I study the brown termite mounds in the passing fields, delighted by the entertainment in the otherwise dull, barren landscape. Some of the statues take the form of small wallabies standing stiffly like deer in headlights; others resemble primitive sculptures of men hunting with spears. We pass one enormous formation the size of a cow, then they dwindle out. I turn my attention to a lone hawk circling the sky above us. It swoops down to investigate a dead kangaroo deposited by the side of the road, a casualty of late-night truck drivers. The smell of decaying flesh has become familiar, but my stomach still clenches in disgust as the sickly-sweet scent enters my nostrils and chokes my throat. A sharp wind through the car windows mercifully clears the smell, as well as chasing out the flies that otherwise nag us incessantly. A small sign zips past on the left, announcing the arrival of a station called “Soudan.” Soon after a bigger sign proclaims in loud red letters “Sorry no fuel.” A dirt track appears, leading to a dusty building and a fenced-in patty containing no apparent animals. In fact, the whole station seems devoid of life. I glance at the map: eighty-five kilometers to the next station. Until then, nothing but bushes and road kill will mark the passing distance. The landscape disintegrates again to flat plains of red dirt and dry yellow grass.
“Cows!” Excitement flares as we pass the rare sign of life. Even rarer is the water hole around which they gather. A few of them turn their heads lazily to gaze at us. A long road train passes us heading the other way and the air currents nearly push us off the narrow road. The driver is hauling four huge tanks of petrol bearing the “Shell” logo. So much energy spent to carry petrol out to the middle of nowhere, so we can fill up and drive it back towards civilization. But such is the cost of traveling. The fields around us are becoming distinctively greener, and small bushes with bright yellow flowers indicate the presence of water underground. A tiny green road marker says “QLD 60” – sixty kilometers to the border of Queensland. We pull over at a deserted rest stop to stretch our legs.
- – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - -
Finally we reached the border. The first town in the state, Camoorweel, came soon after and we pulled into the petrol station for supplies. Hot, stiff, and bored after the long drive, I jumped out of the car and ran into the store in search of an ice-cold can of Coke. A bottle wouldn’t do; I craved the cold crisp feel of aluminum. I searched the refrigerator, but no luck. Disappointed, I settled for a ginger beer and joined the queue at the cash register. Two people ahead of me tapped their feet impatiently as the woman standing at the front slurred out questions about the takeaway food. The cashier, a young girl with a German accent, struggled to understand and answer her, but eventually jotted down an order. The customer, drunk or high, slowly and clumsily counted out coins, then changed her mind and asked for a pack of cigarettes. Frustrated, I decided I didn’t want a drink and slammed the door on my way out. I walked over to the signposted “Museum and Information Centre” next door, hoping for some advice about attractions in the area. It appeared closed, though the rusted sign on the door stated business hours from nine to four. I peered into the barred window. Spiderwebs adorned the wooden walls and camoflauged a stack of rotting furniture in the corner. I sighed and wandered to the next bulding. It looked about the same. I returned to the car, now re-fueled, and announced “What a shithole. The station’s full of drunks and everything else is closed down.” My friend agreed, “Yeah I get a bad vibe from this place. Let’s go.”
We drove out of town and followed a sign to Camoorweel Caves National Park, not knowing what was there but hoping for something interesting. A dirt road took us through more dry, sparse fields and terminated in an unmarked parking roundabout. The road went no further but there was no sign of a cave, or even a hill or cliff in which you might find one. The only landmark was a narrow dirt walking path that led through a flat, unremarkable field decorated with the ubiquitous yellow grass.
After following it for a few hundred meters, we stumbled on a pile of square-ish rocks and suddenly the ground opened beneath us. We had come to a huge underground cave, made of stones that had the sharp, violent texture of volcanic formations. Standing at the edge of the hole, the dark gaping mouth of the cave far below beckoned us to come and explore. We scrambled around the rocks in excitement, but in the end the steep walls proved impassable. We stood back and admired our discovery, took a few pictures, then returned to the parking lot and prepared to leave. Turning the key in the ignition, we chattered about where to go next, but fell silent as we realised the car wouldn’t start.
The key clicked again and again, producing only a soft electrical whirring sound. We looked under the hood, but had no idea what we were looking at. Frustrated fists beat against metal in a futile gesture. We debated walking the twenty-three kilometers back to town, but with the hot midday sun beating down on our backs, the shimmering, shifting road sloping away into the distance looked uninviting. “Of all the places we could break down, of course it has to be in the middle of fucking nowhere in this shitty little town!”
We assessed the food and water and argued whether it was better for one person to start walking immediately or to stay the night and walk together in the cool of the early morning. Suddenly a phone was triumphantly thrust into the air: “I’ve got signal! Emergency only – what’s the emergency number?” After some trepidation, we connected through to the local police station, who sent out a car to pick us up. Giddy relief was tempered by a sense of dissappointment at the anticlimactic ease with which we had escaped our first disaster. We sat down at the shaded picnic table, playing cards and discussing what to say if the police officer asked about the car’s long-expired registration.
The sound of tires on dirt woke us from a heat-induced daze. We rushed to gather our things and greeted the officer somewhat nervously. He was friendly and unsuspicious, accepting our thin cover story about the registration. As he drove us back in a comfortable, air-conditioned four wheel drive, we chatted amicably and discovered that he was half-Dutch, like my travel mates. He spoke with the easy openness of small-town inhabitants, telling us about his family and the area around us. Finally, he decided he would take us sight-seeing.
We made a short detour through a cattle field and came to a beautiful lagoon. The near side of the water hole was dotted with caravans, and smiling “grey nomads” – retired travellers – waving as they set up their camps for the night. “This is the best spot in the area for camping,” the officer informed us. We drove on to rejoin the main road, and he honked and waved at a passing tow truck. “That’s Frank. He’s going out to an accident up the road, but he should be back in an hour to get your car. Just wait here,” he instructed as he dropped us off at the petrol station.
The station that had seemed so uninviting before was now cool, quiet and calming. We sat inside, had some food, and played cards again to pass the time. Eventually the tow truck returned and took one of us back to get the car. After about half an hour he returned, smiling triumphantly, and told us the tow driver would take us out to the lagoon to sleep for the night, then pick us up again in the morning. We piled into the front of the truck and drove back out to the lagoon. Feeling a bit ridiculous as our dysfunctional car was lowered off the tow truck, we waved at the neighbouring campers, then thanked Frank profusely for his kindness. He promised to return first thing in the morning to tow our car back to town and get it fixed.
The lagoon was beautiful. In the middle of the dry, desolate fields that dominated the landscape, the meandering water hole created an oasis of green trees and life. Hundreds of bird species gathered in the lake, flew overhead, sat in the trees or walked by the shore. Wallabies approached shyly to quench their thirst. White and blue water lilies floated on the still surface. The reflection of the moon sparkled in the water as the sun’s light faded away, leaving a quiet peace hanging over us. Stirred by the unexpected calm and beauty after days of hot, dead land, I felt that this was the most beautiful place I had seen in Australia. I thanked the fates for getting us stuck in this town that we hated at first, but which held secret treasures that only needed time to uncover. “Isn’t it funny that the only town we didn’t like and wanted to rush through, is where we broke down, and now that we’ve been here for a while we all love it?”
