Life and death on the Fleurieu
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4 January 2009
Latitude 35'15, Longitude 138'27
Start Mileage: 2368km
Finish Mileage: 3811km
Distance travelled: 1443km
Fuel reading: 6.0L/100km
Trip Notes: Sturt Highway, killed kangaroo, lost camera
It was sunrise on Saturday when we hit the kangaroo. Planks of golden light had burst onto the flat horizon, but the star spangled night was still in our heads. Images of moonlit roads and darkened towns were adrift in my mind. We had crossed the border into South Australia. In the light of day, the landscape was zonal. One part yellow crop, two parts blue sky, a line of gun metal grey. Wheat belt abstracts. ‘So empty, so empty,’ the assistant was mumbling over and over again. ‘Down by the River’ was blasting through the Skoda Octavia’s cabin. Our iPod was on random and Neil Young was having his way with us, taking us back to times long forgotten.
The kangaroo was probably grazing in the grey roadside scrub, and startled by the car breaking through the silence. Out of nowhere, the Octavia was king-hit by an almighty thump. A sickening flash of brown fur appeared. Blood splattered the windscreen. The car lurched sideways. A plea formed silently on my lips. The Skoda made one more gut wrenching twist and we drifted to a halt with an angry hiss. We sat wide eyed and silent for seconds. And the scream of a cockatoo rang out as Neil finally shot his baby down.
The kangaroo had pulled right underneath the car so we called Skoda Assist and waited by the roadside. The towie soon pulled up in a white dented truck. He was dressed in stubbies, thongs and a faded blue singlet vest. ‘Maaate,’ he drawled as we drove into the nearest town. ‘Youse are lucky mate. I just came from a crash that wrapped the car around a tree.’ ‘Jeez,’ I muttered. ‘Are they ok?’ ‘Nuh,’ the towie responded grimly. He scratched his hairy belly with grease blackened fingernails. An uncomfortable silence followed and we kept our eyes on the road. He eventually stole a sideways glance at my face and clapped me on the knee. ‘Only joking mate!’ he roared with laughter. ‘Just wanted to keep you city kids on your tippy-toes.’ The assistant looked mortified, but I managed a short jovial laugh. We were so relieved to arrive in town that I offered to buy him a beer, but he refused. ‘Strictly an expresso and wine man myself,’ he said genially, and then jumped in his truck and drove away.
With the car sporting a new radiator and grille, we set out for the next leg of the journey. The outback roads rapidly gave way to river lands. Neat towns, boutique farms and interesting architecture marked the way. Things didn’t seem rural. Although I admit that I don’t really know what rural means anymore. Fleurieu Peninsula felt like another country. Leafy vines rushed down rolling hills. The sea glinted in the distance. My mind ran through comparisons with Provence and Tuscany, but its likeness was betrayed by spotted gums, merino sheep, and the howl of a kookaburra. This is Australia. ‘It has to be here,’ shrugged the organiser of the Fleurieu Biennale, Australia’s richest landscape painting competition. Regional art is not a novel concept to her. Landscape art belongs in landscapes. Truth, beauty and a steady supply of Shiraz.
By sunset, the only thing standing between us and the red wine was a little footage. We carefully selected a stunning coastal cliff looking back towards the vineyards. The light was crystal clear. The air was dead calm. The camera sucked in this vision of perfect harmony. I smiled happily at the assistant. He smiled happily back. And out of nowhere, a freak gust of wind blew our camera off the cliff. It drifted tantalisingly in front of us for a second and then plummeted into the deep blue whirl pools of the Southern Ocean.
And that was just day one.
James