2. Central Australia
There’s footy on TV. I take my notebook and write with Dad’s pen. It flows nicely.
I walk around the house. Dad is still drinking wine. He insists I have the comfy chair. I sit, look at photos and Instagram and photos with Instagram. A word I was trying to think of earlier comes to me: poignant.
A strike of lighting in the night makes my hairs stand on end. It was like it was right outside my window. I’m scared.
Leaving Castlemaine at 9am, I talk to Dad through the open window. There’s 184,623 on that thing that gives the car’s kilometres.
The roads are quiet, I make smooth time. The tree’s shadows on the road are sharp. I change the song only a few times. In the Charlton servo there’s a truckie with a moustache and mullet. There’s a table with an old couple eating sausages and eggs. A morning program plays on TV. That sound of knives and forks scraping plate. At the Wycheproof Bakery I have a cheese and broccoli pie and coffee. There are old ladies gossiping in the sunshine nearby.
Comforts of a familiar and clean house. The sound of a ratting washing machine, an idling tractor. This trip hasn’t really begun. I’m still on my phone, still checking Instagram. I dream about productivity, but I’m already easily distracted. By my phone. By the same thoughts. Waiting for likes.
It’s late afternoon. We have a Mountain Goat in a stubby and we’re in t-shirts. Andy goes through a tyre change and works out the best point for the jack. He has my concentration for the most part; I need to know this shit. We talk about concerns of the environment and the direction we’re heading.
—
There are lots of flies around. It’s sunny, windy. I’m warm with a jacket on and cool with a jacket off. I’m still struggling with how to describe the air here.
What’s that saying? Smile and the world smiles with you.
—
Half the sky is high cloud, light grey with a dusting of pink. I look to the paddocks. Mum’s home in an hour. But what if she wasn’t home in an hour? Just like the almond factory.
I wonder where birds go when there’s a storm. Do chooks get scared? I smell the dust. It’s 4:45 and I have a shower, wash my hair. When I get out, it’s dark outside. Pitch black. Shit, I think, I was in there for ages. Then I notice the darkness burns pink and I hear the wind and I understand why the house made noises as I showered. A dust storm has robbed daylight.
I don’t get out of bed until 9am. I need to write. I want to write. I make a plunger with my good coffee. The toilet is running, the internet not working. The blue sky is dull. It’s cold today. My legs are itchy with eczema. Last night, after the dust storm and Mum fell asleep on the couch, I watched Insight. It was on young people who have battled suicide. I cried. They all agreed they needed someone to talk to.
The chooks don’t give me any eggs. I let them out anyway and eat breakfast at 11:15. I can’t think much of what is to come. What’s the point? When Mum tries to ask me about my intentions, I tell her I don’t know. I check my phone fifty times.
I’m wearing the same clothes I’ve been wearing all week: tracksuit pants and redbacks. Washing my car makes me tired, muscle already lost from cleaning.
I’m at one of those cheap shops with crap that pollutes the planet and our heads. Waiting for the counter, there’s a couple in front of me. The guy is obese, his sweaty grey t-shirt the size of my front car seat. Their total is $35.72. The lady asks if they want a bag. First they say no and then the man asks, “are they free?” His partner says something to him and he retorts, “what we got 101 of them in the car.” The lady tells them they’re free and he changes his mind, agrees to take one.
I smuggle garlic and onion over the South Australia border and karma comes in flashing lights. A police car pulls me over for going 119 in a 110 zone. $234 fine. Good start, Sarah.
I hope you find what you’re looking for, he tells me. Is that what I’m doing? Looking for something.
I’m hungover on cheap champagne and my body feels like I ran a marathon. Not that I know what a marathon feels like. But I know cheap champagne.
I sit in the library. I walk kilometres around the Botanical Gardens. I’m not in a hurry. I read facts in the rainforest enclosure that move me. Old people glance to me, men stare at my chest. I’m sweaty and I’m cold. I shouldn’t have to wear a bra for them.
Cheerful sounds of English lads singing, Can’t live if living is without you. A hostel is hard. I want my own space to be naked and read and listen to music and peace. I look at the noticeboard. There are a few posters of road trips to Darwin, none take my fancy. In the dorm I get into deep discussion with Bastion the French. He’s serious and handsome and soft and sweet. He’s madly in love with his girlfriend. He’s is in Australia trying to work out what to do with his life. I laugh. I’ve been there. I don’t need to work out what to do with my life. No, instead I will drive into the desert alone.
Sick of spending money! Can I live off minimal for next six weeks? Deleting Insta and FB on phone. No ties. Just the Great Unknown, and it feels good. I love this. This feeling. To do what I want. To have no pressure. Be selfish. Be with the stars.
Play Golds playlist and sing along to old songs. Fill tank Port Augusta. Then it started to feel real. The guts of Australia before me. So barren, isolated. Why am I doing this? What am I looking for?
I was nervous pulling into Lake Hart Rest Area. It was dusk. I was ready to stop driving, dreading going it alone. How do I know where to go? How much do I set up? Will I do it wrong? Will people stop and stare? Organisation will come, right?
I sit in my camping chair, there’s a yellow glaze across the horizon. It’s cooking time. I’m the same; a little fearful. I think the gas bottle cannister is the wrong size. I fiddle around, remove the hose, lean the bottle on its side, now there’s a bright orange border across the horizon. Someone already on my mind.
The Milky Way was behind me, the moon bright. When I look straight into the brightest stars they move around and when I focus hard I could see a smudge around them in the sky. It ‘s early. I shift towards sleep and it’s the same; I struggled, I woke often. The moon shifted over the sky and disappeared. I wake, twisted in my layers in the swag I stare at the horizon. Where I stare becomes yellow and I think: the sun will rise there. The yellow gets higher and the sun breaks over and my eyes caught the rays until I was blinded. I hear a train coming.
I change my clothes and underwear. I decide I will not wear tinted moisturiser or any make-up. I will keep it as simple and clean as can be, wear a hat instead. There’s much tension. My mouth is sore from grinding my teeth. Each time a car comes in I jolt my head; are they here to tell me to leave? Should I hide? I have always been sensitive, scared to have my ego bruised. Too concerned by what other people think.
I’m packing the car, a caravan pulls in. The man tells me How you going. Tells me he’s from Wagga. Asks “Ya travellin’ by ya self?” Yeah, I am, I tell him. “Brave girl,” he says. Oh yeah. Why’s that? I wonder. “Young girl, travellin alone.”
At Glendambo. Last petrol for 250 kilometres. Lady with bucked teeth doesn’t respond when I mumble aloud whether I should buy it. When I say thanks to her handing me the bag of $6.50 ice from the locked freezer, “no worries,” she says. I try to fathom her perceived rudeness isn’t rudeness at all.
Starting to get so stingy that when door on Coober Pedy toilets locks and the automatic man tells me I have ten minutes I want to use it all.
What an odd town! The only green is on the sign of the BP. Already there are more aboriginals. Why are there so few in the south?
I hover around the cross. Where is the entrance? There is a man wearing a black shirt and black pants sitting on a rock wall. “Hello,” he says.
“Hello…do you know where the church is by any chance?” I ask.
“I do know.”
“Wonderful, and where would that be?” I ask.
He stands up and walks to me. He has that white thing on his collar.
Alone in the church. Refuge from heat. The bigger picture of travelling alone is idyllic. Reality is these small moments. It would be nice to be with somebody. But there was no one to do it with. I’m tired.
There’s space opening up in my mind. I will create.
I like stories, history, connection.
Day two, night two. The questions. It reminds me of the first days in India, when I clung to home, I was confused and too stubborn to return with my tail between my legs.
I get back to the free camp too early. 4:30. There are grey nomads. I find a camp removed from them. I have a wine and cigarette. I’m still carry a tense-ness. Wanting to pass the time to return. But return to what?
My table looks to the transparent moon, not the sunset. Lots of flies. Haven’t even thought of shower. I am lost in the physical sense but know deep down that being lost in the emotional sense is where I should be. Would like to/need to learn to work with others.
Heart aching. Regretting. But don’t miss non-direction of Melb. Stars coming out. The Southern Cross one of the first. God why am I doing this.
It must have been 7:30 when I was tucked up in my swag. The rising moon still bright, just like the stars, although there wasn’t the Milky Way. It was light and quiet when I woke—jaw sore. I turned away from my car and campsite to flat and rocky plains, mounds in distance. White fluffy clouds patterned with blue and purple are on the horizon. Peer to end of swag, sun just risen, what time does that make it?
Waiting on a plunger coffee. Sore shoulders—still tension. I smell. Crows watching me, waiting.
When I started the unsealed drive, my hands gripped so tightly to the wheel it hurt. I panicked. WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING? It felt like the stupidest idea ever. Then I gathered momentum. My shuddering car gathered speed. Rattle rattle rattle. Nothing ahead. Like driving across the moon. The rocky terrain shining like glass. Would have thought I was the last person on earth were it not for the intermittent dust gathering on the horizon. Two trucks with clouds of dust that took me into a Mildura dust storm. Trust… Believe in yourself. What about petrol?
Painted Desert. Here I am, seated in the rocky shade of one of the peaks, swarmed by flies. Not to self: must get fly hat in Alice.
Sitting back atop the rocks. Wine and cigarette. Myself. Flies are small and sticky, relentless. More old people stare. The hurt follows.
Just after 7am, just before the sun breaks the horizon, a big flock of galahs, sore teeth again. Most camps are awake, a guy near me with a tripod set up, the couple on the other side with their baby. At the fire last night I met an Australian couple I’d given the Australian driving salute to earlier in the day—they’d seen me taking photos. He (giving me much interest) was from Melbourne and she a small town like Mildura. Sounded like they’d been together forever, spending the last five years in Africa. The exchange helped a potential mood. Still I retreated to bed early, read a chapter and looked at the stars. In the night when I woke it was the same story: the moon rolling over the sky, big burning and yellow, watching it until it dipped below the horizon. Then I made a wish, just because.
Ackaringa Road, so so so rocky. Slow. The corregation hurts my boobs. No cars, just cows. And rocks. Longest 80 kilometres ever. Tyres too pumped up? Have to slow to ten kilometres per hour sometimes. Kinda gets annoying. No longer the rage to city drivers but to the rocks! Peeing on side of road, car sounds a little battered.
When coming into reception think messages will flood in. Nothing.
Don’t mind the caravans because they are so easy to overtake.
Headlights reflect in mirages.
A lot of flipped out burnt out cars.
Have $6.20 tuna and cucumber sandwich at roadhouse.
130 kilometres when I hit NT. Floored it—keen to get to Alice. Lots of concentration. Motivation coming from somewhere in the dead centre. Stunning. Rocky ranges. In library now. In an hour-ish it will close. Don’t know where sleeping—nearby?
Day started at 5:30 to the worst alarm tone for a guy off to Uluru. I had been on my top bunk early, reading, eyes closing. Got out of bed at 6:30 for good shower. Now with coffee, sitting alone outside. Last night there was a boy in the smoking area who gave me a knowing smile. He was on the phone and I was surprised by his Aussie accent. I looked to his pouch, Champion Ruby. When he stood and walked away, he wore boots like mine.
Something big is happening, change is coming; think I’m tired of eating oats.
Where I should be: lost.
Want to fast forward to something: what?
Seek out deeper connection. Be open… Have a strong mind. Even when I’m not okay, I am okay and I know I can rely on myself enough to pull myself out.
Sunday morning, walk to Woolworths for soy milk. There’s water in the Todd River and it feels special. I walk past election signs and remember, Shit Fuck Fuck Fuck Shit, Scott Morrison back in.
Sitting in hostel kitchen, everyone on phones.
At the library, man shuffling, grey hair, long face, looking at DVDs—the smell. Want to take him and wash him.
At the library, there’s an older aboriginal lady sitting on the table before me. She’s wearing clothes like Nanna used to wear. She’s been staring out the window for half an hour.
At the library, I sat across from an African man. An aboriginal man strolled the DVDs and when seeing the African man waved and said Hello. The African man was confused.
At the library, through the window, I see everyone swatting their faces from flies, a girl walking with a small baby and a hospital tag around her ankle, two police officers chase an Aboriginal boy across the dry river.
At the library, an African man looks at young Aboriginal girls with disgust. They are loud in a quiet library.
At the library, an Aboriginal kid does a double take to an African guy, mouths Blacky.
On the top bunk, in my dream, there was a guy pursuing me who didn’t exactly spark my interest, but in the end I relented and we were somewhere that was his and as time went on I came to understand how beautiful he was. We were together, in a glass enclosure, something was happening. It was so blurry and so clear: I liked him.
With my photography I never want to have to set up a scene. Real photos from real moments.
Sent off resume to pearl farm.
Why did the kangaroo cross the road? Because there were headlights.
22 May. I like today’s date. A couple hours story in morning. Crazy period pains—hopefully will pass before camping this week. Be kind to self.
Couple drags of joints past few nights. Gentle conversations. Find me talking about myself in nearly everything I say then realise how little we know about each other.
Local teenagers walk in gangs, they strut. Young girls walk by with a box of KFC, cans of Fanta.
Walk out of library and see girl reversing her car taking her side mirror out with a pole. Walk to supermarket and see teenagers. I ignore them but a girl comes over and stomps her foot at me anyway.
Feel a little at a loss. So much…can’t even right. Got a job at pearl farm starting in two weeks. 2,735.2 kilometres to Broome.
There’s a German Guy, he’s 23, he keeps saying “I’m the sort of guy…”
Met S, an older soul sista who will drive to Katherine with me.
West MacDonnell Ranges. The walk is hot the water is cold. We sit in the shelter of the car park with a hot beer. A man casually strolls up, asks for water. Yes, we tell him, you can have some water. A woman trailing behind him sits down, she starts crying. He tells her to calm down. They walked 26 kilometres believing there would be water to drink along the way. There wasn’t. “Not only have you saved our day, but you’ve saved our marriage,” she sobs.
Cold morning, lying in swag, talking to S making coffee. He was in my dream last night. Again.
The Sunday night in the stretcher swag underneath a windmill and Milky Way, the sound of road trains. S in tent beside me. We stopped at every roadhouse. These are the moments.
I wake to the stars, dust across the sky. I soak up the better parts of S. I watch the landscape change and better understand the immense vastness of Australia. The termite mounds. Days driving into mirages, down a road that doesn’t end. A crow sings. I contemplate a coffee from a restaurant.
Not about What am I doing with life? But I am doing life.
The Australian car salute.
A lady in a petrol station says to Indian Pie Face worker, “well you aren’t a true blue Aussie then.”
Tinge of sadness this morning. Want to work on my stuff. When driving yesterday the thought of other voice—learning to roll with it.
Daly Waters an old person place. The live music, big people with big steaks. S and I at end of tether, exhausted. Got here on empty tank and empty energy. $10 each a night. $18 barra burger and chips. $30 beer. $4.50 ice cream.
Terrible sleep, same thoughts. A buzzing came to me whenever my head was exposed. I feel no inclination to return. Now I’m free.
An old lady in a colourful skirt and top, bare feet, child on shoulders. It’s quiet. There’s rubbish and car bodies. S buys a $2100 painting for $400. The lady working there says how in aboriginal culture they didn’t cultivate produce, they grew and picked from the wild. No flies today.
S and I spend much of our conversations speculating about other people. She says Yeah man a lot. She’s in her fifties.
Such great birds around here.
In town, Katherine, I find Russian Caravan with good coffee, but there are only take away cups and no vegetarian options for toasties.
At least think it’s 29 May. There’s a cute doggo at my feet rolling on its back for a belly rub. This tropical life, the outdoor lounge room the best. S and I can test each other, we both become moody, both acknowledge it.
Sensed tension between the couple with the outdoor lounge room when talking about “black fellas.” But I can’t remember precisely what was said, I had a lot of wine.
Note to self: DON’T DRINK WINE AND DISCUSS POLITICS.
My host, the man, isn’t happy that everyone is upset by the people on Nauru when farmers are losing half a million cattle in floors. Always need farming, he tells me. He tells me they need more dams but there’s that sacred land bullshit. When his partner and me start talking about meditation, he leaves.
My host, the man, refers to “arty farty” people as much as he refers to “black fellas.” He tells me about a travelling film festival and explains it “that poor bugger old me story blackfellas love.” He says people in the south also love that story.
Last night got into another in-depth conversation with my host, the old man. We spoke 4WDing, Life of Brian, his relationship. He said fuck a lot. Spoke about nuclear power (he’s the second person to tell me about this in the past few weeks). Then there was art. And that “blackfellas” have no written language, that their literacy is bad because English is their fifth language. He’s progressive but old-school—pessimistic to future. “Humans are a plague.”
Stephen the dog let me pat him. The old man told me this was rare. But I didn’t push him. Let him come to me.
Leave tomorrow. Keen for work. WORK EXPLORE WRITE.
In town, Katherine, we walk through a group of Indigenous and S, in her English accent, says “oh I can smell petrol.” We go past the pub, it’s loud and rowdy, it’s a Thursday and S, in her English accents, asks “what’s humbugging?” The old couple we’re staying with say humbugging a lot.
The old couple joke that the crocs are sick of the taste of blackfellas, because they’re always trying to cross the river with grog they’re an easy feed.
“200 years to wear clothes, another 200 years for how to blow their nose.” – Old Katherine Couple.
In Timber Creek wave my card around the EFTPOS machine without a response. “Everything’s just a bit slower up here,” the attendant tells me. The old couple had warned me this was “blackfella town.”
Rock faces rising before me, boulders broken away. I pull into a rest area, there’s three caravans but it’s windy and eerie. A couple of flies.
The colour of the water! The water barrelling out! The green grass by the river with the red rocks. Me with myself. Realising I’m okay. There is courage. And that’s why I’m here.
Fifteen minutes in Kununurra. It was so green, lush. Indigenous sitting in circles in the park. Together.
The rocky mountains around me are in shadows; purple, beautiful. I get to Doon Doon at night, but it’s $25 for an unpowered site. I know not to drive at night but in the dark I return to the last free campsite. I see one cow.
Beans and bread cooking, back and forth to the car. It was a long day. I get driving and it’s hard to stop. My destination is not ticking everything off the list.
There are other people, a fire, music. I’m off to the side, tired, understanding this is a solo journey.
The sky is so clear. The leaves of the trees above me glow yellow from the low sun. My back is sore, I didn’t sleep well in the swag on the stretcher. Tossing and turning, a bug coming to me, waking in the middle of the night and not seeing a shooting star. S had said something about growing with a special someone, I thought about that amongst it all.
I put in oil for the first time. How do I know if the oil is wrong, if I need more? There’s a butterfly dead in the windscreen wipers.
Clear hot day in the Kimberley. A road train hovers behind a car just like mine and flicks a stone that cracks my windscreen. The termite mounds are fewer and further between, and chunkier. The road deteriorates to no solid edges. I see black cockatoos.
Halls Creek. Drunk indigenous. Still no service. The longest drive with screeching singing and talking to myself. Shared the finger with most other drivers. No clouds all day.
Hanging at front of Fitzroy Crossing roadhouse. Know somehow that a bunch of different tribes were once dumped here. All cars with Indigenous are dirty and dented and with more than one person. They hang in groups.
Last night, as I came around the corner, the sun was a blazing yellow ball before me. I moved my head around to see the colours on the horizon. It was a familiar, that position in the sky, that angle of the Earth. I smiled loudly. Now, not far from Broome, I hear Gary and Jen (my camping neighbours) talking loudly in their tent. I had stood with them by the fire while they spoke at me with how to live a fulfilling, cheap life. They never earned much, but they have made it go far with their land and travel and now sailing half the world. Alternative living, they told me. You get stuck talking to people because you give them polite responses when they expect it and that’s because of your age, S had told me.
