We recommend Internet Explorer set to 1024x768.

© 2002 Brian F. Schreurs
Even we have a disclaimer.

Hughenden to Tennant Creek

July 30, 2001

   210 miles       depart Hughenden
   357 miles       refuel in Julia Creek
   497 miles       refuel in Mt. Isa
   606 miles       refuel in Camooweal
   729 miles       exhaust pipe falls off
   750 miles       welded exhaust & refuel 
                    in Barkly Homestead
   867 miles       overnight in Tennant Creek

Five minutes later, I go looking for something else to do.

Hughenden is small, very small, with even less around it. The only other people awake at this hour are the truckies. There is not really anything to do except look around. So I explore the smaller details of Australian life: the payphones, the post office, signs, and so on, examining the small ways that a different society answers the same day-to-day problems faced in my own.

The REAL Queensland -- good luck finding this on a postcard. Motto: "Flat, scrubby, and, er, lots of cows, mate!"

Traffic is light at this hour but what little there is consists of trucks. Almost every vehicle is a truck. And most of the trucks are Utes, a clever Australian invention that should have taken over the world by now. These are about the same size as a small American pickup truck, but built to a much more efficient formula where the cab is relatively comfortable but everything behind the seat is all business. These things are often compared to the Chevy El Camino but that is not really accurate, as the Ute is much more useful than an Elky ever could be. The ones passing through Hughenden this morning are mostly Toyotas and Isuzus, with Holdens and Fords also in fair numbers. Almost all of them are outfitted with big roo bars, an engine snorkel, and white paint.

By the time Jason wakes up, Shane and I had been sitting on the porch for so long that we were practically exchanging recipes. We head out of Hughenden around 9:20, after a farewell from the pub owner's wife, who thinks we are on a wonderful if somewhat daft adventure. She also points out that the Jaguar sounds as though it has an exhaust leak. Shane dismisses her concerns.

As we approach Richmond, I note a billboard advertising Pokies Bar & Grill.

"Hmmm," I ponder out loud, "I wonder if that's the same Pokies we stayed at last night?"

"What?" asks Shane.

"You know, the bar we were at last night, it said 'Pokies' on the door outside. I was just wondering whether it's the same people that own this bar and grill in Richmond."

"'Pokies' is video poker you fucking dill!!" Shane explains.

Around 500 miles into our trip, we stopped in Mount Isa. This town is home to a massive mining operation. The mines and related facilities can be easily seen from almost anywhere in the town. It is an area rich with heritage and history, none of which we stopped to examine. We were after an internet cafe.

These internet cafes are sprinkled throughout the remoter parts of Australia. These things are a great invention for the international traveller, and it seems they are quite a boon for native travellers as well, considering their popularity. The idea is simple: someone opens a storefront with the usual convenience-store goods in it, but in addition they add a room with a half-dozen computers or so, each with a net connection and the basic communication software (web browsers, telnet, etc.). For a very reasonable fee, travellers can check their e-mail or get news from back home. It seems to work very well, and is quite inexpensive. It is a great way to stay in touch with home when there is a 15-hour time difference. You could even use it as a substitute for owning your own computer, provided you used a web-based e-mail host and didn't subscribe to mailing lists (which would make the checking of e-mail a time-consuming process).

The roads surrounding Mount Isa are really quite good.

However, the roads between Mount Isa and Camooweal seem to be specifically designed to weed out the weak-willed and the reckless.

With a road train in front of us, we truly have no idea what's in store for us.

The road train and a Victorian tourist negotiate for road rights. We hang back -- way back -- and wait for our chance to loot the loser.

The highway west of Mount Isa is a snapshot in time to the way things were throughout Australia long ago. Why this snapshot is still in use as the main highway to the Northern Territory -- the American equivalent would be the interstate system -- is impossible to fathom. This major thoroughfare, posted speed limit 110 kph (approximately 68 mph), is a three-car-wide dirt road with a one-car-wide ribbon of asphalt going straight down the middle. Of course, everyone wants to be on the pavement so they've got local car traffic, vacationing Victorians in their Commodores pulling camper trailers, the infernal and inescapable Britz rental travel vans, and of course road trains all vying for the same bit of pavement, and often heading straight at each other.

In point of fact, two normal-sized cars can barely squeeze past each other on the asphalt, if the drivers are willing to risk their mirrors to do it. Anything bigger than that, though, is not possible. Locals and experienced travellers easily fall into the courteous pattern: both vehicles slow down, and touch the outside wheels into the dirt during passing, then resume travel on the paved road. However, trailer-pulling Victorians seem to think they have right-of-way, often demanding that other vehicles completely clear the road. I can imagine that many a road train driver is sorely tempted to not yield, come what may.

But, the truckies are usually courteous too, and will dip a row of wheels into the dirt like anybody else. You'd be foolish to make 'em do it, though: each time a vehicle hits the dirt, the two vehicles are engaging in a game of catch. The fellow in the dirt is the pitcher, pitching rocks at high speed; the fellow on the pavement is the catcher, catching the rocks with his windshield. Shane rightly points out that it is better to be the pitcher than the catcher. The consequence of being the catcher is evident everywhere, as any town large enough for the humans to outnumber the chickens has a fully-equipped and well-stocked windshield replacement service. Some of them even make roadside calls.

All of this would be a bloodbath in most of the United States, but actually seems to work reasonably well most of the time here. It can get interesting, though, around something called a "crest". Hills are few in this part of the country, but not entirely absent, and a crest is what happens when the highway crosses a particularly steep one, making it impossible to see any vehicles on the other side. Like a road train, for example.

"Bloody hell," says I.

"Fucking hell," says Jason.

Shane sends the XJ6 into the dirt at 60 mph. Much to my surprise, the Jaguar handles this dramatic transition smoothly and without complaint; the road train rumbles by, close but still with air between us. We survive.

At around 6:00 pm, as the sun is setting, I am driving when part of the exhaust system falls off of the car. Since I had hit a dead kangaroo a few miles previously, Shane hangs this on me, despite evidence that the exhaust had been failing all along. Jason and Shane puzzle out how to keep the exhaust from dragging for the next 150 kilometers. I find that I am in the way so I leave it to them. They find some wire in the boot and tie the exhaust off to one of the engine bay struts. The car is loud but not dragging, so we carry on to the next sign of civilization, Barkly Homestead.

The residents of Barkly Homestead do not outnumber the chickens, so there is precious little available as far as repair facilities. The only mechanic in town has closed up for the night. We are still behind schedule, so we resign ourselves to dinner and another two hours of going deaf from the droning AJ6 engine.

While we are eating, I ponder the marvelous exchange rate that affords me such buying power. To an American, the entire continent is one giant half-off sale. And soon I realize, I might be able to help out after all.

I find the bartender and ask him if he knows who the mechanic is. He looks at me funny but acknowledges that yes, he knows the fellow. I ask if he would tell me where I could find him. It turns out he is playing pool not ten feet behind me. His name is Rick.

Roadside assistance? Best not make plans around it. Shane and Jason ponder how to keep the exhaust attached to the car.

I approach Rick, who is short, lean, and too weathered for his age.

"Hi Rick, I'm Brian, from the United States. I'm here with a couple of mates, and we're driving to Darwin in an old Jaguar. But the exhaust fell off."

He looks at me with some skepticism. "Yea, I heard you pull up."

"You got a welder?"

"Yea, but I'm closed for tonight."

"Well, I was hoping fifty bucks would convince you to open up your garage and fix it."

Rick lights up and assures me that his game will be over shortly, and that he will be glad to help. Soon enough Rick and Shane are under the car trying to sort out how best to fix it. Seems there's been a chunk taken out of it so simply welding it back up is not in the cards. He does the best he can; it's still loud, but not like it was, and it's no longer in any danger of falling off again. Rick suggests we see a mechanic named Shane in Tennant Creek for a more permanent fix. Since that is where we are headed anyway, we thank him and carry on.

At 8:30 pm, 867 miles into our trip, we arrive in Tennant Creek and find a bed to crawl into. It has been a long and still somewhat jet-lagged day.