Saturday, March 7, 2009

Kimberleyland: Distant Disneyland for the Depraved

My god. Out here on 'The Last Frontier', the weather is warm, the females are scarce and the goannas are copious. Kimberleyland. The the name of the holiday park where I am now habitating. It stands alone as a distant disneyland for wilderness, an untapped field of vision where nature finds itself free and unhindered to traipse all over us.
Talking to two Germans (Germans are a staple of Northern Australia- some sick longing for return to the ancient wilds away from highly evolved society brings these Krauts in droves) living in their mosquito invaded tent for a couple of weeks made me realise we've got something special going on. There are crocodiles, freshies, less than thirty metres from their campsite. You are not going to find this kind of looming threat of natures bridal in any five-star Berlin Beerhall (Unless some unlucky lout gets a little to close the wrong pair of Leederhosen, but THIS is severly off the topic).
Of course fresh water crocs are counted as 'harmless' by the grizzled eye-patch donning locals, but there was conformation in the Kimberley Echo this week that a large and disgruntled 'Salty' is living, lurking, around the moors of Lake Kununurra. Now, this could mean kudos and farewell to these Germans for sticking it out under these circumstances. After their Bratwurst scent steams out of their pours overnight and floats into the muddy shallows enticing our happy friend to have a closer examination, their work at the Sandlewood Farm may come to an abrupt ending. Much like the woft of French perfume clogs the minds of hapless males into a toxic shock, crocodiles are driven to the stech of sleeping Germans. Thus, from my caravan, oh so high and estranged from these tent dwellers, I experience the thrill of Space Mountain as the Tea Cup Ride disintergrates into a bloodbath. No more Weiner Schnitzels for those two. In their defence though, if they were able to harness the croc and set it free into my humble campervan, there would be no more stuckpig cliches or hackneyed stereotypes from me. So quickly disneyland is descending into Lord of the Flies.

While stepping out to take on the world from the stool at whatever bar I chose to frequent (the list is limitless out here) I heard this booming rave music thumping through the bushes. I was taken aback, feeling as though I should have read somewhere that the Moorowong Gadjerong tribes were to be holding a spaced out ecstacy fuelled Western Styled corroborree tonight, and I would surely like to hide. But no, peering over the fence of the Country Club, the music was neither a traditional dance event nor a rambunctuous evening at the Sporties Club, but rather a carnival featuring full rides and colours in the middle of the football field which is set on to the backdrop of the red mountains manifesting the jagged landscape behind them. As the chair ride span at full belt, the Indigenous children had something fun to do for an evening.
I found a chair at the Sporties Club and could not fathom how they brought the equipment into town so silently, set up between Boab trees as the Kimberley moon surfaced out of the haze from the heat. I noticed a man next to me, possibly from the Torres Strait due to the low accent, also feeling the obscurity of the situation.
"How long has this been there?" I asked, a naive new tourist.
He laughed.
"I don't know man, but I can't stop looking at it!"
It definately seemed as though we'd stumbled upon some kind of fanciful decoration for the middle of nowhere. Almost similar to if Robison Crusoe tripped over a log and found himself at the gates of the roller disco.

I was warned before stepping on my town bar exploration tour, there were a couple of infamous places to steer clear of. I am still looking for them. One bar not reeking so much of infamy but rather the odour of one dollar pizza slices and (ugh) children, is the Kununurra Country Club. I have been informed this is the Yuppies Paradise. Needless to say with my D & G belt buckle I sauntered my way in comfortably and sat to indulge as the sun sank weary over the red hills and the lights of the carnival in the field were glowing. Modern neon under the timeless serated lanscape.

Monday, March 2, 2009

A ballast would be handy...

It's a sad state of everything when the bearded gut-toting outback bush nazi is looking more upbeat than yourself. With his kakee linen draped over his body, comparably to the days of wearing lizard skins, his miserly eyes stare over my decrepit body like a chainsaw. I am visibly melting in this Darwin heat, my eyes are pertruding out of my head now, I get looks from old folks who are surprised to see a fish so indignent that it can march around outside of the water and even use the payphone- probably alerting Neptune the Jap subs are gone now, and Darwin is free once more. Swamp fish, good for nothing. Blisters on my fingers and bubbles coarsing my throat prevent me from dialling any numbers, so i decide simply to maintain soundless dialogue using foot taps against the glass until one of the unhappy looking Indigenous people decides to throw me a grin. A grin, a wince, a grimace, I'll take what I can get out here, all i really need is some kind of sign to varify my being.

Okay, the complaints are lodged, and for no good reason, as out here on the Northern Frontier, life is as it should be. Tropical Winds are beginning to stir up a frenzy. The roads heading towards my destination are blocked by floodwaters just out of Katherine, causing disturbance and ill-feeling towards taking the trip in whatever bombed out wrecks the backpackers around this town are pawning off. Only a 4WD would be suitable for the break-neck conditions. I saw a cheap mammoth of a troupie for $4000, which I am lead to believe is somewhat of a bargain, although the interior looked much like it had been used previously to cart large bleeding boar carcasses around to clan meets. Needless to say, this was right in the vain of what was needed. Unfortunatley I don't think I have been out here long enough to retain the kind of savagery necessary for disembowling pigs with kakee warlords out on a dusty section of the Stuart Highway...yet. Two weeks in Kununurra and I'll be hog-tying with the best of them. Maybe not the best, but around the mid-level. Enough to make them squeal, just like little German tourists, haw haw haw, hear that Frauline?

My poor ditched wagon would be feeling the strain, in fact it would probably disintergrate and leave my feet strumming against the ground at a hundred ks and hour, hands still clutching the wheel as I begin to feel the humming of infinity spinning around my eardrums. The Flinstones had muscular thighs to maintain the kind of speed they ran those cars at. My legs would shave down to the stubs. Yabba Dabba Do.

Next stop Kununurra.