The Dead Heart
3rd February 2009
Latitude 23'42, Longitude 133'52
Start Mileage: 10876km
Finish Mileage: 13875km
Fuel reading: 7.96/100kms
Trip Notes: Roadhouse blues, rivers and the red centre
A rusty sign outside Coober Pedy reads that there are four roadhouses until Alice Springs - but only the second and fourth are open for twenty-four hours. The sign bisects the notorious Stuart Highway, the 2900km highway that runs from Adelaide to Darwin known locally as “The Track”. No speed limits. No police patrols. We were finally on the periphery of the great Simpson Desert. I felt the inexorable pull of the red centre. We quickly dismissed the idea of setting up camp for the night and drove the Skoda Octavia Scout onwards into the tawny dusk.
It was not long before the sun slipped beneath the yawning horizon, and a starry night enveloped the Scout. Moonlight bathed the flat plains and threw long shadows beneath the shrubs. We passed two vehicles in seven hours. There were three litres left in the tank when we reached the fourth roadhouse at 1.30am, but it was closed. Fuel mileage calculations are one thing, the opening patterns of a roadhouse owner are another. We rolled back the seats and dozed until sunrise spread like a red stain across the horizon. It was a blazing thirty-five degrees by the time the owner arrived in the morning. “Of course we are open 24 hours,” she clarified, “but only when we are busy.”
Alice Springs came out of nowhere. The empty landscape sprang to life with a thriving desert metropolis. Campervans trawled the streets and artists sold canvases on the sidewalk. Outside the pubs, visiting jackeroos leaned on the hoods of their mud sprayed Utes. The radio blared with news of floods, a plague of baby brown snakes and the bust of a grog running circuit in the proscribed zones. Parking signs appeared. As we opened the doors, a gust of hot wind blew a fine layer of dust across the seats of the Skoda Octavia Scout: a red centre christening. It would stay with us until Perth.
Alice is a town of contradictions. It is one of the most isolated towns in the world, but its social scene is distinctly cosmopolitan. The residents are self-consciously macho, but the mayor proudly proclaims the town as the Lesbian capital of Australia. Even the local newspaper is a curious blend of outback and urban issues: reports of cattle prices share the front page with gang violence and art reviews. It seems only natural that teacher Peter Lowson would set up a drumming school for kids who turn up to school. They play a fusion of Latin and Aboriginal rhythms, charge for shows, and keep the money in a communal bank account from which they can buy necessities. It is a simple concept that goes deep into the complexity of identity. Before the kids started drumming, he says, people from the town would look down on them and say, “They are the kids from the town camp.” Now they say, “Oh the drummers, they are fantastic.”
The kids were shy when we first arrived. They hung back behind Peter and examined us with dark curious eyes. It was only after their performance, that they paused by our car. “We love your camera,” one finally piped up. A rush of compliments flowed in. “I love his watch,” another chirped. “And his shirt.” The sound of carefree laughter rang through the air. I felt a rush of city optimism. It was humbling to see kids with so many disadvantages still giving life a chance. Peter was more frugal with his emotions. He said he was happy with the improved school attendance, but was disappointed that one girl had lost her new mattress at the camp. You take it day by day, child by child.
I left with a heavy heart. The moment we had connected with Peter and his kids, we had to leave. But perhaps the reason that we connected was that we were leaving. Travel is a paradox. It didn’t help that the onward journey was difficult. The roads north of Alice were drowned in January floods and roads disappeared frequently into rivers. On several occasions, we were forced to hit the brakes at 130km per hour and negotiate crossings two feet deep with water. There was no relief at the towns. Shops and bars were boarded up with metal doors and Orwellian signs signalled the commencement of the alcohol free zones. We were finally in the dead heart of the north, the object of our journey, but neither of us could deny a sense of foreboding at what lay ahead.
James