I love a sunburnt country

‘I love a sunburnt country,

A land of sweeping plains,

Of ragged mountain ranges,

Of drought and flooding rains.’

Dorothea Mackellar

Those lines, written in 1904, are so famous they border on cliché. But after completing this trip, I reckon they have a clear ring of truth to them. Simple words that do so much to describe our massive, wild country.  

I started off in the dry west, where the sun shone day in day out, the sky was always blue. In Margaret River there was a heatwave, with three or four days close to forty degrees. The forests of the whole south west are suffering for lack of rain, and it’s not forecast to get any wetter.

In three solid days I inched over the plains of the Nullarbor, so flat so empty so wide.

I saw the mountains of the Stirling Ranges in WA, the Flinders Ranges in South Aus and the Snowy Mountains in New South Wales. I’ve climbed their peaks, admired their curves, slept under their stars.

The day I drove into Victoria it rained steadily. Through Murray farming country I took back roads to avoid the road trains and caravans. The following day I arrived in Griffith NSW and it was still raining. Bitterly cold, hard little rain drops. I was hoping to find some fruit picking work, but I was disappointed. One reason, I was told, was that only eight weeks before, Griffith – as well as a big slab of the state – had been underwater. Biggest flood on record, pretty much. Sandbags in the main street, people evacuated. Towns up and down the rivers were the same. The Murrumbidgee had risen and risen and nobody knew when it would stop.

No work for me, so I drove through Wagga Wagga and into the Snowy Mountains. It was grey and misty, light rain dripped now and then. I hiked through wet forests with bird calls echoing around the empty valleys. Bell birds, crows, a lone black cockatoo.

At Yarrangobilly there’s a thermal pool. On a cold grey afternoon, with the sound of a stream riffling away behind and a misty rain falling, I floated around in twenty seven degree water that was rising from somewhere deep below the earth’s surface.

And I camped in the snow, it was hard to believe. It felt so recently that I was in that Margaret River heatwave, though that was many weeks and many kilometres earlier. There I found myself pitching the trusty stingray tent in a field patched with snow and ice.

I hit the east coast at Tathra and headed up to Bateman’s Bay. The next day there was a severe weather warning and we were battered by one hundred kilometre an hour winds, flash floods and fallen trees. The ocean became a roiling mess of flying froth and thundering waves.

Up the green south coast I went, where friendly locals told me the best spot to paddle out, a night in the lush Jamberoo valley, a hike in the cold Blue mountains, then on busy highways back to the old stamping ground, where towns and people and cars hustle busily together. I made it home.

On the trip I’d not heard the news of the world. I wasn’t much interested. My world was simple, uncomplicated, involving what I would eat that day, what I might like to do and where to go. The snippets that came my way, I felt I’d rather not know. The looming industrial development of our wild places  – The Kimberley and our very own Great  Barrier Reef under threat, and the ground beneath our feet in the eyes of the coal seam gas corporations. Who comes up with these ideas?

Australia, you’re my country and I love you.

You are an amazing land, there’s no doubt. You are powerful, colourful, and diverse and I hope to heaven we don’t ruin you.

Sunrise, Bibbulmun Track WA

Banksia Man Party, WA

Lucky Bay, WA

Shark Bait Surfing, Eyre Peninsula SA 

Flinders Ranges, SA

Snowy Mountains, NSW

South Coast NSW

.....

That’s the last of my entries describing my trip across the country. I guess I’ll now move on to writing about random things.

Thanks for reading, hope you’ll stick with it!

Steve



Way out there, who would have thought?

Lying on my back, eyes open just a crack. Headache, dry mouth, urrgh. I looked around the bedroom. What the hell, where was I? I’d spent each night for the past couple of months in my little green tent. But this was no tent - I was in a single bed in a tiny room. Make-up and moisturiser bottles lined up on the shelf. A girl’s bedroom? Swinging my feet to the floor I saw I was fully dressed except for my shoes and jacket lying at the foot of the bed. I ran my hands through my hair and stood up to look in the mirror. Why was my face painted blue?

I’d been staying at Arkaroola, at the northern tip of the Flinders Ranges for a few days. A privately owned property, run as a low-key eco tourism place, Arkaroola sits on the edge of the desert. Rugged hills lined with layers all skewif stand to attention around the landscape. The air is clear, the colours sharp. Hillsides are dotted with spinifex, grasstrees are everywhere. Kangaroos, wallaroos, emus. In the sky wedge tailed eagles circle and glide.

It’s a remote place. The journey could be said to start at Port Augusta, which is itself isolated enough. Port Augusta is the town at one of the country’s major crossroads – where the main East-West highway meets the main North-South highway. A small, dusty town where the caravan park is surrounded by a tall barbed wire fence.

From Port Augusta I drove north-east towards the dry centre of the country. Through small town Quorn, through tiny Hawker and past Wilpena Pound, the main camping area in Flinders Ranges National Park. Then I turned off the tarmac and onto the dirt road which took me the one hundred and eighty kilometres to Arkaroola at the northern end of the ranges.

I camped down the back and had been hiking the rocky paths by day and staring into the campfire by night. Flaming wood crackled, smoke drifted upwards and shooting stars arced across the sky.

On the third night I’d booked in to visit the observatory and was excited because the night sky fascinates me, though I’ve never troubled to learn much about it. I went up to the bar to have a beer to get in the mood. There’s a little bar, restaurant and motel type accommodation to cater for the guests who weren’t camping or caravanning.  I got talking to the girls behind the bar, and learned they were Veronica and Kim from Alice Springs, best friends since primary school.

‘There are three of us. Kate’s here too, but not working tonight.’

Then it was time to go. The tour was good, we saw Saturn’s rings, noted that Alpha Centauri is not one but two stars, and observed a globular cluster that was some incredible distance away. It ended at nine thirty and I was all wired up, in the mood to discuss space and aliens and life’s big questions, but all the old folk filed out and into their motel rooms and caravans.

The door to the bar was locked but I could see Veronica and Kim were still inside cleaning up. I knocked on the door and mimed ’drink’ ‘quick’ ‘?’. Veronica came and opened up for me.

Yeah, no worries she laughed.

Half way through my glass of port Kim said ‘we’re having a dance party tonight and you can come if you want.’

 ‘You might have to wear something crazy though.’

They locked up and I walked with them to Veronica’s room. The two of them dived into the wardrobe to search for something appropriate. There were African pants, red high heels, a fluffy dressing gown. A pink scarf was thrown onto the bed. ‘You can wear that Steve’ Veronica said as she ran into the bathroom to get dressed. They came out with headscarves, lurid makeup and other Veronica (another one from next door had shown up) had a sort of Pocahontas thing going on.

They grabbed some drinks and Veronica handed me a cask of wine and told me to drink it. We walked up to the room where Bobby, the Welsh chef, stays. His room was about three metres by two and he’d decorated it with signs and pictures over the walls, and space for people to draw self portraits. He was wearing a tuxedo jacket and half his face was painted blue. Kate was there with blue hair and eyebrows. She was wearing a pink onesie. Kim pounced on a silver sequin jacket that belonged to Bobby, and put it on proudly. The stereo was an iphone – there were other workers sleeping nearby so volume was a problem.

‘We need some of that blue stuff’ Kim said. ‘Want some Steve?’

‘So, Bobby...you brought your Grandma’s pink onesie all the way from Wales because...?’ I asked.

‘Because you never know’ he said.

‘And the sequin jacket?’

‘Same reason.’

These guys had been working there for a few months, doing long split shifts six days a week. They seemed to love the isolation, the feeling of not really being part of the bigger world. One of them told me that on a recent trip to Port Augusta she'd had been frustrated by all the traffic lights - but I remember only seeing two sets of lights in the whole town. 

They'd created their own little world where they spent a chunk of their salary on Tim Tams and chips from the little store, drank lots of wine any night of the week and they improvised their entertainment.

There was dancing on the bed, some fast drinking to catch up with the others who’d been at it for several hours, and about a thousand selfy photos, before someone decided we’d better go to the games room to make some more noise and not annoy all the sleeping staff. Plenty of room there for handstands and a few rounds of a game called beer-pong. When it was time to call it a night I’d become such a lurching, squint-eyed version of myself that it was decided by the council of the wise that I was in no condition to either safely drive or walk the eight hundred metres to my tent. Kim let me stay in her room while she stayed with Veronica.

The headache in the morning was bad, but I didn’t regret it because I asked myself if I’d ever I again be invited to a party of this unique flavour? I guess you never know.

    

Cactus

On the edge of the desert at the eastern end of the Nullarbor plain, where the cracked and dusty land meets the wild shark-filled sea, there’s a wooden chair overlooking the ocean. Sitting on this seat you can watch waves break off a jagged headland, along a shallow reef platform.  The lefthanders peel a distance and surfers take turns to ride their walls, the offshore wind sending spray off the back of the wave with each turn they make. This is Cactus.

The wooden chair was built in memory of a young man who was taken by a shark some years back, and its construction – with a little platform at the bottom, and a solid backrest – makes it like a mini grandstand with room for eight or nine people.

Early in the morning surfers crawl from their tents and vans in the sprawling campsite, rubbing their eyes and running hands through their hair, they stumble up the sandy path to the chair. They stop to piss into the bushes on the way, the sharp smell of all this accumulated urine lingers until the next time it rains and washes it away. Then they sit on the chair and watch the waves. Breath comes thick and steamy in the early morning chill, and the still air makes the ocean clean and glassy. Some have come prepared with a cup of hot tea that they wrap their hands around, blow into and look through the rising steam at the lefthanders breaking off the headland.

 Another surfer comes along and he says a muted good morning, then watches too.

‘Looks alright eh?’

‘Yeah. Sets are closing out a bit but the inside ones look like fun.’

‘You going out then?’

‘Reckon I might wait til the tide comes in a bit more.’

‘Time for a bit of brekky then eh.’

But before he leaves others arrive.

‘You guys been out yet?’

‘What? Nah not yet. Waiting for a bit more tide’

‘I’m gonna get out there before all the crew paddle out.’

The waves were pretty good. The bay at Cactus has three main breaks, and a few others that work in certain conditions. The one in front of the campsite is the lefthander that made the bay famous.  It's a long wave with a takeoff that wasn’t too tough and a nice wide channel to paddle into. Surprisingly friendly, for all I’d heard about the place.

The land is owned by an old surfer called Ron who runs the campsite. Every evening, in his brown overalls and wide brimmed hat covering his wiry white hair, he comes around in his rattling yellow ute to drop off the bundles of firewood and to collect the ten dollar fee from everyone staying the night. Unless it’s your seventh night, which is free.   

A lot of the surfers staying there were part way through a crossing of the country, but such was the allure of the place, the consistency of the waves and the easy way that time slipped by, that they might find themselves staying weeks longer than they had planned.

There’s a bore water supply for washing and for a quick outdoor shower, but its not fit for drinking so you need to come supplied. The little town, Penong, at the turn off from the highway will sell you what you need, at the kind of prices you might expect from a small isolated town.

Throughout the day, the wooden chair is the spot to come for some company.  As the afternoon wears on, people arrive with beers in hand and the stories and chatter fire up. With the chair full to capacity, others sit on the sand or lean against the old fence posts to join in.

Snowy demonstrated his black labrador’s party trick. When Snowy called out ‘it’s offshore!’ the dog yelped and ran frantically up and down in major distraction, then when he called out ‘it’s onshore!’ the dog immediately stopped and walked back to sit at his feet.

Jur and Ties, the easy going Dutch brothers told how they’d been in Adelaide and checked the surf forecast. It was going to be flat for a week, so they decided to drive to Uluru. At the maximum eighty kph their old landcruiser allowed, this took them three days. They got to the rock and weren’t that impressed so they took a few photos then turned around to drive straight back.

Matty seemed to lose track of who he’d already told his stories to, so we all heard his collection of tales many times over.    

It was a little off putting when you were out in the water, because you knew the mob on the seat would be watching and having a good laugh at any flailing wipeouts. Coming in from the surf, you walked up the track and past the chair where they asked you what it had been like and if it hurt when you got pitched out of the lip on that last wave.  

I stayed for a week, surfing a couple of times a day and hanging out with people living the same kind of dream as me.

Hiking The Stirling Ranges

I stayed a few days in the Stirling Ranges, just to the north of Albany. The creased and folded mountains were easy on the eye after the continuous flat flat West Australian landscape.

One evening in the campsite I got chatting with a guy called Kurt. He asked what I was doing the next day and I told him I was going to climb up Toolbrunup, the second tallest but most difficult of the peaks. He asked if he could tag along and I said sure, some company would be good. He asked what time I normally got going and I said about eight would be good. Great he said.

When I wandered over to his site around eight in the morning his table was littered with cooking gear and food containers and bags of flour and jugs of water. He was busy chopping up an orange peel.

Hey Kurt how’re you going? I said.

Good he said and you?

Good. What are you up to?

Just making a cake. And some bread.

Right, cool. Um, you still want to come hiking this morning?

Yeah man yeah. This won’t take long. I make all my own stuff you know. I’m a vegan and you know the supermarkets don’t have much. You know. Plus it’s cheaper. One whole bag of flour only costs a dollar and you can make lots of cake with that you know. And bread. This won’t take long, you know. Forty five minutes.

Two and a half hours later he called over to me at my site – Hey Tim, you ready to go?

Me? I said. Yeah I’m ready.

We started walking, and after a couple of minutes he stopped dead in the middle of the track and started waving his arms round in slow whooshing movements. I stood watching. After about thirty seconds he said oh sorry I’m into tai chi you know, it helps you know keep the energy flowing.

Righto. Can I walk in front?

He stopped like that every few minutes, so I left him to it but waited at intervals for him to catch up. Approaching the top I nearly trod on an echidna sitting right in the path. I stayed still while it unfolded itself and waddled right past me, brushing against my foot before crashing off into the scrub.

When Kurt finally made it to the top I said great view hey. Did you see the echidna?

The what? Nah mate nah.  He admired the view and took a few photos. I offered to take one of him on his camera and he said yeah just wait a sec. He got down in the yoga guru position with legs crossed and hands upturned on knees and sat on a rock ledge. I took a few photos from different angles then put the camera down.

He sat with eyes closed for ages so I walked around the summit and noticed we were being circled by one two three wedge tailed eagles. Round and round they went, riding the air currents, flying so fast and with such ease. Like they’d been doing it all their lives. They came close – within thirty metres of where I stood – the sun glistening off their dark feathers, their strong legs hanging down and their big claws so prominent. Then they’d drift high up, before swopping down to my height again.

So close they came that I worried for Kurt’s safety – he was only a little guy so I reckon if one eagle had’ve grabbed him by each ear they could have carted him off.

Two of the eagles started putting on an aerobatic display, with some sort of mid-air clashing. One rolled onto its back midflight and the other would hurtle down and collide before making off again. They did this a few times when, following some unseen cue, one of them flew off. Just made a beeline for another peak to circle.

Kurt finally surfaced and I told him all about it, but my words didn’t even register. He just grabbed his camera and looked through the photos I’d taken of him, saying I thought you might have zoomed in on me a bit more to capture the serenity you know.

Nullarbor Dreaming, Part Two

Eastward, 2012

 ‘Good day for a drive eh? Not too hot, and you’ve got a tail wind.’

The guy who checked me out of the backpackers at Esperance was the last person I talked to before setting off over the Nullarbor. My second crossing – four years after driving west I was returning to my east coast homeland. Again the car was full of everything I had, again I was moving to a new beginning. Though this time it was to a familiar territory. And this time the car stereo was working.

As I pulled out of the car park that old melancholy seasickness settled in – a familiar feeling that comes to me during times of upheaval. I made it worse for myself by putting David Gray on the stereo, and the ache of his voice singing ‘through the wind and the rain my darling, say goodbye’ and the grey sky and drops of rain on the windscreen combined with the thoughts in my head about places I was leaving behind and a love that never happened and the vague uncertainty of life, to make it a wistful journey north towards Norseman.

I filled up with fuel, ate an apple and then turning eastwards the countryside changed. The steel grey road glistened in the wet and off to the side there were eucalypts of glowing white, dark brown and rusty orange. The moist leaves shimmered in subtle shades of green, and there was bare red earth, dark grey clouds and patches of blue sky.

I was in no hurry and stopped for stretches, for snacks, to admire the view. The road was quiet – a couple of road trains but mostly campervans or four wheel drives towing caravans. People crossing the country, people on the move.

I drove the ninety mile straight listening to Midnight Oil, ‘yellow belly black snake sleeping on a red rock waiting for the stranger to go’, it’s suited to this country. At the end of the straight I pulled down a dirt track and found a spot to set up camp. There was enough wood for a fire so I got a little one going then began my maiden attempt at making damper. It was messy and there was flour everywhere and dough stuck all over my hands, but after giving it a spell in the coals I brought out a toasty, one person sized loaf of warm crusty goodness. I sipped my tea, leaned back to take in the stars and felt alright.

...

A dark cloudy morning, somewhere on the Nullarbor. Wind gusted light rain onto the windscreen. Five or six crows stood over the slain figure of a lone roo in the middle of the road. They looked like sinister men in dark suits, not uninvolved in the death of this unfortunate individual. Some sort of gangland hit. One pecked at its exposed guts while the others stood guard. ‘Aaaarg’ said one of the henchmen. As I drove closer they reluctantly flapped over to the roadside. ‘Oooorg’ said another. I had a suspicion I had just witnessed a murder of crows. 

...

I watched the gradual changes in landscape and vegetation. So many trees, more than I remembered seeing last time. At Madura Pass there’s a slight rise and as the road drops there are sweeping views to the south over a flat plain dotted with low acacias. A scarp ran to the east and the road followed the bottom of this into the distance. There was a lookout and a barefoot guy had hopped out of his van to sit on a rock and strum his guitar; another couple in a big campervan took some photos then drove away. There was a cool breeze, and I sat for a while then drove off too.

Thick clouds roamed the skies dumping brief rain showers as they passed. Puddles formed in depressions in the road, luring thirsty kangaroos into dangerous territory. An emu took tentative steps onto the road in front of me before wisely deciding to give it a miss for now.  

Entering South Australia the ocean became visible off to the right. There were tracks leading to the cliffs, vertical and powerful and I gazed over the Great Australian Bight. Less trees, more low scrub here. The afternoon wore on, I wasn’t sure of the time exactly because there had been one or maybe two time zone changes. But it was late enough to stop. I pulled onto another track to find a corner to pitch the tent and light a fire. Did I talk to anybody today? A few words to the crusty fella at the Eucla servo, that’s all.

Next morning, the third day, I drove on. My mind was everywhere. I tried to be present in the moment, to appreciate the place and time because I know it’s special to be doing this trip. But I was flicking to the past and the future. Thinking of how the metaphorical journey of life is occasionally a literal journey as well. For a lot of people on this road, and for me, we’re on a journey to somewhere. I’m beginning a new part of my life, done with Western Australia, I’m driving somewhere new.

I gently brought my attention to the feel of the sunshine streaming through the windscreen and warming my chest, these waves of energy that have flown through space from the fire in the sky just to crash into my navy blue tshirt, bringing a hum and a zing to my skin; I noticed the smell of the wood smoke in my hair and clothes from last night’s fire; I felt the vibrations of the tyres on the tarmac coming up to me through the chassis and the seat where I was perched only centimetres above the road I was hurtling past; I heard the sound of Paul Simon on the stereo singing ‘and I could say ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh and everybody would know what I was talking about’ , and for a moment there, just for a flash, I think I did know what he was talking about and I felt that truly this moment, this minute of this life is something to treasure.  

There was a sign stuck to a tree with the painted message asking WHERE WILL YOU SPEND ETERNITY? Someone else had banged in a handwritten sign below this replying 6 FEET DOWN WITH YOU.   

Further along there was a sign proclaiming JESUS DIED FOR ALL, but it was barely legible, thoroughly pocked as it was with what I assumed were bullet holes.  

The Nullarbor... the place draws the lurking demons to the surface. I guess I outran mine this time. I made it unscathed to Cactus Bay where I stayed quite still for a few days, giving them a fair chance to catch up.

Nullarbor Dreaming, Part One

Westward, 2008.

Day 8: It's been many days since my last shower, I don't remember the last time I ate apple pie with ice cream, and I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever hear Livin on a Prayer by Bon Jovi again. The hours and kilometres are all blurring together and the space-time continuum has become a gooey highway, the consistency of mashed potato. I fear that I'm losing my mind entirely. Will I ever again see civilisation, will I ever gaze longingly into my dear Esmay's eyes, and will my dream of becoming the first man to run a certain distance in a certain time ever be realised?

Turning the corner out of Port Augusta, suddenly there it was. The red earth, low scrub and shimmering road way off into the distance. Central Australia. It was exciting for thirty seconds and then the cabin fever set in. I was hearing voices - it was Sam Symmons on Triple J, and he was fading out fast. No radio, and the smug cd player was refusing to accept any of my offerings so I was left alone to take on the Nullarbor in a mute silent vacuum.

Soon I heard something...dada dada dada (Jaws music), I was being circled by something; something grey and dangerous. It was...The Grey Nomads. They were in pursuit of me, coming from all directions, racing to see Australia before they die. They hunted in pairs, first it was Rhonda and Bob, then Bill and Wendy, the sticker on the tail of their caravan like a killer’s calling card. The Grey Nomads like to wave as they pass in the other direction, perhaps mistaking me for one of them. Needing some entertainment, I thought I'd engage them in a game of one-upmanship. If they gave me a lazy one finger off the wheel wave, I gave them two fingers. If they gave me a whole hand wave, I waved both hands. If they waved two hands, I stuck my whole arm out the window to wave.  

This arms race escalated until eventually I had both hands, both feet and my head out the window every time a campervan came near, just to outdo the old guy coming the other way.

I was miserably contemplating why this game, like all good things in life, seemed destined to end with body parts splattered all over the road, as I pulled into a service station, when who should come out to fill up my tank but The Oracle!

"You're not The One, Neo" she said.

"You mean I can dodge Grey Nomads?" I replied.

"No, but here's a cookie." 

As I drove out, I understood. I had to think outside the box. I could never outmuscle the Nomads, they were too many. I had to play by my own rules. I bamboozled them with new waves - The Ridgey Didge, The Twinings and The Cockatoo (make a circle with thumb and forefinger, leaving the other fingers splayed above. Accompany this with a shriek like a cockatoo. The Nomads can't hear this, but if you wind down the window and scream as they pass, they will get the picture.)  

The trip continued this way with little distraction.

I drove the longest straight stretch of road in Australia (ninety miles, or one hundred and forty six point six kilometres.) Not a bend. Can you imagine driving over an hour while sitting still behind the wheel, not turning once? I came up with the ingenious idea of tying a piece of string around the accelerator and the steering wheel, and crawling into the back for a nap for an hour and nineteen minutes. My plan was thwarted by the fact that I had no string, and both my shoelaces were already being used for other purposes (one was tying my beard - which was growing down to my knees - into a funky plait, and the other was tied around my waist for good luck).

I watched massive wedge tailed eagles cruising the skies, or munching on dead roos on the roadside. 

And then I was set upon by pirates. Desert pirates. These pirates weren't sailing their vessel over the seven seas, bearing the Jolly Roger aloft, but were instead sailing a roadblock through the sand, bearing a red stop sign aloft. They weren't bedecked in eye-patches and wooden legs, but instead wore orange vests with QUARANTINE written on the back. They didn't demand pieces of eight or treasure maps under pain of death, but wanted fruit, vegetables, honey or used earth moving equipment.

As they boarded my vehicle, I cast a longing look at my cache of crunchy apples, juicy mandarins, and also-crunchy carrots, my healthy alternative to skog.

"Please sir, spare me one mandarin" I implored the man, "I live in constant fear of scurvy."

"We all do mate”, he said, “but rules are rules. Now give me that honey."

"Did you say give me that honey, or give me that, honey?" I asked, for clarification purposes.

"Arrgh, just give me the loot, sugar," he said, lunging for the plunder.

But I stepped aside, declaring "You'll never take me alive, Fresh Produce Pirate!" and I gave a loud whistle, a signal for the eagles to come and whisk me and the produce away to safety. The eagles, however, let me down. They may have been rescuing Frodo and Sam from Mount Doom, or maybe they were busy carcass-crunching up the road.

As the pirate grabbed me, I knew there was only one course of action left open.

"You can take our lives but you'll never take our produce!" I screamed and began eating all the fresh food I had left. During this fruit and veg frenzy, I made a shocking discovery. Apples, mandarins and carrots, when mixed with honey, create a taste sensation unlike any I know. It was fresh, original, and had that special zing I've spent my life searching for. If only I could escape back to my lab, I could genetically engineer the perfect fruit. I knew, from past experience though, that getting the little buggers to breed in captivity is the hardest part.

It's not surprising that these villains deal in such commodities. Out in the desert treasure maps and pieces of eight are a dime a dozen, but fresh fruit is rare as a fat Kenyan. They don't even sell whole apples, but just little shards that you have to take to a special dealer for verification. He sits in his office with his little eye piece in and studies bits of goo - he might say "yep, that’s pure Granny Smith" if you're lucky, or "no mate, that's just a piece of snot," if you're not.

Day 9- Esperance: I apologise for yesterday. Please don’t think less of me. I'm now on the coast, in the land of milk and honey (literally). White sanded beaches, shops, fresh food. I don’t know if the crazed look in my eye gives away the peril I’ve survived. There are still about a thousand kilometres to go, and I’m hopeful that by the time I get to Perth I may have regained enough composure to become a fitting member of society after all.