by Paul Carter
‘This place is a sacred site for the Aboriginal people who lived here.’ Evan walked us into a deep shaded section only a few metres wide where the cliff wall had split open over the centuries. We were stunned: it was an art gallery, stretching some 30 feet or so along the wall all the way to the top. The rock art was beautiful: the artists had used their mouths to blow pigment over their hands and outstretched fingers and made handprints. The paintings nearer the top dated back some 16,000 years; you could clearly see the image of a Tasmanian tiger. As the cliff section slowly split open, the floor had lowered, and the images nearer the base dated back just 300 years. I’ve visited art galleries and museums all over the world, but there and then, listening to Evan’s soft voice talking about this sacred place, I was mesmerised and felt at peace.
On the ground there were several large boulders that didn’t match the other rocks—they looked like polished glass. ‘That’s thousands of years of human skin and sweat polishing the rock,’ Evan said. I was looking at this with my city eyes—of course, it was a table, with chairs at one side; there was a perfectly round bowl worn into the rock and next to it lay the mortar. ‘That’s where the different pigments were made. We’ve left it exactly as we found it.’ Apparently Franz was out in his chopper one day rounding up cattle when completely by chance he looked down into the split cliff and noticed the colours. He landed to investigate and walked straight into this amazing place.
Gavin was quietly climbing around snapping away with Dan’s stills camera; later that day, while Dan and I jumped into a billabong for a swim—only after Evan promised I would not get taken by a croc—he was again busy with the camera. That night after dinner he went off again, crawling around under bushes and hanging off trees like a big deranged Scottish primate, snapping away.
At breakfast the next morning he announced that he was going to get his own camera. Gav had discovered a real passion for photography, and Dan showed him how to use different lenses and change effects. For the rest of the leg, all the way to Broome, Gav was one snap-happy Scotsman. I was pleased to see the change in him, as he went from sizing up everyone in the room to taking their photo.
That morning Trevor took us fishing in the Victoria River. Our little tinny slid down a ten-foot mud bank into the brown water. During the Wet, this place would look amazing. Trev was patient with us; he needed to be, as not one of us had been fishing before. He fired up the outboard and we shot off downstream towards a huge mud bar. ‘Gotta get the bait,’ he said, leaping out of the boat with a net and a bucket, and running at the edge of the mud bar. When he got to the water thousands of tiny fish scrambled to get away, Trev just threw his net in the water and came back with a bucketful. We all had a go, then noticed the tide had gone out so we had to push the boat out into deeper water. My leg and shoulder were starting to hurt by the time we were waist-deep in the brown water.
‘Hop in the boat, Paul.’ The tone of Trev’s voice and the constant knowledge that the river was teeming with big crocs was enough; I was out of that water so fast I was dry when I landed in the boat.
We started to fish. I didn’t know how to cast, or hold the reel, or fish while drinking beer, or bait my hook and drink beer, or any of the man skills everyone up there seemed to be born with. For Trev it must have been like fishing with a kindergarten group; he’s used to serious professionals who go up there to do Olympic fishing. He was having a good chuckle at the three of us fumbling about. The second my line landed in the water and I got a bite, I would go into this panicky flap like my mother at a Chanel counter in Paris: ‘Oh, oh, Trevor, what do I do, what do I do?’ He was pissing himself after the first ten minutes. Gav was loving it, Dan was loving it, I could have sat there all day. Every time a line went in a big fish came out.
Trev pointed over to the trees on the bank some 30 yards away. ‘See that eagle, fellas?’
‘Er, no.’
He picked up a small catfish he’d pulled out of the river earlier and casually tossed it into the water a few feet from the boat. We sat there gobsmacked as Batman launched out of a treetop, flapped his massive wings a few times and banked hard, turning down for an effortless glide across the surface before extending his talons and snatching the fish from under our noses. ‘Good fishin, mate,’ said Trev. Amazing. I was back in the mesmerised state I had been in the previous day at the rock art. ‘That sea eagle has been following us since we got on the river; I’ve been treating him for years.’ Trevor chuckled.
Evan and Trevor ran rings around our pale sweaty city-boy antics. Their mindset is so different from ours; I wanted to spend more time there than we could. You have to travel this far out to meet people like this. I had so much to learn from them; one day I’ll go back to Bullo.
The muster was kicking off the next day. It was done by Marlee in a ‘bull catcher’—basically a big old four-wheel drive that looks like it just rolled out of Matt Bromley’s Mad Max workshop—and a man in a chopper. She normally did all her own flying, but her chopper was out of service.
At dinner we asked Marlee if Dan could go up with the pilot to film the muster. Marlee got on the phone to ask him. ‘Sorry guys, he said no, too dangerous.’
However, the next day there was a problem and the chopper couldn’t make it, so Marlee had to find another pilot. ‘Dave Henry’s coming,’ she said, smiling. ‘You guys are very lucky. If there’s anyone who’ll take Dan up, it’s Dave—ask him tomorrow.’ Turned out Mr Henry had more flying hours in the R22 than anyone in the world.
The muster started slowly, moving the cattle down a fence line; we were in the bull catcher with Marlee. She made it all appear so easy, while Dave displayed helicopter aerobatics that simply stunned me. I’ve spent twenty years crew-changing in choppers, but in comparison to Dave’s antics, that’s like a city bus next to a racing car.
As Dave expertly manoeuvered through the bush targeting the strays, we moved the herd towards the gate. At lunch I asked Dave if Dan could go up with him. ‘Sure,’ he said. We asked if he would take the quintessential bike-chasing chopper shot of Betty going flat out across the open paddock. ‘Sure,’ he said. Marlee had told us that if Dave agreed to do some flying for us, the charge for an hour’s flying would be $1000. I was just happy he didn’t mind.
Dan climbed into the R22 and got the ride of his life, while I raced Betty all over the place as hard as she would go, Dave buzzing past me like a giant mosquito. I was having a great time. Dave was talking to me over the radio the whole time, as calm and relaxed as if he was on the porch at lunch. He knew exactly what we wanted.
Afterwards he strolled back to the house for a cuppa, while I went off to get my cash stash. I offered it to him, but he refused.
‘No worries, Paul, it’s on the house.’
I couldn’t believe it.
‘Are you sure, Dave?’ I protested.
‘Nah, mate, it was fun. Are you doing anything for charity?’ he asked me. I told him my intention was to donate the proceeds of the sale of my support truck when the trip was over.
‘Well,’ said Dave, ‘add it to that.’
Bullo River was something I’ll never forget, a huge experience for me—an oasis of natural beauty and peace in the middle of Australia, and right when I needed some serious R&R from the bike. When I can I’m going back with my family; it’s just one of those places.
Back to the blacktop, another state, another time zone, another stinking hot day. Fifty degrees and I was cooking. I’d lost ten kilos in the last two months. Strangely enough, it didn’t make much difference with Betty; I wasn’t moving any faster.
We kept going, all day and half the night. We’d stop at roadhouses to eat and drink and get straight back on the road. Cattle met me for wide-eyed close calls, as did every other critter out looking for a late-night game of dodge-bike. Emus were the best. They have the whole continent to run about in, they can go in any direction that p
ops into their head, but every time they chose to: a) run alongside the loud funny-smelling bike, overtaking it, or b) dash out into the bush, and then double back, rushing out into the road right on top of the bike to ask the hysterical rider, ‘Hey mate, is that thing diesel?’
We pulled up at Halls Creek, then Fitzroy Crossing, finally lumbering, malodorous and sore, into Broome. What an amazing, beautiful place; for anyone arriving from the city it’s on super slow mode. It has pristine beaches, pearls, a melting pot of Asian, Aboriginal and European cultures. Everyone I met had a smile and time for a chat.
We found Carrie, who would be my support driver for the Perth leg, absorbed in a book outside her room at the motel. Like everyone in the Downey clan, she’s small, but, like Matt, she’s a real character. Did I mention she’s a physical training instructor with the Australian Navy? That means she’s fit—got-muscles-in-her-shit fit.
Gav, Dan and I spent the rest of the day doing our washing and I went through my bike ritual, then we had beers. I met up with Simon, my BMW pal, who had been soaking up the Broome thing for over a week, lucky bastard. We jabbered on into the night. The next day Gav was walking up to the entrance of Broome Airport; he was gonna be missed.
I called Erwin before we left. He was very quiet and I knew something was up. ‘I’m sorry mate, I have to go offshore.’ Bugger, the last leg was looming and I was down a driver.
There was nothing we could do about it then; we had to hit the road. Carrie was organised, and took care of everything. I was really impressed; she is seriously on the ball. We made incredible time, stopping at the Sandfire Roadhouse halfway to Port Hedland off the Great Northern Highway. We took in the view at Eighty Mile Beach. I stopped to change a CVT belt while Dan watched an electrical storm brewing inland. As we got ready to pull off, lightning hit the ground a few k’s away and kicked off a bush fire. So Dan broke out the long lens and did some filming while Carrie brewed up some tea.
I was glad for the break; the vibrations were playing havoc with my hands and arms. I was having trouble just holding on to my mug. Carrie suggested we rig up some sort of grip cover. I had a bit of foam in the back of the truck so we tried that, but it didn’t really do anything except make the handlebars look like I had a big rubber dildo over each grip.
Next was Port Hedland for an entree, followed by the main course: oily, overcooked Karratha with extra salt please.
Karratha is all about salt production, mining, oil and gas. More trucks passed me on the way into town than on the entire trip so far; it was just never-ending road freight. I phoned an oilfield mate, Nigel, and went out for a few beers with him that night. In the pub I ran into my friend Brad who works for Chevron; Brad noticed I was having trouble holding a beer. ‘Come by the warehouse tomorrow,’ he said. ‘We’ve got spare rubber and foam, you can rig up some grip covers.’ Another guy there, from Schlumberger, said he had some high-density neoprene as well, and would drop it off with Brad in the morning.
The next day we found the warehouse and set to work. I fiddled with different setups for two hours until I had something that worked. My grips were twice as thick now and the vibration was considerably reduced. Again my mates had helped me through.
Back once more to the blacktop, and more flat-chat roadhouse- and donga-hopping to Carnarvon. This time we rode through endless scrub, which made me feel like I was in preparation for the Nullarbor. We had a great stay in Geraldton, the African Reef Beach Resort; I pulled Betty up right in front of the Indian Ocean and dipped my toe in salt water for the first time in nine weeks. Cleansed, weightless relief. I bobbed about in the water till the sun went down; I was super tired but my hands felt better, and the seafood dinner was sensational.
Our run down the coast into Perth saw the landscape change; the countryside was greener, and the closer I got to my home the more I could feel Clare and Lola pulling me on. One by one, the familiar landmarks started to appear. Soon we hit the outskirts, then my suburb, and finally my street.
The front lawn looked good; as he’d promised, Nick had looked after the place for me, I heaved my weight off the bike and opened the front gate and there they were, my girls. Even Ossy had a hint of recognition for me. I held my wife tight; the warmth of her skin and her familiar laugh put me in a wonderful, restful cotton-wool space. Lola held on to me for much longer than usual. That night I watched her sleeping face for a while, my little girl, happy and safe. I had been gone for ten weeks. I was home, and all I wanted to do was stay. But now, as hard as it seemed, I had to do the last leg, ride from Perth back to Adelaide. I fell into bed that night full of home cooking and deep in-your-own-bed slumber. Even my body was feeling better.
At 2 a.m. I woke with a start: ‘MMMMMAWWW.’
Carrie stayed in our spare room, eating fruit and doing one-armed push-ups; Dan stayed over at Gav’s, hoovering down beer and salty snacks. I got the truck off for another service, and spent two days trying to find a support driver to replace Erwin. Everyone I called was tied up or offshore. Clare stuck her head in the garage while I paced about with my address book and a glass of whisky. ‘Call Matt, he’ll do it.’
She was right: Matt was up for it. ‘Oh good, I need to eat more salad rolls and hot fuckin chips.’ He flew in the next day; I dropped Carrie off and picked Matt up. Dan sobered up and came over looking worse than he had on the day we got into Perth. Betty and the truck were both serviced and polished, and for the last time I kissed my girls, climbed on to Betty and reluctantly made my way out of town.
Retracing the trip Clare, Lola and I had done as a family ten weeks earlier was harder than you might think. I would ride past some spot where we’d stopped to brew up all those weeks ago and all my emotional triggers would go off. The very Plain Nullarbor was waiting down the road.
Dan was very quiet; I suspected he was rediscovering the horror of being stuck in a truck cab with Matty endlessly taking the piss and spinning yarns. For Dan it must have felt a bit like being stuck in an elevator with someone poking your brain box with a big stick twelve hours a day.
Southern Cross was right where we left it. Matt started to lose it that night at dinner; the buffet displayed several different types of salad, none of which he could eat. I stood next to him with my plate piled high, pointing at each one in turn. ‘What about that one?’ ‘Got cheese in it.’ I’d point at another. ‘Mayo.’ Another. ‘Fuckin egg.’ The last one. ‘Ham, Pauli, dead pig.’
I went back to the table. Dan was starting to look a bit like a junkie: he hadn’t shaved for a few weeks, he was pale and his cheeks were drawn. The waitress came over. ‘Anything else, gentlemen?’ Dan ordered a beer, I asked for a Coke.
‘Water,’ said Matt. ‘And a bowl of your finest dust.’ She went blank.
‘He means a plain salad, no meat, no egg, no cheese, just lettuce, tomato, cucumber, no dressing and a plain bread roll, no butter.’
‘Extra dust though,’ said Matty. Poor bugger. ‘And a bowl of chips.’
The next morning we had coffee sitting outside a small place on the main street. Dan announced through a blocked nose and runny eyes that he was sick. He ran to the toilet, came back for ten minutes, then ran in again.
Matt had his head in the paper. Since the last leg of the trip, he had redone his hair. It was now jet black with a bright pink strip down one side. This made for the odd interesting double take by locals. I was watching a big man in a sleeveless shirt stare at him from inside the coffee shop while he waited for his morning latte.
A gaggle of early-retirement red Ducati roosters showed up with matching $1000 lids and no wear on their tyres. They strutted about pecking at each other’s bikes for a bit, then mooched over to take a morbid but sympathetic curiosity in Betty’s plumage. To them it no doubt appeared she was just a nasty twenty-dollar crack whore with a university sticker on her tank. Then they started scanning for the rider. We got pinged on the far table. The
head rooster squeaked over in his leather Ducati pants. ‘I hope they’re paying you to ride that thing.’ He pulled out a cigar and manned up, nipping the end off with his teeth. What a tinea of a human.
‘Good morning.’ I smiled and finished my coffee.
‘So.’ Rooster One was not giving up. ‘Is it part of some experiment?’
I just couldn’t be fucked. ‘Sort of.’
Dan, who had returned from the toilet looking paler than before, looked at his camera on the table. He’s thinking about picking it up, no, don’t touch the camera, Danny, or this punisher will puff up his feathers and start making an even bigger ponce of himself.
Rooster One fired up his Romeo and tried to think of something to say. ‘It looks like it couldn’t pull the skin off a rice pudding.’ He grinned.
Matty was apparently ignoring all of this, hiding behind the newspaper, but I just knew he was going to say something soon. Dan was looking really bad. After three months of living in each other’s pockets I knew him well now. He was sitting there clenching and sweating; too polite to just walk off, he’d rather sit there and shit himself.
Rooster One was still not sure who the rider was; I wasn’t in my gear yet and the helmet was sitting under the table.
‘You haven’t come all the way from Adelaide on that thing have you?’ said Rooster One.
He’s going to engage . . . oh no, Dan, don’t engage—DAN.
‘Are they all Ducatis?’ Aw fuck.
‘Yup,’ said Rooster One, visibly preening. ‘We’re on a run for the day, you know, throw them into a few corners and hammer the adrenalin.’
Dan looked like Rooster One had just pulled out his cock and pissed in his face.
‘Is that thing diesel?’ Rooster One asked at last.
