BYROCK ’10
September again means but one thing – Byrock Time.
To cover all possible scenarios with my upcoming roster change, I booked my holidays early – in about February and made sure I covered the October long-weekend (for NSW), and then some.
When the dust settled, it meant that I had 23 consecutive days off, commencing on the 15th September. I put out the usual feelers and nobody was keen for an early start, nor some pre-Byrock vermin shooting.
In the end I decided to travel to Sydney to catch up with a few old mates who would be absent from Byrock this year, for one reason or another.
Before heading south, I did the ring-around to see which of the boys – of my very close friends – of those closest to me for the past 20 plus years, might care to join me for a bevvy or two at the local watering hole, our old stomping ground at Mounties.
The Boneman ruled himself out because he wanted to play D-grade cricket the next day – well that was the lame reason he proffered, though I suspect the real reason is that ever-bristling wild hair protruding proudly from his arse, like a muzzle-loading ramrod! He boldly maintains the rage over my inability to attend his 40th birthday function last year, due to prior work commitments. I’m not sure how long the apologies and punishment must endure before he accepts the fact that it was entirely a work thing and not any disrespect directed toward him and his family.
As fate would have it, the first time I drive down to Sydney in many a long year and Pauly was needed back on the ranch at Newcastle, despite his usual habit of lingering round Canley Vale on weekends.
I gave up years ago trying to convince reluctant friends into joining me in certain ventures – I figure if they’d prefer to be elsewhere, then that is probably best all round. I harbour no animosity nor hold any grudges – life is far too short for such petty bickering.
Ned was keen to do the Flametree-shuffle on Saturday: a gutful of beer, a general p1sstake of the fellow patrons and a few rounds of ‘do you remember so-and-so’.
Okay – that’ll do me, I hadn’t caught up with Ned for a year or so, so I was looking forward to it.
I finished work at 7am on Wednesday morning, drove home and packed two thirds of my gear into the car. Feeling tired, I crashed in bed for a stint. When I woke up I packed the remainder of the car, watched some telly for a while and crashed again. I emerged at half past midnight, showered and reversed the Landcruiser up the driveway while I threw in the final few things needed for three weeks of ground sleeping and camp-cooking.
At 1am, standing in my driveway at Upper Coomera, a populous suburb on the northern end of Queensland’s Gold Coast, I heard a peculiar sound descending my way, from up the hill. At first it sounded like a kid running will a basketball – the cadence of the bounce distinct, but no accompanying footsteps. I stood alert and peered into the darkness and down the centre of my own street, bounded an Eastern Grey Kangaroo doe! She hopped on past me and into the park two doors down. I’ve no notion of her origin, unless it be several kilometres north, past Old Coach Road – but even that would require the negotiation of several roundabouts and intersections? Maybe it’s a well worn path for the local macropod population? Or perhaps she had a Tom-Tom instead of a Joey her pouch – who knows? But I found it a remarkable spectacle on this trip even before I’d left my driveway. (Incidentally, I drove another 850k’s to Sydney throughout the night, cutting through vast eucalypt forests and didn’t spot another roo!).
I discovered that my Lightforce spotlights, with the crystal-blue lenses worked an absolute treat in the pitch-black early hours on Highway 1 – it’s like running down an airport runway (until you need to dim them for the oncoming B-Doubles). I cruised all night switching between my music and the comical complaints of passing truckies on the UHF. One young foul-mouthed destroyer bitched for twenty minutes about car drivers showing him no courtesy and how he’d try to chase them up and intimidate them whenever he took offence. He then whined about people calling up his boss and reporting his dangerous and inconsiderate antics – said he’d had five complaints in the last few months. His older colleague, a Pommy bloke who didn’t swear, said he refuses to be rattled by the car drivers – they’re everywhere, it’s just part of the job…..oh, and he’d never had a complaint filed against him.
Is there a moral in there somewhere? I don’t know.
Another truckie who’d been playing leapfrog for 200 kilometres with a Pommy tourist in a Britz-Australia van, saw the bloke pull over into a garage and felt compelled to follow him. He lined up at the tucker counter ordered something to eat and asked the Van driver where they were sitting?
In response to the Van driver’s Why? The truckie responds “Well we’ve been that close over the past 200ks that I feel I know you intimately and thought we should have breakfast together?”
He then went on to explain the etiquette of cutting in front of a semi and slowing down to 80ks etc.
The Pommy Van driver says, as the truckie was leaving – “Can you do me a favour?”
In disbelief the truckie says “What?”
“Can you tell me how to get back onto the Pacific Highway?”
“You’re on it”
“No – the highway. I’m on my way down from Queensland and I was on it there – it was three lanes wide and beautiful smooth concrete and blacktop. Somehow I’ve taken a wrong turn over the border and ended up on this old goat track”
“This is the Pacific Highway mate – NSW”
“You’re kidding? Bollocks – this old goat track?”
“Yep – that’s it mate”
“This wouldn’t be considered fit as a village by-road back in England! This is the Pacific Highway? Good Lord….”
The never-ending Pacific Highway improvements are obviously working a treat – just one more independent and thoroughly satisfied customer.
I called the oldies from Wyong to say I’d be there in about 2 hours – they didn’t know I was coming to stay. There was a slight panic from Mum as she had to rush out to the shops and then, unfortunately I beat her home. It was great to be around the Oldies again and to top it off, Mum brought out a swag of fresh prawns for lunch.
Saturday night found me downing schooners at Mounties with Ned and his wife Kerrie. We took the mickey out of nearly every individual who joined the passing parade as they ambled past our table. Simple things like fashion sense, facial hair, body-shape, Apparent IQ – generally anything we could pass ill-founded judgement upon, without ever meeting these folk. I drank Resches – which is a luxury I seldom get to enjoy living in Queensland, and Ned drank Tooheys New. Kerrie had small scotches.
Late in the evening Kerrie thought she’d try a Cointreau and lemonade – unfortunately these do-gooder imbeciles no longer allow any single person to purchase more than 2 drinks at a time after some certain mystical magical hour. I had a shout for 2 beers then Ned went and got Kerrie her Cointreau.
Kerrie remained unconvinced that her glass actually contained any trace of her requested liqueur and proceeded to take it back and challenge the bar manager to identify said ingredient by smell, then taste. He gave her a new one. For some reason on the next shout Ned decided he’d have the Resches and gave me the New – I guess he must have felt like we both needed a change at 1am?
Next day the Boneman drove myself and the Oldman to Warwick Farm races. We bumped into Mark and his young fella at the entry gate. The old bloke had a blinder and cleaned up with four or five winners, and I came out some 300 up. Dean won a bit and I think Mark did too (with phone-bets as he drove back to Cessnock after the 6th race).
Next day Dean drove the Oldman and myself up to Cessnock races – to see his and Mark’s horse run around. Oddly we listened to Mick Bubble and then Harry Connick Jnr throughout the trip – does anyone know when Dean became such a zany swinger?
Of course Mark met us at the track. We proceeded to the stalls to see Integrand and chat to the trainer Jeff. Jeff was rustling around with a trio of horses, assisted by his trusty, ruddy-rimmed strapper who had a lust for life and a penchant for hugging strange fat men (myself).
The horse missed the start but managed to catch up and run a reasonable race carrying stable jockey, the illusive Hari-the-hoop. Dad won again, I backed one short-priced winner but still lost and I care not for the ordinary performances of the remaining crew.
My beautiful niece Taliah flew to the oldies from Queensland – she was a date for her old school’s year 12 graduation party. She had turned 18 the week before, so being the responsible family that we are, we took her directly to Mounties to introduce her to spirituous liquors and poker machines. She won forty or so bucks playing her first poker machine with her Pop then I asked her to play my machine while I went for a round of drinks. Upon my return she had won $173 in one shot! I think I gave her ninety bucks for her share and amazingly, I won a few hundred more shortly thereafter. Probably as a timely warning, I put a fifty in one last machine for Taliah and Mum to play together – zip, nada, nothing. Fifty smackers gone in a blink – Taliah couldn’t believe the waste and lack of return! Good – remember that.
Friday rolled around and it was time for me to head to The Rock. Car packed to the rafters and a quick diesel fix and I’d be on my way, it was around 8am. On someone’s insistence, I’ve taken to adding a special conditioner mix to my diesel …..Ahh, lovely – the bottle has somehow found it’s way upside down and spilt the remaining contents onto my back floor! So now, all filled up with conditioner-less diesel in my dual tanks and a cup or so of said substance now taking deep root in the plush-pile of my rear carpet, I was ready to hit the road.
I hit Coolabah at around 4:30 and was fair dinkum tonguing for a cold beer. The long-haired publican was smoking out the front with some of his family – I was the only one actually inside the pub. He tossed his bumper and returned behind the bar to pour me a beer – I followed him outside to socialise with the rest of the local folk. He commented that I hadn’t been there for a while – I said, no that’s right – this time last year, just after the dust storm.
He then told me the same story about the dust as he told me last year. He claimed he remembered me because he recognised the gold and black vanity plates on my car. I found this at once remarkable because I didn’t have those plates last year.
There was a young local bloke with his Missus and small daughter waiting for the school bus, returning their older children from school in Nyngan. They drank and smoked while they waited and the toddler ran rampant in the gravel and bull-dust carpark. When the kids ran from the bus, eager to tell their parents about their day, the eldest girl, of about nine summers still sported half a dozen coloured crepe-paper streamers tied around her waste. She twirled around making them flare out as she danced “Look what I got Daddy”.
“Pull those stupid things off and put ‘em in the garbage! Go on – in the garbage”.
The poor girl pulled them off and put them in the bin.
I thought to myself “You Prick!”
The kids here wear baggy shorts, tee-shirt, and a daggy hat to school. She just wanted to be a little girl for a while – not a blo0dy farm hand. This big tough prick couldn’t see it and maybe his missus was brought up the same way. There’s a lot to be said for a country up-bringing but my word, there’s a lot that could be improved too. Sure people are under stress with climate, stock and finance worries – but it doesn’t cost anything to ditch your f*cking smoke and watch your little girl dance and feel beautiful for a few minutes!
I bought a stubbie-holder, loaded up a roadie and thundered down the final fifty kilometre stretch to the Mulga Creek Hotel. It was Friday arvo and Mark and Crazy Dave wouldn’t be there until sometime Monday. I wondered how it would play out, on my own again in the bush for the next few days.
I hopped out of my car and hadn’t shut the door before I heard a cry of “Steve, mate” from across the carpark. I turned around to see Pete the publican fetching merchandise from the pub Hilux. His ever-lovin’ wife Gloria wasn’t far away. I went over and shook hands and exchanged pleasantries before following them inside the pub, where Pete declared my first schooner to be on the house.
I was introduced to the new German barmaid:
“Steve, this is Sinbin, she’s our new girl”
Sinbin, or Cindy as her parents named her, was the latest foreign barmaid to seek employment at the Mulga Creek Hotel. She was an attractive young piece in a smallish package with clear skin, bright eyes and a tremendous head of honey-blonde hair which seemed to resent her attempts to control it.
Cindy was only nineteen years old and had been in Australia less than a month, with three of those weeks being stationed at Byrock. She was determined to become proficient at speaking English (and in fact had a very good grasp already, I’d fancy about eighty five percent there), but continued to do kids ‘find-the-word’ puzzles in her spare time. She was staying in the pub’s caravan near where we camp, about one hundred and fifty metres behind the pub’s main building.
There was another new barmaid in attendance as well – Tarni.
Now she was an individual. She favoured the Gothic style of makeup, daily applying a white powdery foundation to her face and some strange sparkly eye-shadow. She was a tall girl and usually wore tight blue jeans, which she filled out well and a hippy style loose top, which seemed to highlight the ample breasts which she displayed with help from a push-up brazier.
She was hungover the day we met – apparently tied one on the night before.
I put her vagueness and lack of spark down to the hangover – this proved to be an inaccurate assumption. Vague is Tarni’s natural state of being. While she doesn’t tend to endear herself to punters, she is far from offensive. Tarni is eighteen years old and was apparently dropped at the Mulga Creek Hotel by Mick James, the publican’s mate, after an intended horse-riding escapade fell through. She has a background of riding trackwork down south – and it was rumoured, displayed these skills in a nudie-ride around the pub after losing a bet to Buggsy, a fellow character and man-about-town. Someone suggested that she may have been carrying a black poodle in her lap throughout the ride, though she assured us there were no such accoutrements around that region of her body!
I enquired about the whereabouts of Jani, my favourite barmaid from last year and much to my delight she was due in that very afternoon, after holidaying in Sydney with her father, who’d visited from Germany.
I had many beers and spoke to a few locals that night, including one red-headed stranger who’d wandered into town. He was rotten drunk when I met him and said he’d come from the Murray River area of late, though originally heralded from Bourke. He boasted the typical wasted physique of a long term drinker who had little interest in eating. He was plastered but continued drinking cans of Jack Daniels and smoking rollies. He mentioned that he was the ‘Son Of Mick’ – I was thankful he hadn’t said ‘Sam’. He appeared to be living in an old four cylinder Toyota short wheelbase four wheel drive, whose condition resembled its owner.
Jani showed up with her usual beaming grin and hearty greeting – she is much loved and very much respected by all.
The party was in full swing that Friday night but I’d reached my limit of beer and waking hours by about half past midnight, so I headed back to make camp.
Being still on my lonesome, I chose to head further down the track and into the bush to roll out my swag this night. Once I go to bed I prefer not to be woken up to deal with drunken campers, be they serial killers, simple wasters or even fun-loving mates. So I pulled into a clear spot, laid out a tarp for a ground sheet, set up my swag with my esky and bottle of water next to my pillow and marvelled at the stars as I drifted off to deep and worry free slumber.
I woke in the morning at about eight thirty and headed for the shed to cook up a good feed of bacon, eggs and tomatoes for brekky. It was now that I discovered I’d left all my cooking and eating utensils at home. I had paper plates, frying pan and Billy and my big old pig-stabber hunting knife, but very little else in the way of tucker hardware. I began to rustle up a hearty bush breakfast with the knife, when a fellow camper on his morning dawdle-of-discovery among the gidgee wandered by. He commended me on my efforts and asked if he could share? I said ‘Mate, there’s plenty in the pan, I’m sure you can’.
He laughed and agreed and then moved on.
The red-headed stranger then appeared at the ablutions block, Jack Daniels can in hand. We discussed the merits of Toyota four wheel drives and the prices and deals on the tyres our cars sported. Apparently his car was quite the beast and he’d secured a remarkable bargain with the no-name tyres that out-performed all others. He appeared unimpressed with my Pirelli Scorpions – which by all reports are the most capable all-Terrain tyres on the market.
He opened another can – his forth of the day he claimed – and headed in to freshen up.
I’m not sure what he did, but he emerged about twenty minutes later looking largely the same as when he went in. He thought his father Mick might show up today, so he headed to the pub just in case.
I ate most of my bacon and eggs and enjoyed a beautiful cup of tea, lounging back in the sun in my super-comfy, big-mans camp chair.
Being in no great hurry to return to the pub and another full glass of beer, I decided to lounge around camp in the sun and in fact read a few chapters of the novel I’d been reading since February – ‘Brother Fish’, by Bryce Courtney. It’s a great Australian tale told by an expert story-teller.
At around lunchtime I headed to the pub. It was Aussie Rules Grand Final Day as well as the league final between the Tigers and St George. There was little interest in the Aussie Rules at the pub – except for my mate, the early morning wanderer and his missus. This bloke was a St Kilda supporter and was fairly enthralled in the game – he’d been glad to find a venue where he could watch the Grand Final, drink a few cold beers and simply walk back to his camp after the siren. His team were behind from the first kick but heading into the final quarter, seemed to be coming good.
I’d downed a few by then and started revving the guy up and this in turn piqued my own interest for the first time in an Aussie Rules game. It was good fun watching the final few minutes but I lost all interest again once I learned that a draw meant they had to play the thing all over again the next week!
There was a bit of a lull before the proper footy kicked off but I was fired up for this one, being a Tigers supporter. Unfortunately we lost, which I found disappointing but my main grievance was with the ten year old St George supporter sitting behind me and cheering against me. I was tempted to elbow the little bastard in the face at one stage, though decided against it. The thought occurred to me to have a word with the publican, pointing out that this little smart arse shouldn’t really be allowed in this part of the bar, but finally settled on the mature action of clapping loudly in his face when things went the Tigers way.
I walked outside and noticed an old red headed bloke leaning up against the wall, straight up and down like a yard of pump water, his face weather-beaten, grey eyes a little dull – ahh, that’d be Mick was my immediate thought. The young fella was an absolute clone and yet they seemed none too close emotionally.
Both sat and drank and smoked while paying little attention to their long lost kinfolk.
I spoke to Kelly and his young wife Erin. They run a local property and always have two cute little blonde kids in tow. Both parents are blonde and Erin at least is a long term local – she went to school with Buggsy, whose main ambition in those years was to make Erin cry at every opportunity. They seem to have come to some kind of mutual respect these days and even seem to enjoy each other’s company. At one stage I noticed the pub door was about to close on the little blonde kid’s fingers – I leapt up and grabbed the door just as it got him. They all seemed to find it amusing and joked that parents get used to such things and that I must have some kind of fatherly instinct. I dunno about that – but I certainly don’t wanna see the little blighter screaming with a fistful of busted fingers.
Kelly was saying that he was having trouble with mobs of wild dogs around his way lately. Apparently a lot of piggers with dogs tend to lose an animal or two and have to shoot through after their weekend is up, leaving these trained mongrels behind in the bush to fend for them selves. Being a naturally gregarious creature, the abandoned mutts seek company and tend to run together in mobs, like their brethren the wolves. They then attack sheep, goats, cattle and occasionally, people. One of Kelly’s neighbours was recently treed by such a mob of baying hounds, so now the common reaction is to shoot any unknown dog on sight! He even spoke of someone he knows poisoning pigdogs in their ute cages, as their owners drink inside at the bar of the local pubs.
One of the nice blokes there was Harrison, whose roadtrain had died due to a faulty pneumatic valve somewhere in the engine – luckily he made it to the Mulga Creek car park before pulling up. He was now stranded at the pub for several days. He runs a trucking company out of Hay, which was bloody miles away, so he made the most of his situation and kept Pete the publican good company and shared willingly in all the pubs fare. Harrison continued to run the company via his mobile phone which rang with annoying regularity. Cody was one of his drivers who also made a habit of calling into Byrock as he passed doing his ‘Corn run’ from Bourke. He is a fine young fella, originally from Humpty Doo in the great Northern Territory.
Bourke corn was the big contract for the moment, with truckloads of the stuff heading south. I understand that it wasn’t your sweetcorn, which we eat off the cob, it was some other type and it was shipped already stripped off its cob and waiting in pellets for the ride. Apparently the majority of this crop ends up Kellogs. Who knew they made Cornflakes out of Bourke-born corn niblits?
Pete confided that he couldn’t really understand why Tarni was working, since he had sacked her on the Thursday night, when she was fairly sideways and running amok around the premises. Apparently she just fronted up for work the next day, totally oblivious to the previous night’s proceedings – claimed she had a blackout and knew nothing of her poor behaviour or being given the bullet.
Now, I dunno if that was true or simply some George-Costanza ploy to keep her job, but she was still there three weeks later – so she’s either got an alcoholic blackout problem or balls like a frigging cannon!
A bunch of young girls from Brewarrina showed up at the Mulga Creek for a night on the turps. They were largely average looking country girls, hell bent on having a party, but they brought along one petite young blonde chippie – Annabelle, a barmaid from Germany – and lately a friend of Sinbin.
Annabelle was quickly renamed Tinkerbell, I think by Harrison, but it could have been Pete the publican. Tinkerbell wore a long cotton summer dress and flashed a devilish smile as she roamed the premises snapping souvenir photos for Sinbin, who was both working and drinking at this stage.
At one stage, I believe around midnight, I entered the pub to be greeted by a whipped up skirt and panty-flash from Tinkerbell and to find three or four of the Bree-girls dancing on the bar with great gusto! Everyone was singing along to the jukebox – a few unlikely songs which I recall ringing out, are The Battle of New Orleans by Johnny Horton, The Gambler by Kenny Rogers, of course American Pie, as well as Turn it On, Turn it Up, Turn me Loose by Dwight Yoakam!
Everybody drank and sang and danced and smoked for the next few hours – I finally ran out of stamina at around three thirty am. I hopped in the car and drove back to my clearing for a poorly rewarding six hours of unconsciousness in my swag before the sun rose and the increasing temperature drove me out. I cooked a steak and a Suimin noodle cup for breakfast – which I commenced to eat with my hunting knife. Sick of the noodles slipping off the blade, I eventually drank the juice and then the noodles as they poured out of the foam cup.
I spent that entire day bludging round the camp – no alcohol. I read my book, drank cups of tea, drove around town and country for a look-see and to charge my batteries, cooked some dinner and largely just waited for the sun to go down, so I could go back to bed!
I jumped the gun a bit – went to bed at half past six, before the sun was completely down. This was the first time at Byrock where I didn’t visit the pub or drink at camp. It was great to wake up after five hours sleep and realise you’ve still got another eight hours to go.
I got up next morning fully recovered and ready to handle a new onslaught, with the imminent arrival that day of Mark and Crazy Dave.
I cooked some brekky and was about to have a shower, when the bloody cleaner grabbed the fire hose and rushed the ablutions block like it was a roaring inferno. He drenched everything bar the light sockets and left all surfaces dribbling wet, less than ideal for the placement of dry, clean clothes.
Of course I sent Mark an SMS asking where they were and what time they’d arrive. Of course being Mark, he told me a load of garbage and that Dave had just arrived and they would likely leave home around 9am. Of course I didn’t believe him and it left me none the wiser when they might appear.
I decided to charge my batteries up by driving around, which would also give the shower-block time to dry out a bit. I had drinks in the esky but tucker in my Engel fridge in the back of the cruiser. I was both out of ice and the fridge battery was dead, but the tucker still semi frozen.
I decided to drive to Coolabah – this would be a hundred kilometre round trip – good for the battery, waste a bit of time and I might catch the boys as they call in on the way to Byrock (though it was likely still a touch early).
When I got to Coolabah I was the only patron there – granted it was still early morning. Mine host at this hour was a dry old lady manning the bar on her lonesome. I bought a schooner and played the pokies – my first bet on the Cleopatra/Pyramid machine saw me collar the special feature of fifteen free games! This is alright, I thought.
Unfortunately I was wrong once again – it wasn’t alright – it was about my last winning stroke and King Tut’s curse saw my fifty bucks soon disappear into the bowels of the great pharaoh’s tomb.
I had another beer, sitting out the front, as the old bird had gone out to impart her overwhelming hospitality on a young local lady who’d arrived with her kids and was splurging on a pub lunch on the way to the river where the kids were heading to take a dip.
While dinner was being prepared, I listened to this ten year old kid telling his mother about various tractors, headers and assorted large-scale farm equipment. The kid knew his stuff from working with his old man – even to the point of which vehicles would be accessible by his younger brother, due to the height of the first step of the cabin ladder. He appeared expert on fittings, attachments, limitations and requirements for different uses and even improvisations should the situation demand it in a pinch.
He spoke with great authority (and made myself feel quite inadequate in his presence) and he did it all with that genuine outback accent that some of these isolated folk tend to develop. He was a little ripper!
Speaking of that outback accent – it’s difficult to describe on paper. The red-headed stranger boasted a degree of it, which tended to dominate the more he drank.
A typical statement would sound something like:
“That fulla over there mate, he a real drinkin’ man. Eel doh twenny beerz inna sittin’….”
I’ve listened intently on numerous occasion, however it’s hard to actually describe – though you recognise it as soon as you here it. It’s unique yet does not vary greatly from your standard Aussie accent.
One local Byrock bloke who apparently appreciates the accent is a young bloke called Geordie. He is as unlikely a customer as you’re likely to meet out there. He appears to be of Indian or Pakistani descent – a nuggetty dark-skinned fella who basks in the lifestyle of a born and bred Aussie bushman. He was actually raised in the Dubbo region and has largely knocked around those parts for thirty something years or so.
He lives in calf-length cowboy boots (even when he wears boardshorts) and usually sports RM Williams long pants, a button up shirt, Akubra hat and rodeo style belt buckle. He smokes rollies which he delights in manufacturing, and enjoys a yarn with anyone who’ll listen.
Geordie falls in and out of the aforementioned accent – usually laying it on thick early but seemingly forgetting his character as he pushes on. He’s a friendly bloke and quite entertaining, spending work stretches down a mine several hundred kilometres away.
Geordie has a house at Byrock but spends great swathes of time (and I suspect cash) at the pub drinking beer and dining on their fine cuisine.
Spending several days alone at a country town does wonders for the soul. The local hospitality and unsolicited, genuine friendship offered by the inhabitants, refreshes one’s belief in the nature of men. I always felt surrounded by friends who’d see me right should I get into strife and never once felt isolated or alone. I recommend it to all – you’re guaranteed to meet some fine folk….well, at least some very interesting folk………
I had another beer and fancied the look of the young mother’s chicken schnitty roll, so decided to have and early lunch myself at Coolabah pub. I sat inside waiting for my roll and having a general chat with mine host. She had some kid’s program on the TV, where some pommy kids had emerged from a cave, onto the beach where the rock they sat on turned out to be a live turtley-crab thing that was chatting with the kids. So, having already lost my yella-back to the bandits, you will understand that the entertainment options on offer were now limited, to say the very least.
The lunch was alright and I decided after four beers that I’d best not over do it, with fifty k’s to drive back to Byrock. So just before I left, I asked for a bag of ice:
“Do you have a bag of ice?”
“Ummm – not many”
“What?” I say staring blankly.
“I can give you one if you buy a carton of beer?”
“What do you mean?” I repeat dumbfounded.
Apparently round these parts a fifty dollar donation to the pokies, plus four schooners and a meal does not necessarily qualify one to BUY a bag of ice. You have to purchase a carton as well!
I continued to look at her shaking my head in disbelief.
“How urgent is it?”
“I don’t have any”
“Ohh…….well…I suppose it’ll be alright this time. It’s just that we don’t have many”
“Okay. Thanks”
I put the ice over my drinks and the fridge had kicked into gear as soon as I started driving, so the tucker should be alright.
I got back to Byrock and had a shower.
I hit the pub and there was a decent mob already out front, drinking and smoking and generally hanging about. There was one fella there of note. He was a big chap with light brown hair, fashioned in the Mohawk style. On the bald part on either side of his scalp, he sported the tattoo ‘WHITE POWER’ and at the corner of each eye, high on the cheek, he had tattooed the nazi SS symbols.
He wore a large swastika ring and had numerous tattoos on his arms and neck and hands. He was a fairly imposing figure and quite an intimidating bloke. I had a few laughs with this rooster and the rest of those milling about. But even while he laughed, his eyes reminded me of a set I last saw at the Territory Wildlife Park. They belonged to a nine foot long, very healthy King Brown Snake – even when in a relaxed, non-threatening state, they still looked inherently mean. His little mate (and travelling companion) was making fun of the guy – started telling a tale about his recent mishap with drugs and driving. Mr White Power soon took over and finished the story himself. Apparently somebody had given him some tablets – said they were speed, so the big bloke immediately downed six of them in a hit. According to him and his mate, all they did was make him wanna sh!t like a demon! The little fella had to pull up at every garage along the highway for the big bloke to run in and void his bowel. They both laughed heartily at the recollection of these scenes.
The little bloke commented, out of the other bloke’s presence, that he was a good bloke. He said ‘Well I’m part black-fella and he’s got no problems with me!’
The big bloke mentioned in passing that he hadn’t been out this was for about nine years. I didn’t ask him what had kept him away so long.
While I found the big fella pleasant enough to talk to – I was glad when they left the car park. The simple presence of such men, tend to keep you in a state of alertness. It’s like riding your pushbike through a park in springtime – you’re not sure that a magpie is gonna swoop, but you’re aware that there’s a fair to middlin’ chance he will!
Of course, I sent Mark another SMS – asking where they were now? And of course he replied, telling me they were at Dubbo – still some three hours away! Of course I didn’t believe him then either – God knows where they bloody were, you can’t believe a thing that bloke tells ya.
When they finally arrived, I didn’t recognise Mark’s car – my recollection had it a much lighter shade, so no great fuss was made in the guise of a welcome. We shook hands in the normal crushing hand-strength challenge and said hello. It was about ten minutes after he told me they were at Dubbo. Clown.
We had a couple of beers and a general catch-up and then the boys headed back to set up their camps. Crazy Dave had a fully erect and functional family tent in which he stowed all his and Mark’s gear, as well as his sleeping paraphernalia.
Mark slept in the back of his ute – under the hard-top canopy. Due to the shortness of the rear compartment, he needed to lower the tailgate and open the rear window, which left him susceptible to foul weather. To combat this, they (Crazy Dave) erected a tight-as-a-drum tarp over the top. At a glance, the handiwork was too good for Mark’s skill level and Crazy Dave is pretty adept at the camping game.
My memory is a little hazy now, but I believe we went back to the Pub and Mark was experiencing difficulty in keeping the beers down, much to his disgust (and ours too). I recall him leaving at around 9:30 declaring exhaustion from the drive etc. I tend to think that Dave and I were not too far behind – figuring an early night was probably not an altogether ridiculous idea.
The next morning found us shuffling round the tucker shed, Crazy Dave was having a smoke and a cup of coffee, whilst frustratingly attempting to solve one of those stupid Japanese number puzzles – Sodoku or Sudoko or Suduko …… I dunno what they call them, but I do know the inventor ought to be sodomised for his contribution to human relaxation.
We cooked too much brekky and wrapped the left-overs in foil, stored in my fridge until it was ready to be thrown in the garbage a few days later.
Mark tucked into his bowl of coco-pops, which looked beautiful with cold milk all over them – but checking his stash, it appeared he only had enough to last him for a few days and I suspected he’d be reluctant to share, so I had steak and snags.
We bummed around camp a bit – Dave discovered that the bag of chips he left on his chair the day before had been ripped apart and its contents scattered about. We sat around the fire for a few hours while everyone showered, refreshed and drank tea and coffee. Unfortunately, one of us displayed a blatant disregard for camp etiquette and bush living – by partaking of the ever-so dainty caramel latte, instead of billy tea! To spare the embarrassment he shall remain nameless – however, I’d like to make it clear that I hate coffee in all it’s forms and Crazy Dave is too manly to drink (or at least allow himself to be caught drinking) such a feminine concoction……
I think we went to Bourke that day and played the pokies at the RSL – where a couple of us got smashed to the tune of about six hundred bucks each. Those fools too shall remain nameless, to protect them from their own stupidity – suffice it to say however, that Crazy Dave was too clever to blow such a wad in the hard-hitting bandits. We drowned our sorrows back at the pub at Byrock, where Mark was once again struggling with a little tummy upset and unable to imbibe sufficient beverages to get a buzz on.
When we returned to camp, Mark discovered his coco-pops were scattered to the four winds – that was bad luck! We blamed a wily old crow who’d been poking about – he was the most likely contender to have ransacked Dave’s chippies the previous day too. The mongrel was working up quite a rap-sheet yet no one could claim to have actually witnessed any of the offences.
Mark crashed early again and Dave and I stayed up drinking round the fire and lounging in our comfy camp chairs. We received an unexpected visitor late in the night – Sinbin decided to stop by after her shift and nightly shower. We invited her to pull up a stump and so she did. We chatted till I could barely recognise a blurry orange blaze through what felt like Sandy Blight eyeballs and my speech was not much clearer. But having pretty company, I struggled on several hours beyond my limit and continued to drink, as did Crazy Dave. In the end I was wishing she’d head to bed, I was not convinced I could extricate myself from my chair with any dignity anymore, nor stand unassisted should I make the upright position in any case.
Eventually, at about two thirty Sinbin declared it stumps and headed for her van – I would suggest Dave and I bid each other a fine night, but I can’t be sure, I just climbed into my swag and passed out like I’d swallowed a fist-full of ‘rowies’!
In the morning I cooked up a damper in the camp oven and covered great hunks in the honey I’d brought along for that single purpose. It had been a few years and I forgot to coat the mix in dry flour before it’s placement in the camp oven – so instead of a smooth loaf, it went into the oven a sticky mass. It came out alright though and we all partook of the bounty, sloshed down with a camp mug full of hot billy tea (or caramel latte, as the case may be…).
We seemed to be scattered around a bit and all happened to be away from the kitchen shed, when I suddenly turned back to get something out of my car. I spooked the illusive Black-Bandito as he snatched a packet of potato straws, which I’d jammed between two slats in the table! The dirty crow picked them up, flew two hundred metres away shook the contents onto the ground and commenced to tuck into their greasy goodness! I was tempted to send a 48 grain .22 magnum hollow point burning up his jurtzie just for good measure but decided against it.
We were doing the camp thing thick and strong by this stage, so I decided to cook a chicken in the camp oven for lunch. The bird turned out quite a success – nice and brown skinned, tender breast and succulent thighs…. Oh, hang on – I digress, that was ‘Belle de Jour’ that I picked up at the races a few weeks later. The chicken made a beautiful lunch, though the bread was beginning to stale by now.
We went to the pub where Mark arranged with Tarni to go horse riding the next day. Tarni had a thoroughbred and Mark was to ride the big old roan Clydesdale mare. Tarni was by all reports a talented rider – Mark by all accounts is not, though I hand it to him for wanting to climb aboard such a massive beast, given his limited equine experience. I guess he figured that he’s backed enough slow horses over the years that he can recognise one at a glance and they owed him one and karma would thus ensure he’s safe return.
Tarni was bragging to one and all of her new ambition to become a gypsy! She vowed to buy a gypsy wagon and just cruise the roads behind her horse. She was quite overwhelmed by the limitless possibilities this new life may offer and couldn’t believe the idea had not dawned on her before. When questioned, she declared that she’d read tarot cards for a living.
“Oh? Do you know how to read tarot cards?”
“No – not yet”
Hmmm….
She appeared unconcerned about her trundling van sharing the highways with road-trains etc, couldn’t see where it might be a problem?
Now, don’t get me wrong – I think following your dreams is a fine undertaking but somewhere you need to face the realities of such an endeavour. At least she didn’t plan to have the cabin pulled around by a unicorn I suppose.
So if you find yourself in the near future, angrily chugging around a mountain course in your three hundred horse-power sports car, behind a lurching gypsy van – don’t forget to give Tarni a wave, or perhaps even pull over and have your future told……..
Speaking of road-trains, Pete the publican was in long-time love with the old ‘W Model’ Kenworth trucks and was fairly keen on buying one. As luck would have it, young Harrison had one in his possession that had recently been done up to original specs and was looking for a new owner. Pete would have it known that this was a match made in heaven – Gloria suggested it was a more a match made at the end of the bar, after way too many beers!
Pete was like a little kid waiting for a new toy and his missus was pointing out every reason why it was a bad idea. Including that she’d not planned on riding shotgun in a road-train during her retirement years. Pete said it would be a fun adventure, Gloria claimed it would be a hard-work pain in the arsenal!
After a few weeks of excited banter, I think Pedro was finally getting his way – I could see Gloria beginning to sway. I think her final trump card came when she agreed to the truck, as long as Harrison gave her eight Jack Russell pups in addition. (Apparently she has been a life time lover of this species and there still exists a respectable monument to their late Jack Russell out back of the pub).
Harrison agreed but laughingly claimed he’d not return to the pub after delivering all goodies – he’s not a stupid man. I guess he anticipated plenty could go wrong with a second hand truck, a bickering retired couple and a cabin full of Jack Russells!
Everyone who dropped in seemed to hear about the ‘W-Model’ Pete was looking at – he was completely sold on the idea.
In fact, one day the Mulga ran out of Fourex Gold so Pete called the Port Of Bourke hotel and asked if they had a spare keg – they confirmed they had one that he could borrow. So the three of us, Myself, Mark and Crazy Dave volunteered to drive the 80kms each way to go and pick it up.
We took the pub ute, an old Toyota Hilux. We were revving away at about a hundred K’s an hour when the UHF radio burst to life, scaring the bejesus out of us all – we didn’t even know it was there!
It was two truckies chatting about Pedro from Byrock buying this blo0dy ‘W-model Kenworth’. We listened in amusement for a while until one of the road-trains appeared on the horizon and mentioned that he could see Pete in the pub ute coming toward him. I grabbed the hand-piece and said we were just heading to Bourke to pick up a keg. The lair truckie reckoned Pete had put on a bit of weight (as he passed us) – I said ‘Yeah – and he’s grown a whole lot more handsome too’.
Both the original truckies laughed and bid us farewell.
When we got to Bourke, I sat in the car as Dave and Mark went to retrieve the keg. They lumbered out and placed it in the back and off we went again (with several takeaways for the trip home). We got back and Dave and I carried it in – Mark being upset by my perceived laziness back at Bourke.
Having finished his takeaways from the car, Mark bought himself and Dave a fresh schooner. We dumped the fresh keg in the cool room behind the bar (Fourex Gold is Pete’s chosen nectar and should never run out). I came out and ordered a beer – Pete said it’s on the house and ensured the barmaids didn’t charge me.
We sat out the back and when I finished my beer, I went to have a shout – all free – thanks Pete.
I had a tweener – Mark being slow again – another freebie, you beaut.
Mark’s shout – that’ll be $13.20 thanks Mark.
Hahaha! Mark spewed, claimed he did all the work and I got all the free stuff – he did all the driving so I guess he was right.
The days tend to become a bit of a blur in retrospect – not sure why?
Mark finally went for his horse ride with Tarni. She was looking good too – and Mark was doing well to return upright and still perched on the old draughtie’s back. He looked the goods in his black Akubra but faltered his reputation a little with a questionable dismount, due to the height of the beasts back. A man’s leg will only step so high and the stirrup remained too far from the ground for a graceful step down.
Tarni confessed to giving Mark a leg-up during the mounting process after I asked if he climbed a ladder. All in all he did well.
In a later show of poor form, we were on our way back from Bourke once more when Detective Ex-Butcher arrived at the Mulga Creek Pub. I like to make a point of putting on a warm greeting and hearty welcome when old mates turn up after a long absence. Poor old Scottie arrived to an empty house due to a couple of habitual gamblers chasing easy money (which is damned hard to come by!).
Scottie came equipped with fresh bread and a barbeque chicken, among various other condiments and spices. The boys decided to return to camp and cook up a whole mess of chicken slop for tea. This would involve stripping the chickens of meat and throwing some tomato and pasta combination – add spices and boil till you think it’s edible.
So I stayed at the pub while Scottie, Mark and Crazy Dave returned for the gourmet action.
Incidentally, Crazy Dave is by no means crazy. He is in fact a quiet and reserved married guy with a number of daughters approaching that troublesome age. The only semblance of crazy that Dave displays is following the South Sydney Rabbitohs! Other than that, he is the epitome of the respectable nice guy – I just called him Crazy Dave because I was drunk and it tickled my fancy at the time…that and the reaction he gave when I first said it.
The boys returned to the pub bragging about their lovely meal and questioned why I refused to partake. I hadn’t been hungry at the time but was beginning to feel so.
As luck would have it – and much to Mark’s disgust – the truckies were having a cut-out party for the Bourke Corn Haul, and Pete had put on a quite a spread of assorted hot goodies for the boys. Since I’d been drinking with them for the past few weeks, I was invited to join in. Fancy that – another free meal. This prompted the venomous comment from my good friend that I never pay for anything!
We were playing pool and darts and mixing with the mob and generally having a good old time.
As is often the case upon arrival, Scottie hit the turps with a little too much gusto and left a bit early looking somewhat the worse for wear. Knowing this rooster though, he’ll be back up at sunrise with a cold Fourex Gold in his tremendous mitt and a cocky smile upon his dial. Scottie is the domestic king and is always happy to lend a hand or proffer advice at any time.
Mark too is a good man around camp, though he is consistently sloppy in his ways. The idea and intent are always genuine it’s just the execution that lets him down. Simple things like cooking two steaks and half a dozen sausages all together in a mid-sized pot, stirring intermittently like he was warming up soup. He likes to dabble in the exotics like garlic and dare I say it….. caramel latte’s!
That said, he does a pretty fair job in a proper home kitchen – lasagne comes to mind, it’s as fine as you’re likely to encounter.
My own style is somewhat rough and ready – much in the Malcolm Douglas style, though I don’t insist on throwing sultanas or curry powder into to everything I cook. It’s a straight up, non fancy method and granted, often hygienically compromised but I find if you cook anything long enough, you tend to burn off most of the botulism and ptomaine particulates and hospitalisations are a rare necessity.
I woke up with a start the next day – feeling a presence, I opened my eyes to find Mark and Scottie hovering above me grinning. They’d obviously been up to something, though I wasn’t sure what?
Hours later my phone rang and I answered it only to be greeted by some indeterminable grunting on the other end. Ahh – the funny b@stards had used Scottie’s phone to record me snoring in my swag!
One mystery solved.
Like I said – it’s hard to recall exactly what happened on which day, but thinking back, I’ve worked out that Scottie must have arrived on the Thursday because I definitely recall a conversation on Friday night with Buggsy regarding the possibility of rain overnight. He was offering attractive odds that that any substantial rain would fall he declared precipitation would be minimal and given he was considered the local expert, against my better judgement, I trusted his assessment.
With my swag opened up to the elements on this humid night, I was awoken at 5:20 am with the sound and feel of rain upon my camp and face. I quickly gathered my gear and stuffed it in the back of my car.
I decided to go and check if we’d left anything important out in the rain – besides my camp chair.
I moved a couple of things under cover – but not my camp chair – that was long gone! It seemed some low dog had snuck in overnight and swiped it from our camp. I was filthy – it had been a present from my sister a few years before and I’d treasured both the item and the sentiment. I did a quick round of all the other camps while they all slept but couldn’t find hide nor hair of my beloved big-boys chair.
Scottie was awake when I got back to the shed and I told him what happened – I then declared I was gonna drive into the bush and try to catch a few more hours sleep in the front seat of my car.
This was an easier task than I imagined and I managed to sleep for several more hours.
Upon return to the shed – there she was – in all her glory, my super comfy (wringing wet) big-fella’s camp chair!
Apparently when Scottie told Mark the story of it being stolen, he lost his cool and went on a rampage, in search of it. He found it dumped up behind the pub, no one around on which to vent his anger (thankfully), for he’d have assaulted the guilty party with great venom and absolutely without compunction! Instead he carried it back home. Good job mate.
It turned out that the same yahoos had harassed Sinbin that night in her caravan – banging on the door and windows at all hours asking to be let in. The useless Pinheads ought to be whipped. The poor kid is 19 years old, in a foreign country, sleeping alone in a flimsy caravan with no help at hand and these clowns try to hammer their way in at three in the morning!
Cindy said she just stayed in bed and tried to ignore it – it must have been frigging terrifying for the poor thing. Stupid, out of control w@nkers – you find them everywhere.
The general consensus next day was that they were probably travelling through, already tanked from Bourke, pulled in to top up and found the pub shut, so turned to causing a mischief to the local unwary.
In June Pete has taken to running Ferret races – by all reports an excellent and generally successful weekend. Being quite the jack-of-all-trades, as are many country pub owners, he designed and built his own system of PVC pipes etc to create a racecourse, both fair and entertaining to all. Unfortunately I was not privy to his concept – but he keeps the ferrets as pets all year round in a purpose built trailer out back of the pub. I walked over for a peak one day, after having a working acquaintance with these…..at best, savage, stinking vicious beasts, I was quite curious.
When I neared the lair, they emerged from everywhere! They have boxes made of tin, though similar in appearance to budgerygah breeding boxes – with a small access hole, minus the lookout-perch. They came from all angles to inspect me – with the incorrect expectation that I’d come bearing gifts of food. They scurried over each other and climbed the walls before losing interest.
We used to take ferrets to catch rabbits years ago and I have a very healthy respect for their capabilities, since most of my scars have all but cleared up these days, I maintain the willingness and deftness of hand to pick up the odd escapee. I was keen to witness feeding time with twenty psycho ferrets revved up and ravenous and no apparent feed hole in the trailer’s walls. I joined Pete and Jani for this purpose.
Well they flowed over the trailer floor like a living carpet before Pete opened the rear door, whence-upon they commenced flowing straight out onto the ground! Some stayed back to eat the bickies and milk Pete had dispensed, while others used the opportunity to explore the local terra firma. Jani, sporting a huge pair of leather gloves, chased after them and picked them up with a soft and supporting touch, before returning them to their cage.
One began showing quite an interest in my unprotected toes that protruded beyond the double-pluggers and headed in that direction. Like I said – I’m not scared to handle ferrets, but my technique was a little more respectful of their capabilities and inherent savage nature – I tend to strike like a King Cobra, grasping them round the throat in a grip similar to what you’d give a venomous snake. Now, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t hurt the animal in any way, but it certainly ensures he can’t hurt me, and it possibly looks a little violent and uncomfortable so I wasn’t keen to apply it to a friend’s so called pets – so I just backed up, with great bravery, while Jani gathered up her wayward furry friend.
Scottie and Crazy Dave borrowed a couple of Pete’s yabbie traps and set them in the Rockhole – they were missing from the camp for hours, so I’m still not sure what other strife they managed to get themselves into. Anyhow, the Rockhole was filled to the brim in a vision not often witnessed in the dry outback round Bourke way, and we were hopeful of scoring a feed of the tasty little crustaceans.
The boys checked the pots a few times over a couple of days and reported a decent score, though in the end, we never quite got around to cooking them, what with one thing and another, so they were all happily returned to their watery homes to fight another day!
It must have been Friday when Lloydy came into the mix because he was with me during the weather discussion with Buggsy that night. Lloydy is a long term fan of weather phenomena and a keen study of predicting upcoming conditions. He is also a keen gambler and quite the wiz with odds – yet he was unwilling to risk his cash against Buggsy’s local judgement. Unfortunately (for me) Buggs was unfamiliar with the vagaries of La Nina thousands of miles away and the deluge said Senorita was about to dump upon the countryside.
Buggsy is one funny bloke. He had found himself a young chippie with a couple of kids who were staying with him for a few days. They appeared not to be in any great depth of love at all but pretty close nonetheless – I deduced that they suited each other’s purposes for the time being and that appeared to be most convenient and comforting to both.
At one stage Buggs turned up at the pub with about twenty six of their best mixed-grill plates – all nicely washed and ready for action. It seemed he’s accumulated a small personal stack at his residence through his habit of ordering takeaways on occasion.
Saturday was another run up to Bourke – some people were keen to get bets on, so we hit the RSL again. Bets were placed and the odd exotic on the grand final of both footy codes, such as the Norm Smith Medal as well as the Clive Churchill and first point-scorers etc. Astoundingly Mark tipped the best and fairest in the Aussie Rules and Lloydy nailed the League equivalent (arsey bastards!). Mark also backed about six other winners – I had about 3 bets for one win – something to do with ‘Rock’, simply because we were at The Rock. It paid 12 bucks or something – I had to sell the ticket to Mark, as it was through the NSW TAB and I live in QLD. So Mark ended up with about 8 winning tickets in his pocket back at Byrock pub and not enough cash to buy a beer!
We had a slap-up Chinese meal at the RSL – I opted for the Sweet n Sour pork but should have followed Scotties lead with the Singapore Noodles, they were top notch nosh judging by the way he attacked them and the high verbal praise which followed. Yep, definitely the Singapore Noodles for me next time!
A few us played the pokies and had lost a bit – not too much this time and I for one, had had enough. Then Scottie suggested we throw in ten bucks each and put into some machine I’d never seen before. Three us went in and took turns when Scottie struck gold out of the blue – who knows what this thing does? Lights flashed and bells rang and the screen directed us to look up where even more lights flashed and whirled round like the old roulette wheel and it kept paying us money and we stared and laughed and high-fived. I can’t recall what we got that time, but he struck it again and this time when the lights spun around, it stopped on fifteen to one, but we were already getting paid six to one, so now we were getting ninety to one with every winner!
We ended up taking out $370 between three of us for ten bucks in each – superb going for any poker machine – and I still don’t have a clue what was going on! Way to go Scottie.
We played darts when we got back to Byrock and while this is hardly noteworthy, like most of this drivel, a remarkable thing happened. I was up against Mark (who mistakenly fancies himself as the quite the dartman) – as is typical in our battles, I was far ahead of him on the scoreboard and dominating him markedly. On this occasion however, I threw a twelve and then – going for the triple twenty, as is my custom, I scored a single twenty – then in an identical shot, I threw the last dart and it lodged in the tail of the previous dart! A la Robin Hood – I managed to pin one dart right in the rear of the previous! Being astounded, I made all sorts of short girly noises as I tried to draw attention to my extreme skill and ability with all weapons manly and dangerous. Then we took some photos. I won the game, Mark was booted out of the comp – much like South Sydney many years previous and he too continues to whinge and make excuses to this day.
We spent a lot of time drinking and chatting and doing not much else during the rest of the day. I like to sit out the front around one of the fire drums and chat to both the locals and blow-ins alike.
Pete had recently, via Jani, come into ownership of a little red-heeler pup he named something I can’t recall now – Toby? Cody?
Irrespective of the dog’s name, Pete likes to sit him up on a bar stool, front paws stretched up and give him a drink. He claimed it was some type of alcoholic beverage the pup had taken a liking to, but it was actually straight milk. Everyone loved the little dog – especially Pete. It’s funny to see hard blokes go all soft over a baby animal. Next time I visit, the little bugger will probably rip my leg off!
I think most of us called it a night at around midnight, though Lloydy was keen and going strong. Due to the still persistent rain, I decided to sleep in my car that night. So I found my usual spot in the bush, parked and swapped my Akubra for my Jim Beam Beanie and jammed a pillow into the side of the car, shut my eyes and, much to my surprise, slept like a log!
I think they woke me up next morning at around 9 – daylight savings had snuck in overnight, so it was now about 10am.
Though the sleep was good, the body was till wrecked when I hopped out and tried to stretch everything back into place – there were too many clicks and cracks and strains to describe here but after a few weeks in the bush, you just grin and bear it. In fact, you don’t tend to even notice the little niggles etc until you get back to a more homely and comfortable environment.
It had been raining all night and everything was soaked – the bulldust had turned to mud and puddles lie everywhere.
Back at the pub for the last day, I spoke to young Harrison, whose truck was once again parked in the pub car park. He said he had awakened to several SMS messages on his phone requesting he not move his truck as half a dozen of the boys who’d slept in their swags had in fact moved their camps underneath his rig overnight as the rain continued to fall! They were sleeping there still. Had he not got the message and moved on, he could have killed a bunch of mates, no sweat.
Kelly and Erin showed up with the kids, all dressed up and ready to go – the kids went straight to the biggest puddle and splashed and played in it till they were soaked to the bone and freezing cold. A quick change of clothes and all was good. I guess it was quite a novelty for the kids to see big puddles around out that way. Though as it is January in two days time and the entire eastern side of the country has been relentlessly pummelled by La Nina’s wrath since I left Byrock three months ago, I’m guessing the novelty has worn off the rain puddles for even the most curious of outback kids.
Pete and Gloria put on a nice spread of prawns for the grand final watchers – two huge trays full, strategically placed on opposing bars, to cater for all punters. Unfortunately there was one skanky old duck that felt they all belonged to her and unashamedly plonked her ample @rse down on a stool, front and centre, elbows out and commenced to chow down on as many of the little orange suckers as she could jam down her greedy throat! She displayed little consideration for other patrons forced to lean over her back to pinch one or two for their own taste-buds. She was an absolute disgrace and ought to be ashamed of herself – but wasn’t at all, later out front when someone accused her of eating all the prawns. Unashamed low-class, no manners, selfish country scrubber – a daughter who will likely turn out the same but a husband who surprised me by being a stand-up respectable bloke.
Some fellow campers came through in the afternoon and advised us that our shelter was flooded out and everything wet – it seemed someone left the tap turned on full blast and the slow-dribble plug hole couldn’t cope, so the water had flowed all over the bulldust floor for a few hours! They had kindly cleaned up for us as much as they could but thought they’d best let us know.
I went off at the dumb, brainless young smart knobs who do such things to get a bit of cheap fun. I was ropable at the stupidity of such clowns – what a waste, what a stupid and useless thing to do, they ought to be whipped!
Turns out I was wrong again – it wasn’t the kids – any guesses who was ultimately responsible for the water-logged abomination? Yep – that f@cking black crow!
The tap was the mixer type, where you mix hot and cold in the one spout by moving the single handle left and right – however, this was not the usual type which comes on harder as you lift said handle higher from the sink, this was the reverse. The tap sits high and proud in the off position and is turned on by depressing the handle toward the sink. That damned evil crow had simply landed on the mixer handle, cranking it full on and letting the water flow to its peril, into the sink and over the edge onto the ground.
I really should have sent that feathery little mongrel to meet his maker the first day he visited his evil darkness upon us – but much like the yabbies, he too flew off to his watery home to live and fight another day.
The rest of Sunday disappears in a haze of pool tables, dart boards, schooner glasses, cigarettes, hats, boots, burning logs and even a couple of Red Bull and Vodkas to finish the night on. Once again Lloydy was really cooking when the rest of us headed back to camp. He was staying in the pub’s guest accommodation anyway and hung in at the bar drinking till the early morning hours.
I drove back intending to sleep under an alternate shelter but found half a dozen swags already rolled out there.
One more night in the front seat of the Cruiser….
I woke up to more rain, hopped out of the front seat again and stretched once more.
Knowing I was headed home shortly, I began to feel the weariness of the last few weeks of hard living – everything ached, and since I had not laid down, but been upright for three days straight, it seemed all the liquid in my body had gravitated to my feet and lower legs. They were like a couple of water balloons all puffed up and soft – it was bizarre.
We gathered in the car park at around 8am – everyone packed up and ready to head our separate ways once more. All except Lloydy who was still under the influence and unwilling to risk driving so early after a late night on the turps – good thinking Spaz.
We all shook hands and bid each other adios before hitting the road for the long drive home. Most headed south east, down the Mitchell Highway, but I needed to go due East – over about 65ks of mud road to Brewarrina, before heading further north to Queensland.
It was actually good fun but quite a challenge slithering along the mud road, I was forced to pull over one time to save a window from where my camp oven was resting and occasionally banging into it. It was a timely manoeuvre since I’d just saved the congealed chicken fat from plopping out onto my rear carpet! Like I said, hygiene is not necessarily one of my strong suits when it comes to cooking – however, the fat does prevent the oven from rusting, so it’s not all bad.
I swerved over to the right hand side of the road to give the hurry –up to a couple of emus who’d decided to stick to the road instead of the bush. I found this hilariously entertaining as they began to pin their ears back and really turn on the speed, though I backed off when I got too close, allowing them to scarper into the scrub. They have such a funny natural gait when they get going – and like Willo says ‘they can run the pants off a kangaroo….!’.
A monstrous big red buck kangaroo stood his ground, middle of the road to challenge me at one point, so I backed off and pleased with his dominance, the big fella up and hopped into the bush too, no doubt to brag to his harem.
After an hour of slippin and a slidin, I finally made the hard-top road and filled her up at Brewarrina – the car was filthy! Covered, tyre to roof in red mud – a dog to have to clean but the kind of pretty mess that makes a bushman proud.
A big ice-cold bottle of chocky milk (just like a bowl of coco-pops, only smooth!), some hot Tucky for dinner and the softest of all beds in my Goondiwindi hotel room, I lay there watching telly and getting up for the occasional p!ss as I began to rid my body of the built up toxins a three week spree tends to leave behind.
Can’t wait for next year………
