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Part 4. The dingo pack and life outback.

AUSTRALIA | Tuesday, 26 May 2009 | Views [2372]

The smokey blue valley slinks away into the darkness of night.

The smokey blue valley slinks away into the darkness of night.

Soon after it was time to eat before the 4am dry heaves started 12 hours too early. We stopped at the Halls Creek roadhouse where everyone's name could have been Bates, Bundy or Manson for all I knew. Spratty took affront to Mr. Roadhouse's service skills when his obvious beef sausage was angrily confirmed as being his ordered cheese sausage. I was condemned as a hostile alien when I asked if the spring rolls were vegetarian. The look of fear and contempt on his face was almost as scary as his blue denim shorts atop his lily white pegs. “Haven't got a clue” was his informative and stereotype defining retort that was one accusatory glare short of emotional violence. I risked a spring roll, thinking my sense of identity was better served by not looking at this mullet headed psycho along the barrel of a shot gun. The previous roadhouse sold me a pastie chocabloc with meaty goodness. One bite was enough for me to question whether a 'pastie' is vegetarian by definition and any animal extras automatically label it a 'meat pastie'. So be it. I had been hoping for a potato free day because my colon had put together a petition for cement to be removed from my diet if I wanted to stay regular, or even occasional. I had to have something else greasy on the side of my suspicious spring rolls so I ordered my sixth serve of chips for the trip.

The local pub happened to be owned by the same megalith corporation that owned Matso's. That meant free beer on tap, cheap beer to take away as fuel for the nights shenanigans, and the umpteenth opportunity for a piss stop. The manager was an affable bloke sufficiently versed in the local lore to offer us some interesting insights. Local tribes entertained themselves in Halls Creek by gathering in large numbers and going old school with the power bonding to bash the smarts out of each other. This happens at least once a month, being quiet times apparently.

My first late night outing in Broome had welcomed me to unrestrained violence when six aboriginal women threw the rule book out and spat in the face of open and constructive dialogue. Most of the dialogue was between knuckle and teeth and it was impossible to ignore the pugilistic banter when it went down in front of the door sensor. While not actually spilling into the service station that held four wide eyed and incredulous out-of-towners, the open doors broadcast the event as they stayed peeled back like movie screen curtains.

It's mainly girl on girl in the outback. Not as arousing as it sounds when you witness how they go about it. It's guy on girl often too, but the guy never seems to fare that well. Outside the hyperbole of our contracted legal process, bush justice is administered swiftly, and often brutally. But then its business as usual. Manager Zac reckons the full bloods are great people, but the half casts are more racist than the 'white c*@^s' they decry. Like homophobes who secretly crave cock, striking out violently against the parts of themselves they hate most.

That was enough real life for my stoned and fragile hippy soul so it was back into a 4WD too soft itself to handle high speed river crossings. Before long Spratty called his third piss stop in 20 minutes, earning himself the brief title of 'Pissy McPlenty' from Trev, and Jimmy returned to earth long enough to pull the car over. We stopped along an empty 300km stretch of road where the only sign of human presence was the bitumen the Prado fuel guzzingly chewed up. I stepped out to piss and a DVD was laying face down right in front of me. I looked both ways for drive by pranksters. None. We hadn't passed another car in over half an hour so that wasn't surprising. I picked it up and realised it was porn. Merlina holding a whip and looking invitingly virus riddled in XXX rated glory. I didn't know if the other guys were religious or not but when God gives me such an obvious sign that I should watch porn, I listen. The night was set. I suggested this to the other guys and Trev one-upped my one liner by stating he'll only join in if its the one Jesus made called 'The Second Coming'.

An hour later the craving for porn had reached fever pitch. Conversations on the topic were followed by long silent periods of introspection that only fueled the palpable tension in the car. Discreet grundle adjustments had become less discreet and vaguer in intent so we stopped at a sufficiently awe inspiring escarpment top. Peering out over the valley below only revealed my short comings as a writer as I've quickly run out of superlatives for awesomeness. I breathed it in, gave thanks to Gaia for her spectacular diversity and exhaled my gratitude for being part of it all.

Seats were out and the sun set in a porn significance reducing style that reminded me I could never bore of such beauty. Trev whipped up a meal using the cheapest available ingredients and a baked bean and 2 minute noodle curry became an instant classic. Another round of trouble while sublime and very plot driven porn overlooked proceedings and laughter was the night's most common sound.

A one-fourteenth past full moon bathed the haunting lands in ethereal soft smoky blues. Like having enhanced Terminator vision, the rocky countryside stretched out sharply in defined boogey man concealing shadows. Fatigue more that fear forced an early night that could have well been 3am given we had no clocks. I woke to a roaming dingo pack baying longingly at the moon and checking open tents for babies. Thanks to Jimmy big heartedly giving my tent a 1 metre buffer to his piss spot, the area smelled like a lions den and kept canine curiosity in check.

Burnt orange clouds made for an interesting alarm and we all rose with the sun. We woke up soon after the tent had gone down and I've started to lose track of all my rude innuendo's.  No flat tyres and no lost wallets so we had some brunch bongs and hit the road, carefully so as to not puncture our feeble tyres. The morning blurred like the rest of the trips traveling time distinguished only by complaints about the increasing monotony of sensational scenery.

Roadhouse stop number 12. Some tattooed freak served us more potato goodness. His ink sleeve signified the limited extent of his intelligence, so I compared relative ink per square inch of skin and decided he had me beat. He'd seen us all before and concluded we must have been rock stars. Close, but he'd actually been into Matso's the week before. Celebrity status disappeared and we were charged with the full force of outback profiteering.

Outside a pack of dogs quickly descended upon us like groupies. I was ditching the egg from my salad sandwich and canine skeletons gobbled them up like they were sustained only by a steady diet of human violence. Trev petitioned Karma to have Lady Luck over for dinner and won a surprising degree of peer respect in the process. Seeing the dogs emaciated state, he added a priceless Good Samaritan purchase of two tins of dog food to our budget. They were hoovered up while breath was only drawn to snarl at greedy fellow diners. Like rock stars doing a charity gig, we felt we had given something back to a part of the country that had given so much to us.

Our last stop was at a monster Boab tree. We decided against diamond mining right then and settled on a last photo of us hugging in a power bonding, totally non-gay way. The moment was deep and emotional but wasn't complete until I accidentally poured half my beer down Trev's shirt. He accidentally found my laughing apology to be insincere but it no longer mattered. We had all done enough to secure life long friendships. Within five minutes we would be topping our last beers for the trip and secreting the evidence for the next four days at least.

We came through with a severely compromised liver, a persistent groupie in Lady Luck, a name for our new clique; the dingo pack, and a mascot in Jimmy's Japanese midget lover. No secret handshake but. My rapidly diminishing brain capacity couldn't afford to do road trips every weekend, but having an amazing experience like that once in 33 years is still good enough for me. I'm not here to live like I want to grow old anyway. It's a tempting possibility but I like going to bed each night knowing I have squeezed enough out of life to justify another day breathing the next generations air. No regrets means more rewards. And what a reward the weekend was! Rewarding me for what I have no idea, but I'll take it knowing the other three members of the dingo pack are in complete accord with me.

Tags: drugs, misadventures, on the road

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