It may seem incongruous but while deadly Covid 19 still grips the world, and the regime in China is sabre rattling over Hong Kong, and Taiwan, and threatening Australia and the US; while Melbourne in Victoria goes at least in part back into Lockdown, we, along with many families whose children are now on school holidays for two weeks, and like our dear Oakham family, are going on holiday! To be precise, our faithful £50 NZ Warehouse tent and self-inflating mattress are back on duty and from tomorrow night will be our mobile bedroom.
You may wonder why, considering the regional borders of Western Australia opened up on June 6th, we have not set off before. Well we were awaiting a call from my consultant to tell me why I have had, for the past year, the feeling I was swallowing past a smooth pebble in my throat with the consequent dry cough, soreness, occasional change in voice pitch and tone and feeling a small kangaroo was sitting on my chest. After a heart check “You neither were having at the time and nor have had before the ECG, a heart attack,” my doctor said to our mutual relief; chest xrays revealed “You’ve got long lungs for someone so short,” a curious radiologist told me and following a barium swallow that tasted like all the Milk of Magnesia I ever took as a child the consultant, a Mr Tom Bowles, through the clever and convenient modern process of tele-health, told me I had a hiatus hernia in my throat which was visible in its 1 to 2 cm length, rather like Rob’s bacterial vegetation on his mitral valve. Even more assuring was the total lack of any masses or lesions, which is what had been really worrying me. So once again we were fortunate enough to have the all clear to travel.
Yesterday, after a couple of days planning and with much help and advice from Malcolm, and a final coffee and cakes with our dear hosts, we left our cosy little station home of 60 days exactly, not only for this trip but also having moved all our possessions into a spare corner in Christine and Malcolm’s home, so that they can rent Shipton out to the first agreeable tenants that appear on the horizon. When we get back to Te Opu we will be returning to Zoonie fairly soon for a long hoped for departure up the west coast to Carnarvon to clear out of Aussie for good in September, if we can.
So we left a small cloud of dust in the lane behind ‘our’ 1995 Ford Falcon, 290,000 kilometres on the clock and freshly serviced thanks to Malcolm and Rob’s efforts and headed north, furthest planned destination, the Kimberleys. I am writing this in bed in our motel room behind a super little pub, The Settlers Homestead, where we had supper last night and where a previous resident, Mrs Inkpen, wife of the local printer (!) apparently haunts the place by throwing the occasional paddy, slamming doors etc. Not quite sure of the circumstances of her death but one might suspect they had something to do with her husband’s printing PRESS, so that she made HEADLINE news the next day.
Here in York, which lies in the beautiful Avon Valley on the shores of a wide, flowing river by the same recent name, the founding military fathers back in 1830 realised they were claiming ground that has been home to the local aboriginal mobs for tens of thousands of years, but claimed it all the same.
Today most of the 19th century buildings remain in use and are grand in style and well maintained. York was the first inland town in WA and has seen all the wealth creating activities of Farming, Mining and Communications through growth and decline and back again. The town has a busy, friendly atmosphere. Anne in the impressive motor museum told us how an arrogant and blustery visitor had once scoffed at the claim that the pickup on display at the entrance was really the one used in the film ‘Crocodile Dundee’. Even Paul Hogan’s signature on the dashboard didn’t convince him. So the proprietor of the museum watched the film again and confirmed the trucks authenticity from the two dents on the front of the roof. So there Mr Wise Guy.
Towards the gaping Minefields and vast Stations of Western Australia
In the evening before we set out again we watched a docu film partly narrated by a bright, charismatic young aborigine boy about 10 years old. I may not have quite caught the spelling of his name but it was like Dujiani and he came from a mob living 112 km north-west of Alice Springs. His nanas and aunties all wanted him and his siblings to have a good white education so he could get along well in both worlds. He was keen to learn and clearly a very bright lad, with more potential than he was likely to use under the education he was getting.
He asked one teacher how to spell ‘the’ and the reply was ‘if you don’t know don’t bother’.
He had a natural healing skill that he used on his family and gave us viewers a conducted tour around the plants of his country that are used for medicine.
One white teacher was reading his class a dreamtime story about the Rainbow Serpent and she concluded by saying to the young children ‘I neither believe nor understand these stories.’ These are their stories for the telling by voice and in pictures, and a wonderful source of material for the purpose of education. What a wasted opportunity.
Dujiani watched programmes about police brutality towards indigenous people the world over including his people and how, when they have fallen short of the white education system, through no fault of their own, they end up on drugs and alcohol living a day to day existence on benefits.
It is not only a race issue though as young lads in the UK fall out of the narrow education system especially if they have learning difficulties or are not academically minded, and many are naturally not, leading them down a path of prison, drugs and hopelessness, far too many to suicide.
A news report mentioned that 100% of youth detainees in the Northern Territories are aborigine.
On the morning after our motel night we wandered into town to seek breakfast. The ‘Nosh and Nod’ aspect of our motel is clearly for Nosh at the Settlers Inn next door, which was delicious, or a purchase at one of the cafes to take back to our room, in my case a yummy baklava and coffee to go.
We headed out on Highway 120, The Great Southern Highway past Goldfields Road past vast green arable plains, their young crops on the rise; there were lightly wooded hills in the distance and black faced sheep with their lambs fenced from the long level stretches of road with just the occasional bends. We passed through green valleys, alongside a railway with two different widths of track and with the Avon River on the other side. Filled up at Northam, said goodbye to Toodyay with its cared for colonial architecture and moved on toward Yerecoin where we started to note the pattern of these small towns with their railway passing through and the grain silos standing close by. They are the hubs where farmers get their supplies and deliver their crops.
Small service industries survive on the demands of the tiny population, a school, a hospital and a shop or two. For leisure there may be a golf course, tennis, kart track but all these looked as if they were once used much more. They reminded me of the eerily quiet prairie towns of the mid-west US.
At 11.10am we turned onto Highway 95, the Great Northern Highway, our smooth, easy rider road from now on right to Broome. So easy the poor roos trying to cross over were often killed, their corpses in all stages of decay lying at too frequent intervals along the roadside. Our white Falcon has come into contact with one ages ago and has the cracked front scoop and associated cable ties to show for it.
Dalwallini, a place of wheat and wattle sped by and there were wheat fields to the horizon on both sides until gradually low bushes and shrubs started to dot the miles and red soil became the norm. Mts Gibson and Singleton, so recently given white man names despite their ancient origins and indigenous importance and side tracks to mines and more mines. This is why the road is so good, it has to withstand mining lorries on route to and from Port Hedland; these road trains are up to four carriages and 60 metres long and present an overtaking challenge.
There isn’t much traffic, mostly oversize loads, pick-up trucks, the road trains, hardy four wheel drive vehicles towing rugged eight wheel caravans or boats and a few, a very few saloon cars like us. We would be travelling alone along miles of open straight road when a dark dot appeared on the road in front, on our side. When near enough we come off CRUISE control and prepare to overtake. I kid you not, every time we did there would be a bend, hill summit or dip ahead so our continued progress past the vehicle was ill defined, uncertain and could lead us into uncertainty, and potential harm, even at the worst – death: I named it Trump’s Law!
After 468kms we arrived at Kirkalocka Station where owner Blair told us how she and her policeman husband, Jarred bought the 190,000 acre plot two and a half years ago and still haven’t seen half of it. “Ours is small compared to those up there,’ she said nodding her head northward. The previous owners, who moved to Perth and bought a yacht (!), had the farm over three generations and their sheep farming over grazed the grass which is now all gone leaving just bushes and dry, red earth. The wild dogs also became a problem which is why strychnine and 1080 was spread everywhere to kill them and goodness knows what else. Jarred had researched bringing cattle back, either shorthorns (which would colour match the ground perfectly!!) or a breed I have not heard of before just called Droughtmaster.
Blair directed us to behind the Shearers Accommodation and suggested a little corner next to the pet pen and between two old euclips. The tent pegs went in more easily than we thought they would and we provided a distraction for the sheep, goats and resident ducks next door. A sign in their little paddock said they were expressly for Cuddles and not Casseroles and the camping kids carefully shut the gate before communing with these gentle and friendly creatures.
Down by the creek was a tinnie with a net attached and campers could lob the net into the water, go for a wander and return to find supper of yabbies’, like our freshwater crayfish all ready for the cooking.
There are three homesteads on the property, the second and finest is rented out to passing visitors, the newest is where Blair and Jarred live with their young children and the oldest is the original where you see Rob exploring the tiny one roomed dwelling with its covered lean-to. I know which I’d live in.
So that was the first night at camp and delightful it was too. We sat in our chairs beside the car
With our ‘made up before we left Kojonup’, gin and tonic and lemon drinks we sat in our unfolded chairs watching the sun set through the bushes on the plains, and turned in, the noise of the lorries rumbling past just a little too distant to disturb our sleep.
Across The Tropic of Capricorn to Newman
It seemed amazing to me that even 190,000 acres of land was so spent and over grazed to aridity that it could not support a family of four who had to rely on us passers-by and the salary of a policeman to survive. We wished Blair well in their endeavours.
We were passing golden grasslands and where the earth was being mined for her rich treasures of gold, emerald, iron ore and ochre. In addition to the kanga roadkill there were now the bloated corpses of healthy looking cattle being fed upon by, to our amazement, Wedge Tailed Eagles standing hunched and hairy legged looking at us as we passed. Pairs would be feasting on one animal and because they’re heavy and their take off is slow, many eagles themselves are falling victim to whirling wheels as they pass.
Where the number of roo kills decreased and cattle increased we wondered if they still shoot roos. Roo Shooters used to earn a lifelong living shooting roos to sell their fine hides and to delight the farmers where they competed for the grass with the grazing stock.
It was now becoming decidedly warmer and sometime during the day we crossed into the tropics, so warmer days but still cool nights. Still three blanket nights in our little tent.
This was becoming heavy open cast iron ore mining country and the massive loads being transported between sites, some taking up almost the full width of the road and causing oncoming traffic to perch on the shoulders like the eagles; and the long four carriage ore road trains were numerous. Also were holidaymakers returning from the north coast, their roof racks full with surf- boards.
It was a long day, that one, 670kms long but it got us to Newman, a 24hour NEWish miners’ town built for the mining MAN and woman, many of whom sat in the Red Sands miners’ pub courtyard with us still wearing their high vis jackets.
Some clever civic brain had the industrious idea off sectioning off part of the local football pitch for campers and the car park for caravans while matches were not in progress. We just had to sprint across the pitch to the loos and shower block. This was also a new idea because so far the hundred or so campers had to share one key to the wash block. No problem. The key was kept in a key safe to which we were given the code. The risk was being locked in the loo if the person in with you hadn’t heard you and was re-locking the loo door, “because there are some backpackers around who will take advantage of free showers if you’re not very careful” the lady in the tourist info sagely informed us.
The same key opened the mens and ladies rooms. All went well until the key decided to jam itself in the padlock into the disabled loo. At least we were now safe from being locked in and thanks to the hands of fate the ladies was open. So now 100 men and ladies, at different times, used the ladies with its one working tap out of three. Bear with, bear with we’re nearly there. This will not do I thought and hunted around the two taps to see why they weren’t working.
Ah, there, some silly billy has turned off the cold water inlet, so I turned them on again thinking the ratio of 1:33 was infinitely better than 1:100 and started out back across the pitch, proud of my achievement in the pursuit of human comfort and cleanliness until I realised that they’d probably done it for reasons of personal distancing. Seemed a bit odd really to turn off the means of people keeping clean, just like taking out the soap in the loos at Emu Point at the beginning of lockdown to prevent vandalism!!? I read a book once titled ‘Straight and Crooked Thinking’, I remember the title but not the book.
An Avoidable Disaster in the Karijini National Park
Mt Whaleback, so named for obvious reasons, passed us by soon after we left Newman. We were looking forward to Dales Gorge in Karijini NP and hoped to camp there, although we knew the demand on their sites would be great and as they encouraged on line advance booking we were prepared to be unlucky.
Unfortunate was an event that happened close by here just a few weeks ago when, as you will have heard, Rio Tinto blew up a site of immense Aboriginal and anthropological importance in the name of iron ore extraction. Two caves containing the pictorial history of the earliest known human activity blasted off the face of the red earth. In 2008 a law was passed that the mining of such sites was to be done only with the agreement of the land title holders, but the law did not mention any subsequent sites that might be discovered. Juukan Gorge in the Hamersley Range of Mountains near Mt Meharry was discovered in 2013 so the management of Rio Tinto allegedly knew there was no legal reason why they should not go ahead.
The boss apologised, not for the wilful destruction but instead for any upset it might have caused. There are many young engineers and scientists who would like a career in mining but are put off by the ruthless, arrogant and culturally bereft mind-set of the old school directors.
We were outnumbered by 4x4s at the Dales Gorge car park. I thought you’d like to know that the Mingkiri Sandy Inland Mouse smells better than the common house mouse.
The Gorge itself and its pools were a delightful place to spend a couple of hours. The first, Circular Pool was inaccessible from the rim where we stood looking down on the cold water. But a short walk and a new metal stairway took us down to Fortescue pool and falls where many folk were cooling of in the water and shady spots and some walked the entire trail along to Circular Pool. We had in our minds the need to find a campsite by four o’clock to give us time to pitch the tent at a leisurely pace since the Dales Gorge Campsite was indeed fully booked; frustrating when you think an unknown number of those who had booked would not turn up anyway.
We walked the opposite direction along the Gorge floor to Jubura, The Fern Pool along a rugged level pathway that has been trod since the dawn of man, and woman of course. To one side was the rocky wall of the gorge formed when two continents, the Pilbara and the Yilgarn, collided forming the Hamersley Range. Above us black fruit bats rested upside down in the euclip trees and a sign politely requested we treated this sacred place with a little respect keeping noise to a minimum and using the stainless steel ladder for a gentle entry into the refreshing water. We hadn’t expected such a beautiful place and didn’t have our swimmers with us; so we sat on a friendly trunk and enjoyed the lovely ancient atmosphere of the place.
Back on the road we passed more of the Flooding signs that tell us this vast area can see water levels rise from zilch to two metres when a monsoon rainstorm hits, imagine that, we’d float away!
We arrived at the Auski Roadhouse, (of perpetual light) where a young man showed us where to camp on grass. That was quite an experience, behind us mine workers, men and women used rows of ensuite cabins when they came off their day or night shift. The road trains also stopped for rest and recuperation well into the night. Floodlights lit the area all night and a very loud, ear plug busting generator ran 24/7 near us and just behind a massive pile of used tyres snazzily hidden behind a beautiful bougainvillea. We were totally comfortable and near the loo and shower block but could I sleep through the generator noise even with ear plugs. I did dream the oddest dreams about being entrapped, but they were uneasy and I was relieved it was Rob’s turn to drive the next day. Bless him.
Disgust at Dusty Rusty Port Hedland
I emerged from my last unsettling dream to see human shadows walking past the tent; we were pitched next to the walkthrough and little bridge leading from the vehicle park at the front of the roadhouse and the mine employee cabins behind us and the shift was changing over. There was a dynamic sense of different lifestyles in the camp; the busy mine workers and the rest of us, families on the childrens’ school break and older couples like us passing the time exploring this diverse and beautiful country.
On the road again we were amongst the multitude of four carriage road trains loaded with the recently extracted red guts of the earth, plying the road northwards to the export town of Port Hedland that really needs to be re-named Port Redland, because it is covered, head to toe in red dust. Even the buildings are painted in the same earthy red ochre colour and the red brick buildings look totally at home.
Rob counted 18 ships anchored off awaiting the call to enter port and load up. We saw 19 waiting for a passage through the Panama Canal when we sailed in, just to give you an idea of the scale of iron ore exporting here on a constant 24/7 process. We need iron ore of course for manufacturing all steel products, it is not that to which the local people are objecting, it is the fallout of the archaic system of loading the ore from the acres of stored piles of the stuff onto the kilometre long trains that role it the short distance to the port for yet another messy system of loading it onto the ships. In both processes tons of dust is freed into the atmosphere and accumulates on everything around including the inner linings of the lungs of all the people, most damagingly the children who live there. I will let the banners speak for themselves.
The unwitting testimony here is the conflict between the commercially minded powers that be from industry plus the local and national governments and the people who live here. There once was a nice area where residents and visitors could cool off with a swim in the sea. A shark net enclosed the area with a small beach. Well that has gone and not been replaced and it seemed eerily odd to sea beautiful beaches empty because of the danger of sharks and sea snakes when there is clearly plenty of money in the coffers to restore such a simple and enjoyable amenity as a place to swim in these 30’ daily tropical temperatures.
Good old TS. Pilbara was giving youngsters a chance to learn sailing on a handy little lagoon nearby and a kilometre or two further down we pitched our little tent in the Discovery Parks Site on a little nearby headland to find a totally different world. A number of the caravans around us and the cabins were semi-permanent homes to mine workers and their families so again we had the mix of workers and non-workers in a shady site with some delightful amenities including a Fish and Chip van arriving later, a pretty swimming pool with views over the small estuary next to us and a young father who had been travelling Aussie with his wife and two children for two years providing a solo concert for anyone who cared to join him in the evenings.
So, firstly we returned to town for a cool beer at the Pier Hotel Garden Bar, then it was back for a refreshing dip in the pool and a sit beside it, taking in the atmosphere. From our shaded vantage point sitting in our folding chairs Rob drew my attention to the tame little yellow birds that kept flying to a dripping tap and drinking from it just as a hummingbird would by being suspended underneath using rapid wing beats. Some also hung underneath the tap and had their drink. We were impressed that they had found the tap was dripping and hoped no-one would come and turn it off. Maybe it was left on on purpose or it had a conveniently worn washer inside. I think they were yellow tinted honey-eaters, from the information board I saw yesterday. So often our queries are answered on local boards a day or two later. Like the identity of the wedge tailed eagles we continue to see every day.
After our swim we sat outside our tent and chatted with passersby and noticed in the leafy small tree beside us the same little yellow honeyeaters had a beautiful nest that looked like a fluffy tennis ball. We could see one or perhaps two chicks lifting their beaks to receive the latest morsel and the parents were fastidious in de-bugging the outside of the nest to keep it healthy, as you will see in the rather blurred image. They didn’t mind us sitting in the shade of their tree sipping our drinks, waiting for the food van to arrive, which it did bang on time. Rob and I shared a portion of delicious food before carrying our chairs around the corner to the open area next to our entertainers ‘bus’ home. He was really good, had a nice voice and played the guitar well but also added his own recordings of different instruments over his live performance.
His wife sat nearby listening, the older of the children now inside the bus settling down for the night. His impromptu concert was the perfect end to a various and interesting day.
Across The Great Sandy Desert – Well the North end of it anyway
Rio Tinto own the Salt Plant just outside town and the pile of white crystals glistened in the early morning sun as we drove past. On our right an ore train ground its way to the dock for shipping and there was evidence of how some of the town’s folk spend their leisure time, then and now; a drovers rodeo arena, tennis courts, the racecourse and betting, a BMX track which was well-worn and a go-cart track all jockey for the position of amusing the locals.
We were approaching the northern border of the Great Sandy Desert and white cattle grazed safely behind a long fence. One of the reasons some places don’t fence their stock is because if the animals get through a fallen section onto the road they cannot get back, but this stock holder clearly didn’t want to lose any of the valuable and healthy animals and maintained the fences regularly.
There was a mixture of small, pindan wattle trees with yellow flowers and bushes sometimes merging into areas of grassland dotted with watering holes and Brahman cattle, the most prominent breed around here. We passed through the Warralong Community area of indigenous lands and stopped at the Pardoo Roadhouse to fill-up and experience a truly delicious fresh ground coffee drink with just a drop of milk and supped it under the shade of some trees, dunking our own ginger nuts into it and then sucking them dry until we’d finished and were ready to move on.
It was 30’ outside and we had a long road ahead and a choice of three camp areas to choose from for the night. I wanted to get as far across the desert today to make tomorrow a nice short run into Broome. The Falcon was behaving well and treated gently by easing back on the gas as soon as possible during overtaking she rarely missed a beat, but I was a little nervy about the many miles before us where there were no services of any kind should we get into trouble. Trump’s Law was in operation again, unable to see far ahead and proceeding at the wrong time would possibly lead to confusion, danger and possibly death.
The Frazier Downs appeared on the skyline either side of the road ahead, that became a shimmering mirage near the skyline and we knew we were near our destination.
In the end we turned left down the dirt track towards Port Smith between number 507 and 508 on the map that an old gentleman back at the Auski (Munjina in indigenous language) Roadhouse had told us was a lovely spot to relax. It was in fact a little oasis, built many decades ago by a couple, now in their nineties who moved to be nearer civilisation in Broome a couple of years ago, selling the leafy site and their beautiful home complete with bird garden, hidden behind the bougainvillea, to the Indigenous Land and Sea Corporation who have plans along the tourism industry lines for the future as you can see from the sign in the garden. I just hope they do not change the campsite too much because it is well planned and the facilities of big shower rooms each with its own loo and wash hand basin are brilliant, especially if you are living in a little tent like ours.
We set ourselves up next to a couple who have been coming to this spot for the last twenty years for three months of the year to escape the southern winter. The lady kindly took us to see three little Frogmouth Owls who are resident, “There used to be so many more, but there is a barking owl here that eats them for BREAKFAST!” I really liked the tufty feathers that stick out on top of the beaks of these cute little creatures.
She also told us about Polly, who you might think from the photograph is a sweet little ‘agile wallaby’ but she can bite and scratch an innocent person if she chooses. She was rescued from her dead mom at the side of the road between 15 and 19 years ago and has sought shelter and the kindness of the managers and residents in the camp ever since. Each morning she does the rounds for breakfast, a raw potato here and a slice of toast there. Fortunately she was just benign company for us. The moody ‘roo’ who loves pots.’
After a light lunch of beer and ice cream we decided to catch the last of the high tide with a quick dip down at the lagoon before it flowed back out over the sand banks for a long way. In the photo the beach was top left and you can see its course between the mangroves into the bay in the foreground.
The range of the tides in this part of the world are pretty immense, up to 12 metres, so the rate of the flow is fast, faster than I first appreciated as we waded out to deeper water behind a chap trying desperately to push out his boat, with its big outboard motor, far enough to lower the motor and get going. At last the water was waste deep and I took the plunge surrounded by succulent mangroves and started to really enjoy the ease with which I was making progress down tide. “Barb I’ll be out of my depth in a moment and have you seen how fast you are moving?”
There was a very short answer to that one. ‘No’. I turned and swam as quickly as my old limbs would allow and managed to grab hold of a mangrove who was kindly extending a stout branch in my direction. Then an even kinder and familiar hand came my way too and all was well as Rob heaved me back into my own standing depth and we wandered slowly, for the air was very hot and the water nice and cool, back towards the beach just as the thunderous tones of the chap’s outboard engine propelled him in the opposite direction.
The group parked on the tiny beach were friendly and an oriental lady was gathering oysters from amongst the mangrove roots for super.
Back at our tent John Gibb, father of Lisa Ness drove to a stop, no I didn’t either until then. “You from Kojonup then?” He asked reading Falcon’s number KO 158. “We’ve been staying there for a couple of months,” I offered and then asked, “Do you know Malcolm and Christine McDonald?” He nodded, “Well this is their car!” He farmed the other side of Kojonup and he and his wife and daughter knew our friends well. Malcolm was amused when we messaged him.
The only drawback to this idyllic place was the sandflies, four days later as I type this the bites are at last losing their itch. These creatures were so hard to see I had no idea what was causing the sharp pricks until I watched really closely and then only the needle prick that was filling with MY blood was all that was visible to the eye behind my best reading glasses. Not ‘no-see-ums’ as they are known, more like invisi-bums.
The kind lady next door’s husband returned from his fishing trip and asked us if we could help him out by taking a couple of black snapper fillets as he had filled his quota of 5 per day and his freezer was full, so we obliged, of course and steamed them on top of the already cooked pasta and under a blanket of butter and cheese, with a little water in the pan to create the steam. One pan cooking, I love it.