastened, wondering if I should find the padlock I used for my luggage or just chance it and keep my knife close at hand... I'm sure Barry was actually pretty harmless, but he was simply one of those traveller types who was born a bum and will always be a bum.
In the morning I packed up, raring to go, the wonderful adventure before me. I drove a little way down the road, the sun shining, said a mental goodbye to Parham, looked down to switch on my iPod, and drove straight into a road sign and then slipped on the gravel and ended up in a ditch. Bollocks. The front bumper took the brunt of it. A couple of hours later, a tow truck
and gaffer tape required to fix the motor, I once more set out to begin my adventure. The car was, thankfully, mechanically ok, only my pride really suffered as I felt like an idiot, but these things happen, and I learnt the lesson of turning the music on before pressing go.
From Parham I drove all day, stopping at a place called Nuttbush Retreat. I made myself dinner, a traditional recipe passed down through many generations: rice with sweetcorn and sweet chilli sauce. Ramsey eat your heart out! As I cleaned the saucepan and plate, I heard a noise like thunder, and for a scary moment I thought I had shit myself. But, after a quick, reassuring wet-check, I realised that motorbikes had arrived - lots of them. I have to be honest and say I was a little apprehensive as I walked back to the tent and saw that a biker gang of around thirty had turned up, complete with leather jackets and logos on them, to the point where I text a friend to let them know where I was. (On a side note, Tux, you never text me in the morning to make sure I was
ok - thanks, pal) As the evening hours went on I listened to them (from the relative safety of my tent which could probably be blown over by no more than the big bad wolf) and actually decided they seemed quite a nice bunch; they even had a big communal meal together and were mostly in bed by 10pm. Biker gangs! Your're not so bad!
From there, for the next few days, I drove west. The Nullarbor, and the lead up to it, consists of very long stretches of road, road trains (trucks up to around 35 metres long) and expanses of nothingness. Big expanses. I read somewhere that the longest stretch of road between petrol pumps (at Roadhouses that serve burgers looking like Iceland supermarket specials) is around 200km, but there are times when it blurs and seems like you have been driving for days and days, which I suppose I was, but days without stopping at all. There are stretches with more roadkill than you could ever wish to see - my biggest count on a single day was easily over twenty kangaroos by the side of the road, having mostly met their fate by said road
trains - treeless plains (Nullarbor actually means something like No Trees), and plenty of time to think about anything and everything... Why is Celine Dion so popular? Why did Batman have such a silly voice? When is a door not a door? Why do I have hairy nipples yet no hair on my head?
In between asking myself these important life questions, singing at the top of my lungs, and wondering why on earth I didn't pick up a ground mat or some kind of mattress (the ground gets bloody cold at night) I managed to read an awful lot, drink more water than I ever thought possible, cook myself delightful meals and snack on tinned produce while wishing for fresh fruit, see the few trees that existed and that grow leaning over due to the consistent wind, an old telegraph station being reclaimed by sand and stop at one of the most awesome places I have seen in Australia; The Head of the Great Australian Bight. Somewhere across the stretch of road, the head is a point on the coast where migrating Southern Right Whales can be seen and where the scenery, as the cliffs drop away to
the ocean, is spectacular. I imagined that I may see a whale in the distance, as it was the right season, but I actually saw about ten in the end, including two adults with two calf’s, very close to the viewing point, breaching and playing about in the water. I think I watched them for about 45 minutes in the end until I dragged myself away to continue the drive, but it was a really welcome break from the road that had become a little monotonous, and perked up my spirits to continue onward. Before too long, I crossed the border from South Australia into Western Australia...
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