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.