swerves in time and space

Rat-a-tat-tat.

The decision was made for me. I had to nick out first thing to buy breakfast supplies. The sound of a muffled machine gun under the bonnet heralded the response of my trusty steed. Not gonna happen, bro. 

It’s an all too familiar sound to those of us who have experienced a lifetime of mechanically and chronologically challenged cars.

But, joy of joys, Son Unit # 1 had purchased me a car-strength power bank for my travels. Brrrrm. Love the sound of a diesel ticking over. I took the Triton for a 40 km run to ensure it was fired up. Turned it off, fired it up again to ensure that all was well.

It was. Brrm brrm chugga chug.

Took my time over breakfast. Muesli, yoghurt and fruit in the rising Territory sun. 

I finished loading and turned the key once more.

Rat-a-tat-tat.

A local mechanic kindly looked at it for me, after Son Unit’s gift had worked its magic again. He wasn’t sure if it was electrical or mechanical, and his tests were (weirdly) inconclusive. He recommended I should go up to Darwin and the Mitsubishi experts. Yeah. I had had enough of dodgy mechanics in Melbourne. I took his advice.

I loved Darwin when I lived there, but never expected to be back. Sure, I hadn't made much of a fist of my work there. Soon after I arrived, an organization called Bush Church Aid discovered that my predecessor had warn a chasuble (so did I, Sunday by Sunday).

Real Australian Christians know that chasubles, a sort of fancy ecclesiastical poncho, are a Work Of The Devil. Worse than listening to Led Zeppelin backwards. 

To those of us less holy, who believe that the God of liturgy can be expressed by beauty as well as by words, this innocent garment is a fine vehicle of gospel-meaning, of truth, beauty, even love.

Not to our friends in Sydney.

Approximately $40,000 in funding was withheld to punish the parish for its dance with the devil.

To exacerbate matters a similar amount was withdrawn when a remarkably generous private benefactor decided they didn’t like the cut of my jib. Or the colour of my shoes? Whatever. It wasn't the last time I'd hear furious expositions on my priestly incompetence. Training for Napier, perhaps?

Anyway, the parish bled money on my watch. To compensate, I took a job as a school chaplain. The school was obligated by its charter to have a chaplain. But what use to a school is a chaplain? I wasn’t a registered teacher. Apparently chaplains don’t do pastoral care. Religious input? A forty second spiel in the staff room occasionally and a few minutes’ input to the school assembly once a term.

I was given the role of busting kids for drugs. Left after a lawyer threatened to destroy me.

Long ago, but now not far away. I was back in a city that I loved, but in which I achieved little.

Maybe the parish I had somewhat ineffectually run, centred on a church with no walls but spacious grounds in the middle of nowhere much, maybe they wouldn't mind me parking up and throwing a swag down? I rang my times three successor.

Nope.

The response was less than enthusiastic. Courteous scepticism. You want to do what?

It was, apparently, Not A Good Look.

The incumbent clergyperson indicated that the neighbouring faith community had less exacting standards. They might allow me to clutter up their premises?

They did.

The generosity of the leadership of the Parish of Palmerston warmed my spirit. I was made welcome, kipped down not in a swag in a paddock but inside the building, with a roof, a shower, toilet and kitchen.

I fell asleep wondering what it was that Jesus said about kicking dust off feet.

Still, I caught up with old friends from parish and diocese. Heard stories of life since I left. Sacred moments. I was glad I headed north. 

But there was a car to deal with.

The local Mitsubishi dealer assured me that they could not see my car for six weeks. The price of a motel for one night in Darwin is prohibitive. I figured that lounging around in a hotel for six weeks could be deleterious for my bank account?

On the suggest on of my host rector (I had met his father decades earlier in Alice Springs) I rang a mobile mechanic instead.

The symptoms indicated was no more than a shot battery, so he sent me off to Outback Batteries in Coolalinga.

Yup. Buggered.

In retrospect I had noticed the  growing smell of rotten egg as I bounced across the Top End. Deductively, I thought it might be eggs, erm, rotting. Smart, eh? Who’d  ’a’ thunk it?

Outback Batteries  supplied me a brand-new battery and many laughs in the hot early morning  sun. The rotten eggs dissipated, meekly. Warmth and service that contrasted starkly with an adjacent site of worship.

I had been hearing horror stories of the road that I was planning to take over the next couple of days. One standard spare wheel wasn't sufficient. Horror stories abounded. The infamous dirt section of State Highway One. Abandon hope.

What’ a bloke to do?

Refreshed after sleep in a  welcoming church, I grabbed a spare spare wheel from a wreckers. My ears rang with warnings. I really should have at least three spare wheels, and every piece of 4WD recovery gear known to humanity. Thoughts of Carolina Wilga and her West Australian escapade surfaced again.

Forty litres of water? Tick. Extra fuel? Tick. Two spare wheels? Half a tick. Personal locator beacon or stat phone? Fail.

But I had a large sheet of shiny foil and a bright power bank emergency beacon to attract searching helicopters. Tick.

An alternative was occurring to me.  

Maths is not my strong point but I calculated that the long  route down to the Barkly Tablelands and back up to the Gulf again was somewhere in the vicinity of four times further than the direct dirt route that I had planned. Sigh.

The big picture was clear: the sealed road was the sensible option despite a massive blow-out on fuel and running costs.

Surely I could at least go out to Borroloola and have a look? I’d been there before, but had flown in. Still: I could suss out the locals’ opinions?

I slept in the car near Borroloola. Or didn’t. Restless, I made a quick middle of the night excursion to nearby Bing Bong.  True name, but no public access, alas.

I explored  the allegedly iconic fishing spot, King Ash Bay. It says it’s iconic on the internet, even YouTube, so it must be. I enjoy fishing like I enjoy tooth extraction, so I watched the sun rise, instead. Great photos.

In fear and trepidation I checked with the local shop owner, the only soul stirring on a Sunday morning. What did she think of the road through to Hell’s Gate?

“Awful.”

Pennies and pounds. I took it of course.

It was a cinch.

Compared with the hundreds of kilometres of corrugations I had experienced on the Oodnadatta Track and Gibb River Road it was a stroll in the park. By the next evening I was through to Normanton, between the Queensland Savannah and Gulf regions.  The car purred, all six wheels were unscathed, and I’d ticked off my final several hundred-kilometre scamper through the dust. Back to sealed roads for the remainder of the trip,  (side tracks excepted).

I had also successfully traversed the Northern Territory from West to East, something I had never expected to do. Hello, Queensland, it’s nice to be back, although it is only just over a year since I was last enjoyed your surrounds.

And I gained a second swag (“bed roll” to non ’strine speakers). A flat deck Landcruiser had flown past me, somewhere on the dirt, at eye-watering, testosterone-pumped speeds. Ten kilometres later the driver’s bed awaited me … swag, brand new mattress, sheets and al in the middle of the road, the owner long gone in his clous=d of testosterone-fuelled dust.

I checked in at Hell’s Gate but he hadn’t stopped. Nor Normanton. Gone.

Ah well.

Hell’s Gate?

A roadhouse.  I assumed it was named as a reflection on the alleged quality of the road. Not so. It was named after a nearby cutting in the escarpment. Early European settlers had to pass through, sometimes droving stock from Queensland to the Territory. The cutting  was considered to be a point of no return.

Abandon hope? I thought that was dealing with Superannuation firms.

I doubt that I will return, but, yeah, the road was a doddle, the memories happy, the photos many.

A doddle, unless you drive far too fast with unsecured luggage.