The Lajamanu Teenage band

I wake up and roll over to check the time. It’s 2am. Disorientated by sleep, I listen to the noises outside and try to remember where I am.

I can hear the howl of camp dogs in the distance and the sound of rubbish blowing in the desert wind against the fence outside. I hear conversation in an unfamiliar tongue, yelling, and a car being driven off into the dark.

I’m in Lajamanu.

Lajamanu is a large Aboriginal community located somewhere in the middle of nowhere. It’s place you’re unlikely to visit unless you have a damn good reason. It’s a place you’d find on a map and wonder who in hell would live in such a remote and isolated spot. 800 people call this home way out here in the heart of the Northern Territory.

There’s a solitary store selling everything from fruit and vegetables to hamburgers, curried chicken, bicycles, kids jumpers and diesel. There’s a school, two policemen and an overworked health centre coping with the needs of 800 residents. There are no doctors, just nurses having to deal with any affliction that happens to walk in through the door (or is wheeled in from the Toyota Landcruiser ambulance) – runny noses, chesty coughs, ear infections, medications, lice infestation, psychiatric illness, suicide attempts, road trauma, broken limbs, cuts needing stitches and even just someone in need of some social company and a cup of tea.

It’s a town where the nearest doctor is a flight and another world away. 24 hours a day the nurses are expected to triage their patient and make the tough calls - either patch them up and send them on their way home, or fight with some faceless voice on the other end of a phone line to have them airlifted out just to receive the very basic medical treatment that anyone in this country has a right to expect. The people working out here are absolutely incredible.

Just yesterday there was a public outcry over some Vietnam Vet discovered living in lice infested conditions in Queensland. How could this happen? Why hasn’t someone stepped in to help this man? How could our country let this celebrated war hero down? Then I recall stories from the Lajamanu nurses of Aboriginal kids walking through their clinic doors day after day after day with chronic lice infestation and I feel shame that a crisis on this scale is not newsworthy enough for our ‘illustrious’ media outlets. Shame on us.

But tonight as I lay here in my bed, I’m not thinking about all of that. There’s a sound rising out from the community that grabs my attention. It’s the sound of band practice wafting through the night sky and waking me from my dreams.

It’s the sound of the Lajamanu Teenage Band.

It’s not easy to be a member of the Lajamanu Teenage Band. Certain characteristics are a must if you want to succeed in this dedicated outfit:
* You must be able to attend band practise (hours are anything from 2pm to 3am daily).
* You must be able to sing the same song at least 20 times per practise session.
* Singers must be able to sing out of tune (essential).
* Being a teenager is optional.

For the past 3 nights my dreams have been interrupted by this 2am cacophony. I’ve listened to tone-deaf singers belting out tunes that would make any Japanese karaoke bar proud. I’ve listened to a heaving mass of instruments rumbling away in unison. I’ve listened to voices ringing out in a language that I don’t understand.

But tonight is different. I lie quietly in the dark and listen intently. What am I really hearing at this small hour of the morning? Is it just a group of clumsy community kids strumming away amateurishly on their instruments, or is it something more?

Could it be the sound of hopes and dreams? Is it the sound of something transcending the physical boundaries of the community? Is it a hope of living past the age of 60 and defying the life expectancy of most Australian indigenous persons? Is it a wish to cease this cycle of cultural breakdown and social stigma?

Maybe.

Or maybe it’s just as simple as a group of kids indulging their love of music. One can only wonder. But tonight, lying here in my bed, there’s just the sound of beauty and rhythm and soul and passion.

There’s just the sound of the Lajamanu Teenage Band.

Tales from the Territory

THIS WAS IT!

I’d been eagerly anticipating this day since our adventure began and after thousands of kilometres, I was finally about to realise a dream. This was my rite of passage, the quintessential journey I was destined to take from the day I was born. It was time for my pilgrimage to the holy lands of the red centre.

I'm talking of course about Uluru. It's about as Australian as it gets; it’s like meat pies and sauce, AFL, lamingtons, Boxing Day tests and the Dole. Driving to Uluru is the Aussie equivalent of a pilgrimage to Mecca. Your whole life you see pictures of The Rock, read tales of mystery and intrigue about its origins and dream that one day you, too, will get to stand in its awesome presence.

And you know what? It’s even better than you can imagine!

When you see it you can’t quite believe you are there. It’s just so huge. One minute it’s not there and then wow, there it is in all its glory and you wonder how you could’ve missed it. You rub your eyes, blink a few times, turn your head away and glance back just to make sure you aren’t dreaming, but no, it’s still there and it’s still magnificent!

When you’re right up next to it, it completely dwarfs and overwhelms you and you feel a reverence for it that is inexplicable. I LOVED IT!

But the Red Centre is not just about The Rock. It’s about stunning gorges and waterholes, isolated palm valleys, dingoes and wild camels and emus, ancient Aboriginal culture and gorgeous red ranges stretching as far as the eye can see. It truly is a spectacular part of the world.

Rather than taking the standard tourist route, the Big Red Truck took us through the Red Centre Kris Flanagan style (of course!). Now, a 200km shortcut that takes 5 hours longer to complete than the mainstream alternative will give you some idea of the kind of track I’m talking about.

When the signs all say “Extreme 4WD’ing”, “Must be driven in a convoy”, and “High likelihood of getting bogged”, then I’m kind of inclined to listen to them. But for Kris the word ‘extreme’ is an invisible force immediately pulling him in the direction of high adventure.

After some animated discussion about the pros and cons of tackling the track (pros argued by Kris the adventurer; cons argued by Sarah the voice of reason), we set off. And once again as has happened so many times on this trip, we were rewarded with stunning isolated scenery with not another soul in sight for the entire day. As for the 4WD’ing, I have to admit that it was great, but as with all great things, there’s only so much one person can take…

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HOW TO RECOGNISE WHEN YOUR PARTNER HAS HAD ENOUGH:

Have you been dreaming of a testosterone-fuelled 4WD mega adventure? Do gravity-defying tracks and croc-filled creek crossings make you salivate with excitement? Do bone jarring corrugations and sand dune Saharas get your pulse racing?

Well here’s a word of advice for all you adventure enthusiasts out there…

This may be the 4WD adventure you’ve been dreaming of since you got your first Tonka truck, but for your partner stuck in the ergonomically challenged passenger seat, driving thousands of kilometres on corrugated outback tracks is akin to being stuck inside a paint shaker at Bunnings for 8 hours, but worse…at least Bunnings has air conditioning.

Throw into the melting pot a billion flies, mercury-breaking temperatures, lack of sleep and whiplash as the car is suddenly and unexpectedly brought to a screeching halt by the driver to take a picture of a rock or a tree, and you have a powder keg just itching to ignite.

[So far we’ve managed to keep the match away from the fuse but there’s still 2 months left to go…watch this space!]

You might start noticing that the animated, deep and meaningful conversation you were having 2 hours ago has regressed to one word, short, sharp responses. It might look a little something like this:

“Are you OK?” – “Yes”
(No)

“Are you sure?” – “I’m fine”
(Even the astronauts on the international space station can see that I’m cranky)

“What’s wrong?” – “Nothing”
(I’m really cranky that you don’t know why I’m cranky)

“Is it something I did?” – “No”
(Obviously yes. Why can’t we be like normal people and drive on normal roads for a change? This is not a Sega Car Rally championship you know.)

At this point it might be a good idea to stop the car, have a cool drink, placate your partner with words of encouragement (“You really are the best babe”) and, here’s a novel idea, try driving on bitumen for at least 10kms. You’re partner will start talking to you again (it might take awhile) and your car will love you for it!

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No journey to the Northern Territory is complete without a visit to the Top End. Darwin, Kakadu, Litchfield, Katherine Gorge, it’s all there waiting for you with dazzling, glossy-brochure promise and adventure.

With what can only be described as ‘immaculate’ timing we managed to reach the Top End just in time for the tail end of the wet season. Somewhere between Alice and Darwin, you cross an invisible line that delineates hot-and-dry from hot-and-wet, and when you step over that line you instantly feel the change.

For those of you that have never experienced a true wet season, imagine yourself sitting in a sauna with 3 thousand mosquitoes and no way out. Then imagine someone throwing a swimming pool of water on you. Then imagine climbing back into the sauna to do it all again.

Those are the images that come to mind when I think back to those first few days in the Top End. But what stands out for me are the ever present CROCS…

Everywhere you turn, warning signs indicate your imminent death-by-croc should you get within breathing distance of a drop of water. It’s safe to say that after my 45th warning sign I was so paranoid I was half expecting to find crocs perched at 50m intervals along the side of the road waiting to pounce on unsuspecting tourists. (Thankfully there were no roadside croc ambushes for us.)

We did, however, manage to get up close and personal with a few wild crocs on a boat cruise and trust me when I say that these things are prehistoric killing machines! Lying there in the dark waters of a billabong they look like hard, cold statues but their steely eyes betray a hint of the terror that can be unleashed with the flick of a tail and a chomp of their mighty jaws.

As we cruised the beautiful waters of Kakadu, we came across a fisherman in a tiny aluminium boat. A number of times we watched this man reach elbow-deep into the croc-infested waters to collect his fish. Maybe it was the tour operator mumbling, “You’d never see me doing that here”, or maybe it was the huge croc lying patiently in wait 40m away, but I couldn’t help wonder how long it would be until the fisherman, himself, ended up as catch of the day on the specials board at the local croc bistro.

Unfortunately for us our time in the Top End was marred by wet season road closures, feral animal culls and the presence of rogue saltwater crocs in most of the main tourist hotspots, effectively shutting down most of the national parks and preventing us from appreciating fully what this marvellous place has to offer.

On the upside, we did manage a few refreshing dips in some beautiful croc-free waterfalls, saw some incredibly ancient Aboriginal rock art, and watched a spectacular sunset from atop a rock ledge in Kakadu.

As we continue ever onwards with our journey, the diversity and enormity of this country continues to amaze and overwhelm us every day. To be here and to see these iconic Australian places firsthand is truly a privilege and a blessing.

EVERYONE SHOULD DO THIS!!

In the next edition of Where’s the Big Red Truck: the Lajamanu Teenage Band

Big Sky Country

The Big Red Truck lost all power and rolled to a standstill on the track, stubbornly refusing to budge. It was another remorselessly hot day in the outback and Kris and I were both feeling frustrated and tired at this sudden breakdown. I looked at the harsh barren desert surrounding us and was reminded of a sign I’d seen earlier that day. It read something like this:

Looking at the sunburnt barren plains around me I thought, ‘Yeah, this IS pretty remote isn’t it’, but somehow the stark beauty of the desert was lost on me that day. I guess I was a bit preoccupied with Kris’ words from moments before. They went something like this:

‘Something bad has happened this time Sar. This is bad’.

Trust me when I say that when you are broken down on a track in the middle of no where with no sign of help for many miles, and your number one mechanic says something bad has happened, the words WARNING and REMOTE take on a whole new meaning.

While Kris got busy saving us from becoming tomorrow’s news headline (‘Tourists buzzed to death by flies in desert – world first!’), it gave me some time to reflect on our travels of the past few weeks.

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As sweat dripped down my arms and legs, it was hard to imagine that only two weeks before we had been standing amid snow capped mountains wondering if we’d ever be warm again. Now here we were in 40-degree heat, melting away faster than the Liberal party at a Kevin ’07 election and trying to imagine a day when we’d ever be cool, clean and fly-free again.

Since we last left you the BRT has continued on its epic journey, winding along ocean roads, crossing drought-scorched plains and conquering some classic outback tracks.

We started out along an iconic piece of Australian real estate, the Great Ocean Road, eventually arriving at the Twelve Apostles (or is that the eight and a half Apostles?) crumbling majestically into the ocean. We settled in for a perfect sunset with 2000 of our travelling companions; Kris firing off a quick 300 photos while I sipped away merrily on a glass of cheap cask red (only the very best for us) and watched the sun sink into the ocean.

Over the next three days, Kris woke at 4am and made his way back to the Apostles like a moth to the flame, standing sentinel with his camera and tripod trying to capture an elusive full moon setting over the stacks. As Kris will testify, I’m not exactly renowned for my early morning starts so we were both as equally surprised when I, too, found myself standing there beside him at 4am a few mornings later. Even through bleary eyes it was an eerily beautiful sight, made all the more magical as we watched the fairy penguins come to life on the beach far below us and make their way back into the wild Southern Ocean for another day.

(I have to admit there might actually be something good about these early morning rises but don’t tell Kris I said that; I’d like to sleep in for just a little while longer thanks.)

Saying goodbye to the ocean, we crossed into South Australia and slowly make our way north. As the days wore on the vegetation became more sparse, the roads became longer and straighter and human habitation was reduced to lonely signposts on the side of the road indicating an unseen cattle station miles away along a rough dirt track. It’s out here that you start to really appreciate just what an enormous country we live in.

This is big sky country. It’s a land of incredibly massive skies making you feel like you’re about to be swallowed up by blue; where in every direction you look there’s a vast barren plain stretching all the way to the horizon; a place where you could sit on your veranda and watch your dog run away for 3 days without fear of losing sight of it.

In describing outback South Australia you regularly find yourself using the terms classic, biggest, longest, oldest and best. We’ve seen so much and covered so much ground that rather than torture you with long tedious stories, we’ve put together a little list of highlights (don’t worry, there’ll be no escaping the long tedious stories when we get home). Our more memorable moments have included:

* Driving through the longest man-made structure on earth, the dingo fence. We discovered it keeps out more than just dingos when we found an entire kangaroo paw still tangled up in the wire after what was obviously a fierce struggle, the skeletal remains of the rest of the animal scattered around far and wide. It's a harsh, unforgiving environment out here.

* Passing the largest cattle station in the world - Anna Creek Station.

* Discovering the best invention in the world - the fly net (out here if the heat doesn’t kill you, the flies definitely will).

* Driving one of the most famous outback tracks in Australia - the Oodnadatta track.

* Passing over the world’s largest and deepest underwater reservoir, the Great Artesian Basin and swimming in 2 million year old water bubbling up out of the earth at Coward Springs.

* Driving around the ghostly expanse of Lake Eyre, filling with water for the first time in almost 10 years.

* Walking out on the salt-encrusted surface of Lake Frome, so white and devoid of life that NASA actually use the lake to set the white-balance on their cameras from space!

* Finding a piece of adventurer Steve Fossett’s ill-fated balloon on the wall of a pub in Lyndhurst, a two horse town on the edge of the Strezleki track and probably one of the last places you’d ever expect to see such memorabilia.

* Sarah waking up with the biggest hangover she’s had in 3 years after a lively night drinking cheap wine with the publicans at Marree hotel (not recommended when you plan to drive 300km on a corrugated dirt road in 40 degrees with no air conditioning the following day).

* Sustaining our first tyre puncture at Arkaroola when a hefty chunk of rock pierced a hole in one of our BFGoodrich mud terrains.

* Driving through part of the Simpson Desert, some of the most arid, desolate and remote country in the world.

Which reminds me, in all my reminiscing I’ve forgotten all about the Big Red Truck broken down on the side of one of these remote, desolate tracks and our impending death by fly buzzing.

With the help of a trusty manual and some brilliant detective work, Kris managed to find and fix the problem (all the corrugations had vibrated a wire off a solenoid which had the rather inconvenient effect of shutting the engine down). To our great joy and to the dismay of the flies that were obviously licking their lips ready for dinner, the BRT was off and running again and we would live to fight another day...

In the next edition of Where’s the big red truck – Red Centre Dreaming

Something a bit different

Over the last 2 months it's been a delight to be able to share with you the images and words that have made up our journey across this fair land. From the hills of the high country to our travels through Tassie, we've enjoyed bringing our stories of adventure to you.

While we busily put the final touches on our next blog, we thought we'd provide you with a never-before-seen glimpse into our journey. Images are provided by our wonderful friend Tim (you have way too much time on your hands Tim!)...

If you have any problems reading the words, click on the image to enlarge it.
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At times our lack of correspondence may have alarmed some people...


Maybe that's because we've had a few BRT 'mishaps' along the way...


Or it might have something to do with our method of communicating with the rest of the world from remote locations...



And we have been in some remote locations...


There's been a lot of discussion as to why we go to such remote locations. Is it for work?...



Or maybe there's another reason?...


Whatever the reason, you can always be sure there's a prize photo involved...



There's been a lot of speculation as to will we or won't we?...


There's been plenty of opportunities...


But marriage brings its own set of problems...from taking out the rubbish...


to sleeping arrangements....



But whether we do or don't one thing is for sure, we can always sort out our problems...


Unless it's when Sarah beats Kris at chess...Was it the 3 hour game that took its toll on Kris?...


Or was there another reason for the victory?...

Needless to say, wherever we go on this trip the locals love us....

These boots are made for walkin'

I’ve never really understood the lure of mountaineering. Oh, I know it’s lovely to immerse yourself in nature and to breathe in fresh mountain air. Yes, of course I understand all that.

What I’ve never understood is why you would voluntarily strap 15kg to your back and haul yourself up a steep, slippery, rocky slope to sleep on the top of a windy mountain. Nor have I ever understood the attraction of wrapping a sweaty, sticky, smelly body in a synthetic sleeping bag for days on end. No, I’ve never really understood the attraction of that.

What is it about mountains that tempt, inspire and challenge the human soul? What makes a person decide to put a little house on their back and haul themselves up the side of one? What primeval force makes you want to sleep out in the wind and rain on the top of one?

These very questions were at the forefront of my mind as we set out on another great hike, this time into the wilds of the Freycinet Peninsula. You might know Freycinet from its most famous feature, Wineglass Bay, that long sweeping arc of sand edging the picture perfect turquoise waters of a secluded bay. It’s been voted as one of the top 10 beaches in the world. It inspires romance and longing and the desire to quit your job so you can laze about on its soft white sands. Yes, you know the one I’m talking about.

Well my friends let me tell you about Wineglass Bay, the not-for-advertising version, the Kris and Sarah version; the version that starts with large-scale fatalities and finishes with a helicopter evacuation…(you honestly didn't think we'd do it the easy way did you?)

I knew I was in for a long 4 days as soon as I lifted the pack onto my back and felt my spinal column compress a few centimetres. Clothing, tent, sleeping bag, Thermorest, food, water, it was all there like an old friend ready to accompany my every step (well, the kind of friend you’ve ‘forgotten’ to invite over for dinner for the past 10 years anyway). Kris was also loaded up like Simpson’s donkey but the lure of a mountain and a Kodak-moment view had ignited a fire in him that couldn’t be extinguished by the overcast skies and a 3-tonne bag.

So off we set, fighting our way past a gaggle of instamatic-wielding grey nomads, and eventually we stumbled out onto Wineglass Bay beach. And what a sight to behold…white sands, turquoise waters…and a few hundred large dead fish, some still in the process of beaching themselves. It was mass carnage on a devastating scale and you’d have forgiven us for thinking we’d stepped onto the set of a Mad Max film.

Donning our best Steve Irwin impressions, we tried in vain to rescue the few that were still alive but crikey, every time we hurled one back into the ocean it would determinedly beach itself again. Apparently gasping for breath on the sands of a top 10 beach was more appealing than living.

Maybe it had something to do with their anatomy and a peculiar anomaly that saw their main swimming fin stuck on their back rather than using their tail fin like most regular fish. OK for your everyday swimming down to the shops or to the local fish hangout maybe, but not particularly useful if you ever find yourself in 2 inches of water and your main swimming apparatus is caught flapping about in the breeze.

We can only assume it was an oversight on the part of their creator; maybe the blue print went missing and he couldn’t work out where to put the fins? Whatever the case, we can safely say that a beach strewn with dead marine life certainly wasn’t doing Conde Nast’s credibility any favours.

After a night in the ‘Wineglass Bay of Death’, we set off for the summit of Mt Graham and then Mt Freycinet (as Kris would say, "Why climb one mountain when you can climb two"). Instantly the track rose sharply and wound its way through steep, rocky bush. The incline was relentless and I trudged along with all the grace of a sumo wrestler while Kris strolled along in front listening to the 12th Man on his iPod, laughing out loud at seemingly random moments like a crazed lunatic. [Note to self: take iPod on next hike]

After 6 hours and a particularly punishing summit climb we gratefully arrived at our final destination, the top of Mt Freycinet. As I’m coming to realise with all our little hiking escapades, the best rewards come when you've worked the hardest for them. Our reward that day came in the form of breath-taking views of Wineglass Bay from the summit. As we watched the sun slip down over the horizon that night, we cooked up a 2-minute noodle feast perched right on the edge of the summit and another life-long memory was created.

The next day we awoke to rain and fog and started making our way back over the mountains on the long walk home. Four hours from base camp we passed a group of hikers who were also slowly making their way out, cautious of the rocky track that the rain had made into a slip-and-slide bonanza. Moments later, we heard a scream and turned to wait while a member of the group went back to investigate. When he returned, we were vehemently assured that the hiker was OK (“she has a dodgy knee, she’s fine”) so we proceeded on our way.

About an hour later, that same person caught up to us on the track and casually mentioned that rather than the dodgy knee we’d been led to believe, the hiker actually had a badly broken ankle and was stuck on the mountain with no way out. A call to the emergency services was made from my phone and a helicopter rescue was proposed as the only way out. Only problem was the inclement weather and fog surrounding the mountain that would possibly put a halt to any air evacuation. We handed over all our remaining rations to the hiker and he returned to the group while we continued on out to the ranger’s station.

By the time we reached Wineglass Bay we looked up to see a helicopter circling over the mountain and we settled down on the sand to watch a full-scale helicopter rescue in progress, pleased with the outcome and glad that we could play a small part in the rescue.

I’m still not convinced that lugging 15kg up a mountain on your back to sleep in a sticky smelly sleeping bag is my idea of a cracking good time, but what I do know is this:

* When you walk a wet rocky path be careful where you put your feet.
* Don’t swim in shallow water if you don’t have the anatomy to get you out again.
* The very best rewards are saved for those that work the hardest to achieve them.

So sadly that’s about it for our Tassie adventure. Our last great hiking hurrah planned for Cradle Mountain was unfortunately hijacked by rain and fog and snow. But we did manage a walk through spectacular ancient Pencil Pine forests and we did manage an adventure of sorts, getting momentarily lost and thinking we were going to be the subjects of our very own full-scale search and rescue.

Tasmania has far exceeded our expectations and it was with great regret that we boarded the ferry back to Australia(!) just in time to literally feel the earth move under our feet as an earthquake struck Melbourne. Ah, the travellin' life for us...