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Yousbinmudlarkin. |
A STORY OF A TRIP
May 2003
John Freeman
I looked over to where
the Face was indicating. On the driveway were two large
muddy out lines of what looked like the clay models from
which the original 2Cv's were designed. I responded to
the Face by giving him the benefit of my complete
knowledge of the vehicles' technical details. "Thems cars
come from Paris" the Face added. This almost eclipsed my
technical detail offering! "A lot of them came through
here a few years ago. They were on a Crocodile Dundee
trip". This I assumed was the Tracbar Dundee event which
involved some fifty or more Tractions doing the same trip
as us from Perth to Brisbane. The word crocodile
conjured up the thoughts Chris, Shayne and I joked about
as we swam in the hot and welcomingly cleansing waters of
the artesian bore during our first day on the Strzelecki
Track. This was the area I had long wanted to visit. The
preceding day had us passing through Port Augusta
followed by the always scenic Flinders Ranges. Although
we passed through the Ranges just after sun down and
missed our planned sunset photo opportunity, the winding
road gave us a great time to test the steering limit
stops of the front end until we made camp amongst some
abandoned farm house ruins. Shaking from side to
side the Face tried to dislodge some persistent flies
which were trying to take advantage of the only landing
area available, being a small replica of the Olga's, in
an area where I guessed a nose might exist. Flies!! All the flies
in Australia were at Lyndhurst waiting for our arrival.
Well all, except the two still at the Olga's! After our camp in the
ruins, the night when my tent erection helpers managed to
pass the fibre glass poles into slots and tabs producing
a structure I could not recognise as my faithful fifteen
year old abode, we set off to travel the rest of the
Flinders and on to Lyndhurst, the start of the Strzelecki
Track. As I said, every fly was waiting for us, and it
was soon evident the salesman selling those non macho,
complete head covering fly nets, was certain to make
three sales! The drive shafts were
once again greased. We then walked over to the road
information sign, the three of us clad from head to
shoulder in our impenetrable fly screen
armour. "Road closed.... Merty
Merty to Moomba"! Well that explained why all the trucks
were parked in Lyndhurst. The drivers sitting amongst the
flies and all with their mandatory fly nets, informed us
that two trucks had previously departed but were bogged
even before Merty Merty. There was enough adrenaline in
this statement to immediately launch our convoy into
spirited action. We had our swim at the artesian bore,
passed the two heavily laden trucks, slowly churning up a
hill and slipped slopped and slapped our way to Merty
Merty. The news from the
homestead there, which we visited that afternoon, was not
too good. "All roads north of Merty Merty are closed." We
were destined to set up camp on top of a large red sand
hill and ponder our future. By next midday, bush camp
madness had set in. The small bush pigeons, who had
lulled us to sleep the night before, and assisted by the
mystical reappearance of the Port bottle, now looked like
circling vultures. We had all carved our initials on the
Dig Tree and had given up trying to better Shayne's
record re the termination of forty two flies in one blow.
Roads in this area are
maintained and controlled by the oil and gas companies,
and just as we could see the whites of the vultures'
eyes, a road patrol inspector stopped at our camp with
news that all roads were now open. The vulture alert was
down graded to pigeon status and we were on our way
again, later to cross the Strzelecki River, pass the
impressive Moomba gas and oil fields and by late
afternoon arrive at a town called Innamincka. Now as I recall
Innamincka had a Pub. It also had a kind bar man who
produced a bottle of rum, including a dead ant in the
bottom, which meant it was unfit for sale, but not unfit
for drinking as one of our team proved. There was also a
pool table, a wall filled with over sized hats for sale
and a quickly gathering number of locals, who had come to
see me play! One such local, who had dispatched his
concerned boundary rider home with out him, became my
coach at the pool table. This did not help me or him by
the time he was finally on his way back to the homestead.
The person who won bought one of those big hats. I would
have bought one also but there was not enough room inside
the car that night!! Travelling out of
Innaminicka, later that evening, our plan was to camp as
soon as possible and enjoy the ambience of the occasion.
We were aided by a full moon and our spirits were high.
The only things in our way included at least fifty river
or water hole crossings and a plague of mosquitoes whose
objective was to suck out any remaining blood the flies
had missed during the day. I had long given up trying to
avoid getting my shoes, legs, arms and face wet that
night even though I was only sitting inside the car!! We
finally made camp and a lot of life time memories that
night. The Face moved his
weight from one foot to the other. I think he was going
to add some more information about yousbinmudlarkin.
Glancing down at his track pants, as you normally would
at a time like this, I noticed he was wearing thongs.
"Not unusual" I hear you say. Well in fact they were both
of left foot origin. The more I looked, the less it
seemed to matter. However being
conscious of the movement of weight was evidently
important to Shayne, as I was informed during one of our
coffee filled meetings prior to leaving Perth. "We are
allowed 900 kgs." he informed me. "Not bad I thought. I
take only a little more than that in my Pajero". "That's
between us " he added. "Well" I thought "Even 450 kgs
isn't too bad. Maybe I could leave the TV. home". As I
continued to listen to the preparation details I realised
my outback-survival kit was rapidly being eroded. "And,"
continued Shayne, "That 900 kgs is total weight which
includes the car." I had no chance
against the vultures ! Playing pool is not an
unusual activity for me but winning is and I was not to
savour any glory until we were on our return journey. The
hat was becoming larger day by day. Our last over night
stay, prior to reaching Maleny, was at the Dalby Caravan
Park. We would arrive at Maleny, as planned, by Friday
afternoon in time for registration. " The journey is more
important than the destination" is a true saying, and in
this adventure the destination of Maleny and the Citin
truly complimented our journey and exceeded our
expectations. The local hills were a joy to drive around
and the Citin well planned. All too soon the event was
over, our tents packed up and we were on our way
home. One more treat was in
store for us. An invitation to see a private Citroen
collection at Gayndah comprising about 26 cars including
two D and one Traction convertible. This was a great
highlight which mellowed into an evening meal with a long
alcoholic after glow. This also gave me a chance to catch
up with an old mate of mine from my time in New Guinea. I
always invite him along as he is a good talker and always
comes with a carton of beer. I let him talk whilst I
drink his beer. It's a system that has worked well for
the last 35 years. Methodically we
started heading west, picking out only the towns
possessing a pool table and by the time we had used up
all the bitumen in Queensland the hat was
tightening. By this time the Face
had finished filling his brand new Toyota 4WD. and nodded
over to the clay sculptures." They use much fuel?"
Obviously my prediction of a mud question was inaccurate.
"Not much" I said, "About 50 mpg". I thought I could see
a squint from the area where the eyes would be located.
"Why is the grey one called Putt Putt ?" he queried. The
answer had been worked out prior to this, as on each
refuel the grey one took one litre more than the red car.
"Therefore you have to Put Put more fuel in" I explained.
I think the Face nodded up and down in agreement with the
explanation as the beard was tugging at the singlet neck.
The extra fuel consumption may well have been due to
someone placing four Kgs. of railway spikes in the boot,
at one of our coffee stops along the way to Quilpie, a
town situated at the end of the Queensland bitumen!
The gravel road,
called The Birdsville Development Highway, took us to the
northern end of the Birdsville Track and with a left turn
we were on our way to Birdsville. Now you may remember I
mentioned an ant flavoured rum connoisseur, seen briefly
at Innaminicka some days earlier and travelling with his
faithful 14 year old companion Sally, a Blue Heeler. Well
this man exhibited wizard status in negotiating the night
time water hazards out of Innaminicka and our radioed
instructions of how to get through were usually cut short
by his reply that he was already through. We noticed
Sally had one ear folded over and we assumed this was in
response to the extra loud opera music being played by
her owner which came through to us during each radio
contact. I guess our Country and Rock was being
transmitted to all in range making normal conversation
impossible in the cars. After a week in the bush normal
conversation was impossible even out of the cars as
humour was infused into all our efforts to
communicate. Sally chose to drive
with her companion but chose to eat with us as we had
salami and cheese, which was much better than that
available elsewhere. The rivers encountered
on this trip namely The Strzelecki, Cooper and Diamantina
were quite impressive with the Cooper being host to some
Pelicans even this far inland. The flow was peaceful at
this time but the gouged and terraced banks indicated
times of much greater activity. Birdsville pub was a
historic moment for me and the night in the bar was a
celebration for many reasons. A Scottish piper had been
flown in from Brisbane for the following day's ANZAC
service and I would not let him leave until he played
"Have another drink with Duncan". I had to stand in the
middle of the bar and sing some of the tune, as he
claimed he did not know the song. His rendition was much
better than mine much to the appreciation of the
crowd. The man sitting next
to me in the little car and wearing a big hat had
installed many gadgets in his car. A small thing about
the size of a match box played music for about 8 hours
from a card the size of a mint leaf and another device
contacted outer space to inform us where we were in the
world and how far we were from his garage back in Perth.
I reflected on the time, some days before, when Mr.
Gadget had thumbed through all the keys on the face of
the outer space device and informed me "I have entered
all the co ordinates and have confirmed we are in Dalby".
This information was wasted on me because at the time we
were parked under a large sign saying "Thank you for
staying at Dalby Caravan Park". Mr. Gadget's dexterity in
adjusting all these devices whilst negotiating outback
Australia truly amazed me and it was not until we were
nearly driving into Birdsville that he made his first
mistake. Funnily enough, it was when he was a passenger,
with both hands free, he dropped the music chip into his
forever strong coffee. It was two days after
leaving Birdsville and passing through Marree, the start
of the Oodnadatta Track, before Cat Stevens could sing
"Morning Has Broken" all the way through with out going
to sleep. Before turning south off the Oodnadatta Track
and heading for Roxby Downs and Woomera we caught several
glimpses of Lake Eyre South. This area Is the final
resting place for all the waters we had forded in the
previous days and the water holes, which were specially
selected for Salami Sal to swim in, an activity she
admitted to me that was far better than watching TV. at
home. Woomera provided access to the bitumised Stuart
Highway and after a short drive north we turned south
west onto a gravel short cut to Wirrulla, a small country
centre with a small pub having an enormous atmosphere, as
it was Saturday night, and the football was on the large
screen. There was only just enough room to slide a couple
of pool cues through the writhing throng of the patient
locals. Alas, even after an impressive recovery, the Hat
was beyond my reach. I had run out of pubs!! The Face climbed into
his immaculate vehicle. I could not miss noticing the
walnut dash, the leather seats, the air conditioning and
the six speaker surround stereo system. After the two
left thongs had vanished over the horizon I re-entered my
clay capsule, this time sitting on my pillow to increase
the distance between Australia and my
skeleton. Sally's co driver, not
to be out done by Mr. Gadget's music box, had previously
purchased a far more technically advanced version called,
if I am correct, an i-Pod. I hope it would be more water
proof than our item, which was soon to be tested at a
road work site near Hyden, in W.A. a few days later. We
had to slow down for a road watering truck which was
dumping voluminous quantities of water to help compact
the new road works. It seemed logical, at the time, to
drive along side the truck and enjoy a free car wash. Not
so. The front air vent was wide open and welcomed the
entire tanker's contents onto our gadget rack. Mr.
Gadget's dexterity was again challenged and within a
millisecond, which included many gyrations of a large hat
rim and several slaps to remove my too slow knees from
the target area, all the fizzing and crackling noises had
ceased. This included Rod Stewart who had refused to
continue singing " I Am Sailing" as he had damn near
drowned!! My shoes and socks were again saturated along
with my pillow. This did not worry me much as prior to
this soaking we had made our last camp at the all too
familiar Caiguna water tanks and my next sleep would be
at home. We wearily said our
farewells on arrival back in Perth and iPod Man, Sally
Salami and Mr. Gadget became Chris, Sally and Shayne once
more. I went inside and looked in the mirror. The Face
could have well been mine except for all the hair. I
shaved and became just the Editor again and the brand new
4WD. reverted into my faithful old Pajero. There were many
stories to tell, none so funny as when the driver of a 90
tonne over width truck introduced himself to i-Pod Man
near Wirrulla or when the 4 kgs. of railway spikes were
finally discovered during one of our overnight camps and
their subsequent relocation in a radius of 50
meters. I went to my shed
where all my Traction and B12 parts were jumping up and
down. "We missed you", they all said. I relaxed and sat
reflectively down on my milk crate.
The voice came
from behind the petrol browser, a place these little cars
seldom visited during our adventure to attend the 2003
Citin held at Maleny, in the magnificent hills inland
from the Glass House Mountains just north of Brisbane.
I did not know
if this was a statement or a question until the voice
became a face emerging from the shadows. It was an
outback Australian face, the one we were to see in
various forms during our two weeks on the Birdsville and
Strzelecki Tracks. This particular one, however, was
difficult to visualise as the large volume of hair on top
of the head had become infused with what should have been
eye brows which had decided they would rather be a beard.
The beard also refused to give in until it had vanished
into the neck of what was once a singlet.