Love in the Outback

by Deb Hunt

  *

  The sleepy township of Mudgee was the starting point for the Trek and it was overrun by hairy bikers, all of them sprouting fertile beards and lacking evidence that any of them were riding bikes. A fleet of pre-1971 Dodges, Mercs, Mustangs, Chevrolets, Fords, Porsches and Holdens lined the historic streets: cars plastered with official logos and bizarre personal touches. There was a Chevrolet Impala with a full-size model Brahman bull on top, another that could play sixteen different versions of ‘Greensleeves’, a Mustang with horns on its roof and a Dodge panel van covered in shag-pile carpet – a replica of the fur-covered truck used in the film Dumb and Dumber.

  Some of the hairy bikers were in fancy dress and they were clearly bonkers. There was a Justice of the Peace and his co-driver who were planning to spend the six-day trip dressed as Bananas in Pyjamas; RFDS Board member Terry Clark and his crew were dressed as extras from Dad’s Army; there were Mexican banditos, surfing dudes, Men in Black, suited kangaroos and a woman with rabbit ears.

  You said you wanted to have fun.

  I did, PK. I did.

  *

  ‘Hey Mick, how you doin’? How’s that old heapa rust o’ yours?’

  ‘More likely to make the distance ’n yours, mate!’

  Six hairdressers from Sydney had set up a makeshift salon at the back of a crowded pub on the first night and the roar of men shouting competed with the electric buzz of hair clippers. It was like a giant sheep-shearing contest, spruiked by the effervescent TV personality Grant Denyer.

  ‘Fifty dollars to shave his eyebrows off.’

  ‘One hundred to shave one off and keep the other!’

  ‘Two hundred dollars if you’ll shave his legs!’

  ‘Wax his chest, go on, $100 says you won’t!’

  By the end of the night most of the hairy bikers were bald, laughingly stripped of the hair they’d been growing for the past six months in readiness for the first-night fundraiser. Those who weren’t completely bald had bizarre crop-circle haircuts, or the mark of Zorro etched on their heads. Gary had lost his treasured moustache – the first time in twenty years he’d been seen without it – and I went to bed before someone spotted that I still had all my own hair. I fell asleep smiling.

  Next morning the shaved heads made their way to a chilly Mudgee racecourse for a 6 am feast of eggs, bacon, sausages and minced meat on toast.

  Outside, excitable drivers revved their engines and blasted their horns, competing with each other to see who could make the most noise, like a herd of wildebeest calling across the plains. One man had the advantage of horns from an express train mounted on the roof of his car. He was a clear winner in the Battle of the Big Horn.

  Clouds of smoke billowed from shiny fat exhausts as spirits rose to intoxicating levels, not that anyone was drinking. The rum being sold by a man dressed as a polar bear was for consumption later that night, when the day’s drive was over. Bananas in Pyjamas slapped smiley-face stickers on people and the platoon from Dad’s Army marched along the line of cars, barking incomprehensible orders.

  The only people unmoved by the wall of sound and the heady mix of adrenalin and petrol fumes were the occupants of a bright red Dodge Kingsway Coronet. They were waiting patiently at the front of the line, like characters from an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel: she a beautiful woman of indeterminate age in full make-up with red lipstick and neat headscarf, he an elderly well-groomed man with dark-rimmed glasses, resting a neat gloved hand on the steering wheel. They could have been Sunday drivers, out for a spin in 1950s Cornwall.

  ‘It’s the only time they’ll be at the front of the pack,’ whispered a man standing beside me. ‘They paid $10,000 to be the first car to leave.’ There was more than a hint of jealousy in his voice.

  Lying on the woman’s lap was a bound document, open at the first page, with precise instructions on the day’s route – turn left across a stock grid at 16.5 kilometres, fork right at a large tree at 27.3 kilometres.

  And then they were off, waved away by RFDS Chairman Tim Fischer at a sedate pace, each car despatched at precise two-minute intervals. I clambered into the back of the Nissan and joined a stream of cars heading slowly out of town for the start of a marathon drive, snaking across 3383 kilometres of largely dirt roads through remote parts of New South Wales and Queensland, ending up six days later on Fraser Island.

  The first night was spent at Byrock, a town of sixteen inhabitants with a single pub and a village hall. Acres of flat, empty landscape surrounded it, broken by an occasional tree and a clutch of scrubby bush. It was such a remote spot Trek organiser Stephen Knox arranged for a fuel tanker to stop by, so cars could fill up for the next day’s long haul to Cunnamulla.

  As darkness fell drivers pitched their tents or threw swags onto the floor of the village hall then piled into the Mulga Creek Hotel, where I was relieved to find I had a room. Publicans Gloria and Peter Pimlott somehow managed to feed more than 300 people on a fleet of barbecues set up outside. ‘If it’s for the Flying Doctor, we’re happy to help,’ said Gloria, pulling another schooner of beer.

  Wood fires crackled and spat in upturned oil drums as hungry Trekkers roamed the garden, clutching beer cans and burgers dripping onion and tomato sauce. I lost sight of Gary in the scrum and felt like a nervous outsider among the high-spirited groups of people. They formed circles of friendship around the fires and I felt reluctant to join them.

  A lone Aboriginal man sat quietly to one side, hunched on a small stool, his body stooped forward. Sipping a can of coke, watching the circus of activity swirl around, he looked like a rock with ants swarming around the base of it. The Trekkers didn’t seem to notice him – in their high-spirited exuberance his silent presence was invisible – but I felt drawn towards his stillness and the sense of peace that emanated from him. Remembering my failure in Ivanhoe, I sat down on the empty seat beside him and introduced myself.

  ‘Hello. My name’s Deb.’

  He turned to look at me. In the darkness I could just make out a long beard, bushier and longer than those the hairy bikers had sported, and limpid brown eyes rimmed with white.

  ‘G’day Deb. My name’s Ernest.’

  He spoke quietly and slowly, as if words were something he wasn’t familiar with. It sounded like each one held a weight and significance far beyond its actual meaning. It occurred to me that he might have been quite happy sitting on his own, watching what was going on, and maybe I was intruding, but having sat down I couldn’t get up and walk away.

  ‘Do you live here?’ I asked.

  He nodded. ‘Out bush. Got a little camp. Trying to do the right thing. Live right.’

  His words struck a chord. If only I could live right and make up for my bad behaviour of the past, the senseless obsessions about men and the stupid decisions, I might feel better about life.

  ‘Do you live on your own?’ I asked.

  He nodded again, slowly and thoughtfully. ‘Trying to live like spirit says to live. Been doing it five years now. Do you believe in God?’ he asked.

  The question took me by surprise. People around us were laughing and drinking, the air smelt of fried onions and chargrilled burgers, and the pub garden resembled a busy fairground on a Saturday night. It was the kind of atmosphere that called for a flippant response but sitting beside Ernest I knew with absolute certainty that I couldn’t possibly fudge it. This was no time for jokes or maybes; I’d been asked a serious question and he was expecting a serious response.

  ‘Yes,’ I said quietly, feeling tears prickle behind my eyes. ‘I do believe in God. I don’t know what or who God is, but I do believe God exists.’

  ‘Where do you think God is?’ Ernest said.

  ‘I think God is in the land,’ I said. Until the words came out of my mouth I had no idea that was the reply I was going to give. When I heard myself speak I knew it was what I had always believed and only now did I
realise it.

  ‘That’s why I like gardening,’ I said. ‘It brings me closer to God.’ I was glad it was dark because yet again there were tears running down my cheeks and there was nothing I could do to stop them.

  The quiet interlude with Ernest stripped away the frenzy of activity I’d been hiding behind, the bustle of a new job and a new place to live, checklists and tasks, forced laughter, people to interview, places to go. Set all that aside and what was there? Sadness. Nothing but deep, overwhelming sadness. I was sad I’d wasted so much of my life, sad love was something I couldn’t handle; sad I’d hurt so many people along the way.

  The circus around us faded, leaving just me, Ernest and a conversation that meandered from one topic to another, flowing through a river of ideas. We spoke about Jesus, the notion of God, the philosophy of Socrates and the kindness of the Dalai Lama.

  ‘I met him. At the Aboriginal Tent Embassy in Canberra. He asked to have his photograph taken with me.’

  Ernest’s words were slow and gentle, the pauses full of reflection, and it was tempting to let all my pent-up sorrow overflow. I listened with a lump in my throat as Ernest described meditating under a tree.

  ‘I was tiny, like an ant, and I could see all the blades of grass. Next thing I was up in the tree, looking down. Been living in the bush a long time now, trying to follow the teachings of spirit.’

  He watched me to gauge my reaction, nervous that I might laugh or mock, but there was a quiet sincerity to his words that silenced any doubt. Ernest was convinced he had flown above the trees, and why was that so difficult to believe? Was his story any different from so many others that are impossible to prove?

  I have a friend, I’ll call her Sarah, who is a mature-aged woman with traditional views and a conservative outlook on life. She votes Liberal and is a life-long Christian. Sarah is convinced an angel appeared in her bedroom one night, an angel as real to her as any person. He was a clearly defined presence standing at the end of her bed, wearing a blue robe and a beautiful smile. The angel spoke no words but conveyed a sense of reassurance that the child Sarah was worried about would be looked after. So why wouldn’t I believe Ernest?

  The air grew chilly and I drew my jumper around me. Ernest was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. In the darkness outside the pub it was hard to tell his age; I guessed early to late sixties.

  ‘I’m following the teachings of my uncles, my Aboriginal elders, learning traditional Aboriginal culture. My ancestors, they’re with me, all the time,’ he said. ‘They leave me behind when I walk into town and they join me again when I walk out.’

  I thought back to the time I took my mother to a spiritualist church in London. A stranger told her the baby boy she’d lost was alive and well in the world of spirit and I turned to Mum, expecting her to shake her head and indicate they had the wrong person: Mum had four girls. To my surprise there were tears streaming down her face. Later I found out that Mum had given birth to a son who died before any of the rest of us were born. Neither I, nor my three sisters, had known that. How could a stranger know? There was so much I didn’t understand and couldn’t explain.

  It was getting late, people were drifting off to bed and we had an early start the next day.

  ‘It was nice talking to you,’ I said. ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘Would you like to visit me in the bush one day?’ Ernest asked, taking me by surprise.

  My answer was even more surprising.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘And let me know if ever you visit Sydney.’

  I gave Ernest my phone number.

  chapter nine

  The quiet interlude with Ernest had dug so deep it unnerved me, and I felt a sudden urge to get back to work, to keep busy.

  ‘I must work, I must work. The reason we are depressed and take such a gloomy view of life is that we know nothing of work . . .’ Throw me the whip, Chekhov.

  When I’d first said I wanted to go on the RFDS Outback Car Trek the CEO had told me that only those who were part of a support team, or working, deserved a place. I had no intention of being a freeloader. I wanted to throw myself into work and send some pictures to a newspaper or a magazine. I wasn’t sure which but I had a list; I’d find someone (like I said, it had been a long time since I’d worked in PR).

  I walked into the bar and collared one of the official photographers who sat nursing a beer. ‘How did it go today? Get any good shots?’

  ‘A few.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Yeah, we put them on a DVD at the end of the trek. Everyone gets a copy.’

  He drained his glass and tried to catch the barman’s eye so he could order another beer.

  ‘Any chance I could get some sooner?’

  He turned back, wary now.

  ‘How soon?’

  I fished about in the bottom of my bag and pulled out a data stick.

  I followed the photographer into the community hall, where dark lumps had spread across the floor like a pile of shuffling seals. Enormous bellies swelled inside the shifting swags and the wooden floor thrummed to the sound of snoring. I must have been talking to Ernest for longer than I’d realised. I was about to apologise and beat a hasty retreat, when a voice hissed out of the darkness.

  ‘Where the hell have you been, mate? We need to go through these shots!’

  A second photographer, more eager than the first, appeared from a side room, so we fired up the laptop and the photographers downloaded a set of pictures, only to find that Gary, the keeper of the keys and guardian of the satellite, had gone to bed. I scurried off to my motel room and slept soundly.

  *

  ‘Why are those guys still wearing shorts?’ I asked, staring at the shivering extras from Hawaii Five-O. Early risers had huddled in the garden to get as close as they could to the barbecues that had been fired up again and were now offering a breakfast feast of bacon, egg, tomato and sausage; all four crammed into a bread roll and smothered in tomato sauce seemed the go. With the temperature barely six degrees, the surfing dudes were wearing cut-off jeans, short-sleeved Hawaiian shirts and thongs. Their breath billowed in puffs of white and their legs had turned a funny colour.

  Gary looked up from his dripping sandwich.

  ‘Unwritten rules of the Trek,’ he mumbled, licking his sticky fingers. ‘Start in costume, stay in costume.’

  I looked around the garden. The Mexicans were all right, snuggled under ponchos, and the Men in Black wore thick suits (although the sideburns they’d drawn with marker pen had started to run). The platoon from Dad’s Army lolled about in camouflage, and the Bananas in Pyjamas looked warm, snug and happy – something to do with wearing pyjamas all day, no doubt. Pity the poor surfing dudes.

  I did my best to make appropriate and intelligent car conversation.

  ‘So, you’re driving a Chevrolet, is that right?’

  ‘Yep, 1966 Chev.’

  ‘I understand some of these cars have powerful engines.’

  ‘Yep, 390.’

  ‘What does that equate to – 1.8 litres? Two litres?’

  ‘Nope, that’s 6.4.’

  The disastrous live radio interview I attempted while driving through the mud with Gary took place later that afternoon. For a while after that I thought silence might be my best option. We listened to drivers up ahead radioing for help.

  ‘Car 234, calling X234, got your ears on?’

  ‘This is X234 support, what’s the problem?’

  ‘Stuck in the mud, mate. Can you give us a tow?’

  The silence in our vehicle stretched on as we aquaplaned our way in darkness through kilometres of thick red mud. Eventually I offered Gary a jelly baby and it helped to break the tension.

  We arrived in Cunnamulla two hours late for dinner, to find most other drivers swapping ‘how I nearly lost control’ stories in the bar of the local community centre. Gary p
lunged in with glee, recounting his own desperate struggle to survive.

  ‘Sorry about earlier,’ I said, during a break in the chatter.

  ‘No worries,’ said Gary the Great. ‘You never know what to expect on the Trek. We’ve had PR people arrested before; one of them streaked naked around a field late at night as a bit of a lark one year. Never had a PR person try to do a radio interview before, though. That’s a first.’

  *

  The race official tipped his head back, drained the can of soft drink he’d been clutching and then stood beside me, leaning his bulk against the wall. We were in a gymnasium crammed with Trekkers bidding at auction. Raucous laughter and loud banter bounced off the walls and reverberated off the floor, encouraged by a frenetic auctioneer; it was like a giant party. I was uneasy in such exuberant company – I was meant to be working after all – so I stood to one side, helping to spot potential bidders. I’d managed to set up two more interviews on breakfast radio (with Trekkers this time; I’d learnt my lesson), followed by a newspaper interview at lunchtime. My mind was on work and I was only half listening to the official standing beside me.

  ‘I had a breakdown not so long ago,’ he was saying. I assumed he was talking cars so I settled my expression into one of polite interest.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Overwork. Couldn’t stop. Couldn’t cope. Doc said I should slow down, take things easy.’ He scanned the crowd, then turned to me with kind eyes. ‘Hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I can see the sadness in you. Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ he said.

  Was my struggle so blatant? I thought I was doing OK, burying my head in work, running at a fast pace so I wouldn’t have to think about A3’s impending wedding or picture the late-night planning sessions, the dress fittings and, most of all, the vows that would be taken in less than three weeks. Haven’t you ever wanted to get married? Tears welled up and I shook them away. ‘Thank you,’ I managed to say. He nodded, crunched his empty can in a massive fist and disappeared into the crowd.