Poo, pads and problems with personal pollution.

Access to flushing toilets is a privilege we take for granted in Australia.  It makes it easy to gloss over the messy and smelly issue of solid human waste.  When we make our lavatorial deposits they somehow become someone else’s problem to solve.

     Lack of sanitation is a potentially deadly problem.

     According to WHO, 2.6 billion people in the world have no sanitation and untreated sewage kills 1.4 million children annually.  For many Australians these are just figures and for others it takes a budget trip to Asia, Africa or the Middle East to appreciate how easy life is in a first world country where sanitation is a given. 

     We don’t have to engage in the practice of ‘open defecation’ otherwise known as pooing in the woods, or river or sea, which carries the risk of contaminating water supplies as people track faecal matter back to the village.  There are other problems with open defecation such as snake bites when tramping through the bush and the risk of sexual assault faced by women who seek out a private place.  Worse, some cultural protocols dictate women should not to be seen relieving themselves during the day.  By holding on till night time, women face the risk of urinary tract infections.

     I assumed we’d be facing some open defecation practices on our road trip considering we were travelling the great outdoors.  Being prepared, I had toilet paper, snake bandages and a mobile phone.  But no.  Providing we could hold on for 200 km max, we only had to keep our eyes peeled for the big blue sign with an abstract white couple, man and woman (dressed as a woman, in a skirt!), united bio-waste harmony, the universal advisor for traveller’s relief.

     At Charters Towers, we followed the toilet sign to a pleasant ablution block with corrugated walls in early-settler style, most fitting for the former gold mining town that flourished in the late nineteenth century.  The flowering frangipani trees gave it a tropical touch in an otherwise dry landscape.  But there was more.

     ‘Tony!’  I called.  ‘What on earth is this Dump Ezy thing?’ I asked after studying the sign and the hose. 

      Disposal points for caravan toilet waste!

     As for menstruation, in Australia and other first world countries pads and tampons are sold in sterile wrappers encased in discreet or funky, colourful packaging, depending on the market.  Sure, it removes the mess and inconvenience of rags and sponges, but it also removes, I reckon, the reality that menstruation is a fact of life (some women argue should be revered and celebrated) and some facts of life are messy like body waste.  Why is it that our society wants to make these facts taboo or silent? 

     Perhaps as a result of this taboo, women have become too used to those benign, pale coloured units found in toilet cubicles, known as feminine product hygiene disposal units (what a mouthful).  It seems, away from sewerage systems, they are inclined to put sanitary items down compost or septic toilets.  How hard can it be to wrap the little things in toilet paper and drop in a bin, if not in the cubicle, in a bin outside?

     Notices like these were fixtures in public toilets.  This was polite.

      I sensed the frustration in the next one.

     I chuckled loudly at this one.  The tiny print reads:

If you flush your feminine products, we will be able to identify what time you left the cubicle and what time the toilet was flooded as a result your inability to follow these instructions, and we will know it was YOU.  Your picture will be displayed on the 'BAD GIRL WALL OF SHAME' and you will no longer be permitted to use this toilet without supervision.

 

     I wondered, as I scoured the cubicle for hidden cameras, if culprits might be exposed on Today Tonight or A Current Affair along with the unscrupulous money lenders and car salesmen.  

     But seriously, first world humans can be so irresponsible when it comes to our body waste because it is always someone else’s problem.

    ‘Mum,’ Kibby whispered to me one morning at Hinemoa, tugging at my shirt in a desperate though uncharacteristic manner.  ‘The toilet won’t flush.’

     He pulled me into the toilet and pointed at the offending mess.  It transpired his poo was the straw that broke the camel's back.  Yes, he had blocked Bruce and Gail’s septic toilet which had done pretty well for the first 6 days considering there were 12 people.

     I turned away.  Yuck!  What could I do? 

     ‘Tony!’  He’d be able to solve the problem. 

Some of our friends at Rainy Mountain Place today ...

Big drama at Bowen

Bless me, Father for I have sinned. Today I have taken the Lord’s name and not just once.  I have sworn at my children and Tony and God himself.  I think God may forgive me if he knew what happened and it was like this.

     Things started out slowly on Wednesday, the day we left friends, Peter and Bernie Thorsen's place in Mackay where we stayed last night.  We were heading to Mission Beach to catch up with Cathy and Glen and the Nixon tribe for the night. 

     First we nipped into Jayco to find a replacement water cap that somehow flew off somewhere between Belyando Crossing and Clermont. No luck.  Jayco happened to be located right next to a MacDonalds and I was seized by an uncharacteristic generosity.

     ‘Hey, kids, how about MacDonalds for a treat?’

     The kids looked at me as though they may be under physical attack and slowly realised I had offered them something otherwise forbidden.  They turned to their father who reiterated my offer and there were whoops of joy all round.

     Tony wasn’t sure about using the drive-thru with a camper trailer so the kids and I marched inside.  As a very infrequent patron of MacDonalds I had forgotten burgers and chips are not served until after 11 am.  If you arrive before 11, you are stuck with the breakfast menu and there's not a French fry in sight and no reason to have Maccas. 

     It’s not often my children agree with me or each other, but we all agreed to wait till we got to Bowen to buy MacDonalds.  Perhaps it was the lingering effect of the wonder of watching last night’s lunar eclipse.

     There were road works out of Mackay, much traffic en route Proserpine and for a while we were stuck behind a yacht, sailing the bitumen sea on wheels, very slow ones.

    The kids must have sensed this was our last day of travel as we needed to have the trailer back by midday on Thursday.  That or they’d had a gut full of being squashed into a small space that hurtles along a highway that has looked exactly the same since we left Cairns.

     They traded insults and whinged, especially Kibby and Seffy complaining about the wet clothes I needed to get dry.  I had hung them over head rests and handles.  Yesterday I had bundled some damp clothes in a freezer bag and eight hours later, they smelled like a bag of dirty old socks. So I did a load of washing at Bernie and Peter's and hung the clothes in the car.

     'I don't want Seffy's knickers in my face,' moaned Kibby.

     ‘Just shut up and leave the clothes,’ I hissed.

     'Don't yell, Cate,' said Tony.

     They kept asking, ‘How long till we get there?’

     Like a sign from God, the Proserpine Caltex with Red Rooster billboard whizzed by.

     ‘In 2.4 km we can stop and get some Red Rooster.’

     There were mumbles of agreement.  Except Red Rooster is frighteningly expensive.

     ‘Let’s just buy a family pack,’ said Sutchy.

     A family pack consisted of a hot chook and some chips and cost $30.95.  A burger was $11.95 and a wrap $9.95.  I was incensed by the cost of shit food.  And I was tired and hungry (forgot to eat in the rush to leave) and I needed to pee except the toilet was being cleaned.  I went to use the male toilet and there was, unsurprisingly, a male using it.

     How do people afford to buy shit food?  As if there was a second lunar eclipse in 24 hours, the kids agreed to wait till we reached Bowen.  If I am going to buy shit food, I’d like to pay a bit less for it and MacDonalds offered exactly that.

     When I returned to the toilet, there was a crowd of women and men waiting.  I had to hold on till Bowen.  And the kids were driving me crazy.  Seffy had finished her Nancy Drew before we’d arrived in Baralaba and Kibby read Diary of a Wimpy Kid yesterday.  Since they had opened their worlds to reading, it was my job as a good mother to make sure they had books to read.  I’d grab a few in Bowen.

     Somehow we got to Bowen an hour and a half later than the average driver from Mackay.  Then we got lost in Bowen.  Apparently I missed the turn off because the sign, ‘turn left at Richmond Street’ was so small we were past the Richmond Street turn off before I could read the words.  Sutchy reminded me of my navigational incompetence for the next 72 hours. 

     After a tour of Bowen’s back streets, a lovely young woman in a work wear store gave me good news - easy directions to MacDonalds - and bad news - there was no book shop in Bowen.  She smiled politely when my jaw dropped.

     ‘You can try Country Target right next to MacDonalds.’

     There was a tirade from Sutchy along the lines of ‘Fuck, Mum, I told you we should have gone left before’ and ‘Fuck, Mum the kids don’t even want books so why do we have to buy them?’ We eventually got to MacDonalds just before I strangled Sutchy.

     Peace reigned supreme once the children were feasting on cheeseburgers and fries.  I took the opportunity of sneaking into the shopping complex to buy books and food and to have a break from my family.

     Country Target did not have books.  The newsagent did not have books for children, but there were a few Mills and Boons and Dean Koontz novels.  Seffy loves mysteries, but I didn’t think she was ready for Dean Koontz.  I read one in 2005 and I am still not ready for Dean Koontz.

     Woolworths did not have books, but there were a plethora of DVDs.  I settled on a couple of notepads and a National Geographic to keep the kids occupied.  Wishful thinking I know, but Ghandi preached, Be the change you want to see in the world. 

     I bought something healthy for Tony’s lunch and because I was so frustrated that I could not buy a children’s book in Bowen I decided to throw nutritional caution to the wind and chose a can of tuna in oil, rather than brine, for myself.  I have high cholesterol and wasn’t sure if tuna in oil is tuna oil and contains cholesterol.  Today I thought, Stuff it, there’s a place for risk taking. 

     We packed the food in the car with the intention of continuing our very slow way to Mission Beach … made slower when Kibby knocked the lid off the 575 gram jar of Gail’s Just Right Brazilian Cherry jam that was on the floor with the peanut butter from yesterday.    After half an hour in the locked car at midday, the jam was now the consistency of cooking oil. The sticky mixture flooded a pillow and the floor … and everything on the floor.

It is perfectly okay to cry over spilled jam.

     And that is when I sinned … and sinned … and sinned.

     A half hour later the floor was sort of cleaned and we were on our not-so-merry way.  Then I text Cathy to let her know we may not make it to Mission Beach and I dropped a few of the details about the traffic, the fighting and the jam.

     She text back:  That’s why people have iPads for their children.

     Jesus Christ, after all the frigging children I’ve had I still don’t get it.  They need their own iPads.  And if I had one of those portable DVD players I’ve seen hooked to the headrests of wiser travelling parents (and had I not been so smug about parents using technology to subdue their children), I would have been able to buy a few of the hundred DVDs that were available in Woolies and no one would have reason to whinge during the 450 km drive to Mission Beach, ETA 7pm, even with a pair of knickers in their face.  Fuck, fuck, fuck.  That's what happens when you spend years on a small island where you don't get to do road trips and work all of this out.  
     Anyway, I had plenty of time to make a start on a few hundred Hail Marys and Our Fathers!

More art from Baralaba

At Hinemoa I mentioned to Gail I had, long ago when my kids were wee ones, been an artist.  She mentioned the art group was meeting the next day in Baralaba at the Landcare building and would I like to go?

     God, yeah!  I had brought with me a giant tin box of Derwent coloured pencils plus a sketch pad and my Huggies plastic bum-wipe-holder (from Sutchy’s babyhood) full of lead pencils, charcoal and a kneadable eraser.  I always carry the sketch pad and bum-wipe-holder in my bag, like a security blanket.  I haven’t used them for yonks, but there is something comforting about having them near as if to remind myself I have, rather had, an identity separate from my present mother/housewife/confused worker. 

     I imagine it is the same for a past musician carrying a guitar, a retired photographer a camera and a former writer a notepad.  For writing notes, plots or ideas, I use serviettes, the backs of receipts and paper scraps for I am not quite ready to call myself a writer.    

     So Gail and I, with my tools of trade, jumped in the old Subaru and headed the 35 km into town.  The crew were already there.

     I was blown away by the talent.  Framed works adorned the walls of the Landcare building.  Many were pastel, my favourite medium.

     Auda Maclean’s work was a standout and I stood, studying her strokes, the dark-light shadow and the vibrant colour for which pastel is famous.

 Auda is completing her entry in the country characters competition in May.

Gail and Val and Ray Becker

Pam Shipman working in pastel.

Elinor Wright (back), Leonie Trail and her daughter, Camille.

     Like me, Leonie hadn’t drawn for a while and started a Broome sunset in pastel.  It was gorgeous and I made a mental note - visit Broome to see a sunset.  It reminded me of the Back Beach sunsets I have painted many times.  

     I spent a bit of time yarning with local Ray Becker who was working on a painting of poppies.   Finally, my bum-wipe-holder was opened and even the coloured pencils, after a struggle with the packing tape that bound lid and box together.  And I even got time to start this, frequently cursing the coloured pencils that are not as creamy as pastels nor easy to use. 

The house at Hinemoa (I haven't mastered Clip Art hence the great white space)

     Over the next few days I knocked up this. 

Grandpa, Daisy and Womby (pencil sketch)

     I reckon I have rekindled my drawing-painting flame.  And I have made a point of not taping up my giant tin of Derwent coloured pencils, so determined to master this difficult medium.

Maths on the road

Travelling is an inherently educational experience.  And if it isn’t, there is often a pushy mother to ensure her children learn something.

     When we left Baralaba, we had only four ingredients for our lunch.  Sao-like crackers, peanut butter, tinned meat and a huge jar of Gail Goodman’s Just Right Brazilian cherry jam.  It was just right because it wasn’t too sweet like strawberry or apricot jam and it wasn’t too sour like marmalade.  It was just right.  Gail gave me the jar and I magnanimously decided to share it with the family for the purpose of our lunch time maths lesson.

     Since our trip was being kindly financed by the ANZ Banking Corporation and there were limits to the ANZ's generosity, I had to make sure we ate the food we had with us rather than buy more.  When we stopped at the Nebo roadhouse there was no chance of anyone creeping in for a bag of chips or Twisties.  Actually, I didn’t think the family dynamics could withstand another roadhouse meltdown.

     That's how we came to have four ingredients for lunch. 

From left, cracker, tinned meat, peanut butter and Just
Right Brazilian Cherry jam.

         On day ten of our road trip our lesson was maths, Permutations and Combinations.  In a nutshell, P and C is about an arrangement of things so Permutation is where order is important (a combination lock or putting on socks first, then jeans then boots) and Combination is where order is not important (chopping five ingredients for a salad or paying bills that are due tomorrow - school fees, insurance, car rego).

     

    

     'So, Tony and kids, let’s do maths.   We have crackers and three toppings, peanut butter, tinned meat and Just Right Brazilian Cherry jam.  What combinations or permutations can we make with the three toppings?'

Tinned meat and peanut butter.
'Well done, Sutchy!'

Tinned meat and Just Right Brazilian Cherry jam.
'Good work, Kibbim!'

Peanut butter and Just Right Brazilian Cherry jam.
'Give yourself a big pat on your back, Tony!'  

     'Eyes on me everyone.  Are we dealing with combinations or permuations?'

     'Hello, are we dealing with combinations or permuations?'  

     'Is anyone listening?'

Screen saviour

Screen technology has a place.  I don’t agree with parents allowing children to suck on the electronic screen nipple simply because it keeps kids occupied and quiet.  However texting is one example of convenient screen technology use.  In the days leading up to our departure Pam and I were in regular texting contact.

     Pam:  I’m bringing the crafts.

     Me:  Have a CASA approved paper plane book.

     Pam:  Can you bring a volley ball?

     I am not a sportsperson.  I first had to think, What is a volley ball?  Then, Where would I buy one? In the time I was thinking, Pam solved the problem.  My phone beeped, the screen flashed.

     Pam:  Forget that.  Found one.

     Me:  Have Scrabble and sketching stuff so will do art lessons. 

     Pam:  Bringing Articulate.

     Me:  Have ukuleles.  What else can I bring?  Need wet weather activities in case rain.

     Pam:  There won’t be rain.

     
I flagged my concerns to Alf who hired us the camper trailer.

     ‘Where’re you heading?’

     ‘Couple of hundred kms wets of Rocky.’

     ‘You’ll be right.  It won’t rain out there.’

     I asked a man at the Nogoa Caravan Park.

     ‘Where ya going?’

     ‘Couple of hundred kms west of Rocky.’

     ‘Won’t rain out there.’

     My memories of Hinemoa were dust and grass and a hundred shades of beige.  We were heading to the dry country and the desolate landscape we covered after leaving Charters Towers convinced me we were in for a hot, dry vacation.  I had no concerns about keeping the kids entertained with wholesome educational and physical activities.  And I wouldn’t have to deal with a sodden camper trailer.

     Even when news of Cyclone Ita reached us via email, I wasn’t worried about rain reaching Hinemoa.  After all, there had been unseasonal rain a fortnight earlier so we were high and dry. 

     Ashlea was house sitting for us and with help from our wonderful neighbours, Chris and Sarah, she moved the big pot plants and other heavy stuff inside. In the days before the cyclone, we sweltered in the midday heat and waited for news from Ash about the cyclone. I giggled at the photos Ash sent of the ducks frolicking in the pond that was our backyard.  We oohed and aahed at the images of the water creeping up the bricks towards the back door, satisfied the sand bags Ash sourced would save the day.

     We were having a ball.  The kids rode Womby the pony or the four-wheeler, some went hunting. At midnight Sutchy shot a rabbit with his bow, hacked off a leg, cooked it on the fire and ate (some of) it.  There were swims in Perch Creek or rather, pools of water remaining from the recent rainfall.

     Seffy and Joey taught themselves the ukeleles.  Bruce took one, two or all of the kids in the ute when he went to routinely check the pumps, but always with Arthur.  There was a lot of card playing.  Archie knocked up some deadly paper planes.  Seffy and Joey made a cake. Daisy iced those Gail pulled from the freezer. 

     And many more hours were spent playing cards and even more sitting around yarning.     

     In the wee hours of Sunday morning, when I was groggy with sleep and snug under Gail’s feather doona, a novel sound enveloped the camper trailer.  It reminded me of falling snow.  But I was too sleepy to make the connection.  

     When I woke at six to prepare for our early start to horse riding at Myella, a home-stay with a pool an hour away, I stepped through the canvas door into a puddle.

     Oh, shit. 

     The rain wasn't heavy, but constant.  Horse riding at Myella was cancelled.  Riding Womby and the four-wheeler was out.  Hunting and swimming was off the menu.  
     'There's nothing to do,' said Kibby.
     'Why can't we go horseriding?' said Joey.
     The kids needed to be occupied and suddenly my principles about meaningful screen-free activities seemed meaningless.  

     Screen technology has a place.  There was an iPad claimed by Seffy and Joey, Gail’s computer for Daisy, my computer for Kibby and the TV for Archie and then they’d all swap.  Sutchy and Ruby were off somewhere.  I needed peace.  When a child started whingeing about being bored I told them to find a spare screen or share one.

     ‘Surely you can play Minecraft on my computer,’ I said, ‘or watch iView or something.  Go.’
     And when Gail and I needed to check the RACQ for road condition reports for our impending departure given the post-Ita flooding, we simply ousted a child from one of the computers.  And made sure they were back on ASAP. 
 There was peace and quiet.    

     Then we’d go back to putting another load of wet clothes and towels in the washing machine or another load of washing in the dryer.  Twelve people make for a lot of dirty clothes. Then trouble struck.  At dusk, Tony discovered the canvas of the camper trailer was leaking in several places and the mattress and doona were wet.       There was no screen to save us.  

Some really, really old Aboriginal art

A Catholic mass is no match for Aboriginal rock art when it comes to the passage of time.

     There are a few sites around Baralaba which boast ancient rock paintings and I first visited this site back in 1988.  The art is hand prints only and I was keen for the kids to visit.  

Baralaba rock art

     I explained to Seffy and Kibby anthropologists have estimated some Aboriginal rock paintings to be 40,000 years old.  While both Kibby and Seffy know place value to hundreds of millions, it is understandable that my claims were met with puzzled expressions.  They know my pastel paintings have developed mould after a few years and sketching paper yellows with age.

     ‘We're going to see some really, really old Aboriginal art.’

     They were satisfied with that.

     When we visited Laura in 2012 we did a tour with Tom and saw some rock art.  I marvelled at the diversity of subjects; kangaroos, spirits, pig, a gun, a figure wearing a hat and a miner’s tool. After all, the region had mines, tin I recall.

Laura art. A miner's tool.

Tom, Seffy and Kibby

      Some of the Laura paintings appeared to be painted over others.  The art was sophisticated and taken together, painted a picture that spoke a thousand words. I am ignorant when it comes to Aboriginal art, but I felt the paintings were underscored by the tragedy of colonisation, of whites using the gun to take control. 

     The Baralaba hand prints, on the other hand, had a youthfulness about them as if a teenager was bored one day and experimented with leaving his or her mark.  It was only a thought, perhaps the product of a fertile imagination.

     I would have liked to have seen other rock paintings while I was in Baralaba, but time was limited.  I did wonder if other paintings included guns.  I hope to return to Baralaba and learn more about this tiny town.  When I do, the Aboriginal paintings will still be there.

Old rituals, new faces

I am a God-fearing citizen and try and get along to a service every so often, Easter being a certainty.  It just so happened that the Baralaba Easter service was held on Friday evening, April 11^th and I was in Baralaba.  The subject arose when Gail and I were in Major’s General Store chatting to proprietor, Polly who is also the facilitator of all things to do with church.

     ‘Can ya do a reading?’ asked Polly as she packed supplies for the hordes at Hinemoa.

     ‘Sure.’  How hard could a church reading be?

     The wonderful thing about religious rituals is they are just that.  Rituals.  I am pretty sure the first Christian services 2000 or so years ago were pretty similar to those of today.  There’s a priest, parishioners, a homily, breaking of bread and general worship.  And readings by the parishioners.

     Except my glasses were no match for the yellowed pages of the prayer book and the dim light of the old church.  Fellow worshipper Louie was born in 1938 and he reckons the present church building has been there as long as he can remember.  I reckon the lights were at least as old as Louie.

     ‘Polly,’ I whispered, ‘I can’t see the words on the page’

     ‘Ya can use mine.’  
     Gee, I thought, the locals are so friendly.

    There was a hymn and Father Joe emerged, fully robed, to take his place behind the altar.  He was Indian from Biloela a hundred kilometres away.

     ‘Good evening everyone,’ he said in a heavy accent.  ‘How are we tonight?’

     I’ve never known a priest to be so casual.  I immediately liked Father Joe.

     And the service was underway.  

     Now ever since I was little, when I take a pew in a church, I drift off. I cannot help it.  Perhaps as a kids I drifted off to cope with the boredom and it’s now a habit.  Perhaps it is a way to cope with being still when I am usually hyperactive.  Perhaps I am in a transcendental state.  Who knows?  It happens when the priest starts talking.

     In the Baralaba church we stood, made the sign of the cross and when we sat, I drifted off thinking, how wonderful it was that an Indian priest with a strong accent was giving an Easter service in Baralaba in central Queensland.  Earlier I’d seen a young girl of Chinese or Korean heritage playing in the door way of an old house, the doctor was Philipino and the receptionist at the hospital was African, perhaps Sudanese.  I love diversity, especially when it pops up in unexpected places.

     I was brought out from my musings with a sharp jab to my ribs.

     ‘You’re on,’ whispered Polly, extracting her glasses from between my ribs.

     I did my reading without incident, returned Polly’s glasses and resumed my musings for the remainder of the service with proceeded like every other service for the best part of 2000 years … except for the chocolate eggs, sparkling like gems in their foil wrappers, Father handed out at the end of the service.

     The post-mass yarning had me in stitches as we stood in the back of the church while I nibbled on too much kabana, cheese and pastries.

     I’ll be back in Baralaba one day, I thought and I’ll certainly come to church because there are always churches in country towns and the ritual of services never change.  But next time I'll be bringing a magnifying glass in case I get to do a reading!

The destination and the journey

Ursula le Guin said something to the effect that the destination is not as important as the journey itself.  I have always thought it sounded a bit airy-fairy, a poetic way of justifying a crappy time at the destination, but not wanting to feel the trip was worthless.  Yeah, yeah, I know she wasn’t talking literal travels.

     When we set off from Cairns on 6 April our destination, Hinemoa was absolutely the most important thing and the journey was simply the route to get us there.  There would be little chance for any family bonding experiences since we were racing the clock.

     Hinemoa is a cattle property 35 km from Baralaba where we were to meet Pam and her kids (husband Mabs had to stay and work in Brisbane).  Pam grew up on Hinemoa and her parents, Bruce and Gail still live there.  

     I vistied Hinemoa a few times at uni and remember the first visit well, 1988.  Pam headed out a week before me then I caught the Greyhound bus from Brisbane.  It sped through the night on deserted country roads.  I saw little except the odd roo bounding off in the beam of the headlights and the names of the towns, black letters on white sign posts Dalby, Chinchilla, Miles, Taroom, Theodore, Moura as they whizzed into view and then disappeared.  The arrangement was Pam and Bruce would meet the bus at Moura at 2 am.

     Except they weren’t there.  I stood with my duffel bag in the dust (it was mid-drought) on the side of the road as passengers were greeted by family and friend.  I didn’t even have a torch.  One man in a Jaguar had collected another man.  They waited until I was the only one left.  One of the men asked whether I was being picked up and I said, not at all concerned, my friend and her father would be arriving soon. 

     ‘Would you like to wait in the car with us?’

     ‘Sure, that’d be great,’ I said.  ‘It’s bloody cold out here.’

     I was warmed by the sheepskin seats and the heater and we made polite conversation until 20 minutes later when headlights appeared in the night.  Sure enough, it was Pam and Bruce and I was safe, never for a minute thinking there was a problem getting into a car with two men in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere.

     This time we arrived in Baralaba on a Tuesday at a respectable 2 pm.

     ‘Why was the place closed up during the week?’ Sutchy later asked Pam.

     ‘It wasn’t closed up,’ said Pam.  ‘Everything was open.’

     Everything was a police station, café, general store, post office, pub and hospital.       

     Baralaba is the Aboriginal word (can’t yet find information on the traditional owners) for ‘high mountain’ which is Mount Ramsay, part of the Dawson Ranges which run through Hinemoa.  The population is about 300 and the main source of employment, apart from farming is the coal mine.

     At the newsagent I got directions to a place we could fish in the river while we waited for Pam to arrive.  I asked what fish we’d be catching and I called out the names to Tony, Sutchy and Kibby waiting in the car.

     ‘You can catch saratoga, yellow belly and sleepy cod,’ I said cheerfully imagining a fish dinner.

     I was met with stony stares.

     ‘They’re shit fish,’ said Sutchy as we drove off.

     ‘Fresh water fish,’ said Tony.

     ‘Nogood fish,’ said Kibby.

     ‘Catch a few and I’ll salt and curry them.’  I was filled with holiday optimism.  ‘Bruce and Gail will love fish curry.’

     I fell in love with Baralaba, green from unseasonal rain.  We picnicked by the wide, sleepy, brown Dawson River, across from the golf course under trees dotted with corellas, their occasional screeching shattering the silence.  Kibby and Sutchy cast their lines, half-heartedly.

     Pam and Ruby, Joey, Archie and Daisy arrived an hour later and we drove to Hinemoa together.
      I lost my breath several times on the way, overwhelmed by the beauty of the dry forest and wide open spaces.

 The drive way.  Hinemoa is 11,000 acres, TI 865 acres.

The swamp where Tony, Sutchy, Kibby and Pam have spent most mornings.

     Bruce and Gail hadn’t changed.  The house hadn’t changed except for two things; there was  electricity so the giant wood stove had been replaced by microwave and convection ovens and there was a new dog Arthur, a black Kelpie cross.

     After dinner when the younger kids were in bed and the teenagers by the fire, Pam, Tony, Bruce, Gail and I sat around table on the veranda.  I realised Pam and I had reached the destination, Hinemoa, only this time we had seven kids between us (TK was studying madly in Townsville) and one husband (and another in Brisbane).  It was a Gestalt moment for me when I finally understood we'd both been on very significant journeys since 1988.

Coffee karma

I am an easy traveller.  All I need is a good night’s sleep and two cups of strong coffee each day.  Where I go and what I do is largely irrelevant.  And I am not a coffee snob.  I don’t need good coffee.  It just needs to be caffeine, strong and liquid and oral.  All things are possible with sleep and coffee.

     As we packed, I told Tony I was bringing the stovetop espresso maker and coffee and please sort out a way to heat it.

     Tony returned from Bunnings the next day.

     ‘I bought this,’ he said with a big smile holding up a portable stove.  ‘We’re cooking with gas.’

     We didn’t get to make coffee at Tully for obvious reasons, but each day is full of new possibilities.  We set out from Townsville towards Charters Towers, a quaint former gold mining town.  

     After a quick wee, far from a roadhouse, chips and Twisties, we were on the road to Belyando Crossing, 193 km away.  And I couldn’t wait for a strong coffee cooked on the brand new portable gas stove.

     This was dry, inhospitable country, fit only for snakes and emus which we saw for the first time.

     ‘Can we shoot em, Dad?’ asked Kibby.

     ‘No,’ I said.

     ‘Why not?’

     ‘They are on our coat of arms and are protected.  Another game of hang man?’

     ‘Okay.’

     Eventually we got to Belyando Crossing, a location to buy fuel, pies and sausage rolls and gum.  First thing first, I got the stove, travel mugs and the coffee, sugar and powdered milk (breaching my Lenten vow).  Then I went to the loo, choosing to pay $3.15 for a packet of Extra rather than pay the $2 to use the toilet.

     Then I returned to complete my mission.  I filled the stove top and went to start the gas.

     ‘Tony!’ I screeched not unlike the crows hanging around the picnic tables.  ‘There’s no grill.’ 

     ‘I forgot,’ he said with such innocence my anger was fuelled

     ‘How could you forget?  I asked you one thing and that was to make sure we could cook the coffee and you just don’t listen like when I asked you to check the boxes for my cards …. ‘  I knew I sounded like a coven of crows, but I couldn’t stop.  How could the man I love fail me on coffee?

     ‘Cate, it’s in the past.’

     ‘Yes and because you disregard my requests you keep doing the same thing just like …’

     ‘Oh, shut up.’

     There is no point debating with Tony.  He is always innocent.  I took the travel mugs to the shop, keen to support a local business and enquired about buying coffee.

     ‘Yes, we sell coffee,’ said a young man with a strong English accent.  I held up the travel mugs and he must have sensed my urgent need for caffeine.  ‘It’s only instant.’

     ‘It’s okay,’ I said, simmering with rage at Tony.

     Soon we were back on the road, a crow’s flight to Clermont, 166 km away. I marvelled that a road could be so straight.  

     The scrub rolled by and my rage with it. 

     ‘What’s that island over there?’ Sutchy asked inadvertently of the peak, one of the Peak Ranges.

     ‘Naghir,’ said Tony and we all laughed.

Naghir is second from the right.

      The triangle rising from the flat expanse looked like Naghir rising from a green sea.

     We were on a road trip, a happy and memorable occasion.  I had to let the coffee incident at Belyando Crossing go.  There would be coffee in Clermont.

     There was indeed coffee in Clermont, served by a sweet-faced young girl with a beaming smile.

     When I said I didn’t need good coffee, I didn’t mean I'd drink a watery brew that tasted of the polystyrene cup.

     I smiled to myself.  I’d received a well-deserved dose of karma, a reminder not to be so precious about a hot beverage. 

     Emerald was a bustling metropolis, much bigger than I’d anticipated.  We checked out the Emerald Botanical Gardens and met German Harry who was feeding the possums.  He suggested we camp outside the gardens where there were several caravans parked. 

     ‘But there are no showers,’ I said.  ‘Only toilets and we have a camper trailer.’

     ‘Use ze bucket ven it is dark.’  He pointed to a tap.  ‘Zer is plenty of vater there.’

     This proposition piqued my sense of adventure after a night in the Townsville Big 4 bells and whistles van park.  This proposition was rejected outright by Seffy. We headed to the Nogoa Caravan Park where German Harry lived.  It’s less a van park for travellers and more a permanent home for local workers which makes for a much more interesting stopover.  Travelling is about meeting people and hearing their stories and learning about this amazing country.  The Nogoa Caravan Park, a steal at $20 for an unpowered site, offered just that.

     Under a sparkling sky, we dined on steak, fried red cabbage and onion, and dehydrated peas the colour of emeralds. It was heaven.

     Who needs coffee, anyway?

On the road

Somewhere between Christmas and New Year when Pam and Ruby and Joey were visiting, the suggestion was made we meet for the Easter holidays at her parents’ place 300 km west of Rockhampton.  For about five years now, Tony and I have harboured a fantasy of travelling around Australia with the kids, fuelled by tales of excitement and family bonding told by his fishing charter clients or new friends to TI when they have come for dinner. So when Pam was with us and we were sitting around our kitchen table yarning, the idea of a road trip and get-together seemed plausible, even exciting.  And since plans made just before New Year carry great potential of achievement, the idea of a road trip took hold and gained momentum during the term.  It would be a great rehearsal for our trip around Australia.

     Here we are, all smiles, just as we collected our camper trailer from Top End Trailers in Cairns, 13 km into our road trip.

     While Tony and Sutchy transferred our belongings into the trailer, Kibby and Seffy waited in the Prado.  When I saw the vehicle swaying, I looked through the privacy glass and found Seffy bashing Kibby with her three-volume, hardcover Nancy Drew.  I wasn’t going to let children’s fights spoil my holiday.  I was just proud Seffy was reading, something she started to do a week ago.

     I texted Pam the happy photo of us next to our rig with the message.

     We are really on our way.  We have just headed south from Gordonvale for the first time in 20 years.

     When we stopped for a wee at the Mobil roadhouse at Tully for a wee and a small altercation in the chip aisle,’ I checked my phone and saw this message from Pam.

     Are you still smiling?

     Of course we were still smiling after the small altercation in the chip aisle.  Here’s why.

     When we stopped at the roadhouse we were busting and hungry.  Seffy announced as we walked to the toilets she wanted to buy some food.

     ‘We’re not buying food.’

     ‘I’m hungry.  I need something to eat.’

     ‘We are not buying food.  We have enough food and snacks for six weeks including a stove top espresso for making coffee which we will do and a billy to make tea and hot chocolate.’

     Thereafter we volleyed ‘I want to buy something’ and ‘we’re not buying anything.’

Kibbim got in on the act and by the time we’d all exited the Unisex Ambulant toilet, the only spare one, I was close to tears, desperate to preserve the good spirit of family road trips.  Tony was walking, stony faced and gazing off to the side, as if to say, ‘I don’t know this woman and children.’

     I looked at him and said, ‘Perhaps just this once’ and we entered the Mobil road house shop (except Sutchy who waited outside as if to, ‘I don’t know this family’). As good fortune had it we’d entered at  the chip aisle.  ‘Chips, they can have chips.  Look 2 for $6.50.’

     Seffy was happy.  Kibby wanted Twisties.  

     ‘No, there is too much food colouring,’ I said.

     He stamped his feet and wouldn’t move.  Tony twisted his ear and told him to get moving.  Kibby started to cry.  I grabbed a packet of Twisties and thrust it at him.

     ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he wailed.  ‘I don’t need Twisties.’

     ‘Tony, look what you’ve done. Take him outside and Seffy.  I’ll get the coffee.  Why did you have to twist his ear?  Just go.’

     I paid for our purchases and hurried outside, desperate to placate everyone and make sure they were smiling.

     After handing out the chips and Twisties, we were all smiling.  Seffy because she had her chips and Kibby because he had his Twisties.  Tony was smiling because that’s how he appears when he is gritting his teeth and clenching his jaw.  Sutchy was smiling in an ironic way saying over and over, ‘You’re all retarded.’

     And I was smiling because everyone else was smiling.  And we were just 150 km into a 2800km round road trip.