The Northern Territory: GRR to Barunga (June 10 - 12)

Our first stop after turning off the GRR was the town of Kununurra, where we reconnected to the grid over a flat white and a tea at the Kimberley Café.  We also visited a beautiful art gallery, Artlandish, which was filled with astronomically expensive and equally as beautiful ochre pieces indicative of the area.  Just outside of town we fueled up and continued east, passing over the border to Northern Territory.  By early afternoon we reached Keep River National Park and went for a nice 2 km stroll around some interesting rock formations that resembled the famous rock towers of the Bungle Bungles nearby.

Back on the highway, we noticed a rattling noise coming from the front of the car.  The faster we went, the louder it got.  We had just finished driving on hundreds of miles of dirt road and we were sure something major was broken, so we decided to stop and take a look. Being the chivalrous guy that I am, I put Lindsay on the job and before long she had discovered the source of the irritating vibration.  Part of the inner wheel well had come lose and was flapping around and hitting the tire.  A little ingenuity and about 3 foot of twine later, and she tied the car up nice and tight.  We never heard the rattle again.

Later in the day we stopped at the famous “Gregory Tree,” where a prominent Australian scouting party set up camp for a few months while exploring the outback back in 1800s.  Gregory and his men sailed down the Victoria River, set up camp, and explored the nearby land in an attempt to determine the country’s profitability.  Inscribed very clearly in the trunk of a large Boab are the details of the party’s arrival and departure. 

We covered a few Kms that afternoon and just before sunset drove through the red rock canyons of Gregory National Park.  Along the way we saw a couple more dingos doing their thing near the side of the road.  That night we stayed at the certifiably worst campsite on the Australian continent, which was essentially a very overcrowded parking lot 30 meters from the highway.

The next morning we were up and on the road early stopping an hour later at a desolate roadside rest stop for an impromptu brekky of eggs an leftover sausage.  Before long we had arrived at the Stuart Highway, the two lane highway that travels 2,834 kms from Darwin in the north to Adelaide in the south.  Ten minutes later and we were in Katherine.

In Katherine Lindsay worked at a picnic table at the visitor's center while I resupplied us with the essentials: mac and cheese, Barossa Shiraz, a log of hard salami and all the other things that make life on the road so painful to the waistline.  I then picked Lindsay up and we made our way one hour south to the town of Mataranka.  We ate lunch in a vast, dusty parking lot of a caravan park while we waited for main attraction to begin.  At 1:00 we meandered over to a large pond and waited in the searing sun for the Barra to show.

Soon enough a nice moustached bloke arrived with a bucket of chum and the Barramundi feeding commenced.  Barramundi are large, humpbacked fish that frequent both the fresh and saltwater of the NT, and happen to be delicious.  Soon Lindsay became bored with the fish, discovered a tame baby kangaroo, and went to play with it on the grass.  I, on the other hand, volunteered to feed the gilled beasts, which I did without losing even one finger.

After the show we enjoyed a dip in the pools of Bitter Springs national park outside of Mataranka, which is basically a natural “lazy river” through a lush, green tropical forest.  And much to Lindsay’s delight, the springs happened to be warm.  We floated away the afternoon, through the crystal clear waters with no worries save the submerged logs which had a propensity for jabbing one in the crotch from time to time.

Once we were dry, we drove 50 Km to the north and made the turn off to Barunga.  Back in March or April as I was making the initial plans for this Australian odyssey, I had come across an advertisement for the 25^th anniversary of the Barunga Festival, an aboriginal celebration of culture, sports, dancing, and music held every June on the long weekend of the Queen's Birthday.  It just so happened that our plans coincided with the festival and we were jazzed to be able to go.  We had seen some of the dark realities of aboriginal life in modern Australia, and we were eager for a window into the other side of the story.  Everything was set except for one itsy bitsy minor detail.  By this time in the trip we had been living mobile for over 7 weeks.  Everything we owned or had picked up along the way was either sitting in a little bag in the Sheraton basement back in Sydney or contained within the 10 X 6 X 6 ft space of our camper van.  That included the bottle of cellar door Semillon wine we had planned to have when celebrating the end of our trip in Darwin, a bottle of mead we had picked up in WA for our friend Ryan, and about 10 cans of VB beer (of which only one was visible, but I'll get back to that later). We knew the festival was on aboriginal land and that it was a dry festival (all the posters read very clearly “No Drugs, No Grog”), but what we were supposed to do? On our drive out to Barunga it was clear to see that Lindsay was worried.  “What are we going to do with the booze?” I can clearly remember her saying.  I also clearly remember replying to her query, “Don’t worry, it's not like they are going to search the car. We'll be fine.  Can you imagine a police check point way out here?  Ha!”  As we neared the festival we saw one more hand painted NDNG sign as we came over the crest on a hill.  Just a few meters further was when we saw the police checkpoint.  We arrived at the officer waving us down too quickly to come up with any reasonable lie, so we decided to stick to the truth.  Lindsay who was luckily driving at the the time (I was very drunk…just kidding) stopped the car and rolled down the window.  Here is what happened next.

White cop:  Have you been drinking?

Lindsay: No

WC: Breathe into this

L: Pfssssssssssssss

WC: Do you have a liquor in the truck

L: Uh….yes, but its mostly just gifts, that we were bringing home for our….

WC:  Did you not see the sign that said this is an alcohol free zone?

L: Well we did, but these were gifts and we have been traveling for almo….

WC: Do you know that I can legally arrest you, impound your vehicle on the spot and fine you up to 15,000 dollars for having any liquor in your person?

L: No I didn’t

WC:  Get out of you vehicle and remove the liquor from the interior.

So we got out and opened up the back.  I was feeling like a grade A jackass at this point, and sheepishly brought out the mead and the semillion and laid them in the dirt by the side of the road.  I then returned to the truck, opened up the fridge and grabbed the only beer I saw, a 2 or 3 Victorian Bitters which I quickly laid next to the other contraband.

WC:  Is that it?

Me: Yes sir, I think so.

WC:  Don’t you call me sir, I work for a living!

Ahh isn’t it wonderful when things get lost in translation when speaking to a law enforcement officer in a foreign country? Thanks to my father, I have been trained ever since I had a learner's permit to be very respectful to all cops after being pulled over and to always, always call them sir.  Not so much here.  Just like in the Emergency Department where people get offended if you call them Mr. or Mrs., this officer did not appreciate the “sir” title and probably thought I was trying to be a smart ass.

WC:  Do you know that I now have the right to search your vehicle for any additional alcohol and if you refuse, you can be arrested?

DAM (Dumbass Matt): No I didn’t

WC: We are going to search your vehicle now.

So he sent the token aboriginal cop to enter our vehicle and start searching.  I was nervous, but not because I thought they would find anything.  I had looked and we had offered up all our booze.  Or so I thought.  Unbeknownst to me, Lindsay had rearranged the fridge putting the remaining seven, yes seven beers under the supplies we had just purchased at the grocery store. So there we were standing in the baking sun on the side of the road with carloads of aboriginals and other festival guests ogling at us, watching the aboriginal cop unload the seven beers which I had said we didn’t have. I felt two feet tall.

At that point, I hung my head, stared at my feet and waited for the handcuffs to be applied.  Before the officer said another word, I had already started imagining my impending incarceration.  I coundn’t come up with a scenario of a white dude locked up with a mob of (likely intoxicated) aboriginals that didn’t end up with at least some serious head trauma.  The officer then called me over to his vehicle and explained that despite our stupidity, he was only going to serve us with a $110 ticket.  I did the chivalrous thing and took responsibility for the booze thereby keeping my wife’s Australian record clean.  The officer did however warn her that she needed an international driving licence and that if she did not go the motor vehicle department in the next week he would issue a warrant for her arrest and if needed extradite her from the US.  He didn’t seem to be kidding.

Our hearts pounding, we got back in the camper and made our way to Barunga.  We pulled in, bought tickets, and went to look for a campsite.  After driving around to get the lay of the land, we decided on a spot in a big field under the shade of a large tree.  We got out and started unpacking the camper and getting it set up for the next few days.  Lindsay was inside organizing and I jumped into the back to help her out.  Suddenly two things hit me in rapid succession.  The first was the overpowering smell of feces in the back of the campervan.  The second was the feces that were covering Lindsay's flip-flops and the back of her jeans.  Of all the spots we could have chosen, I stopped the van directly over a pile of diarrhus canis.  My body’s supply of adrenaline was still running high from our traffic stop so I was able to think quickly and calmly asked her to step out from the back.  I knew this had to be handled delicately in order to avert DEFCON Lindsay.  We had already had a run in with a similar problem on the top of Kilimanjaro, and I knew that if I didn’t execute a calm, organized intervention, my wife was going to literally lose her mind.  I threw the shoes in the garbage, helped Lindsay do a quick change, helped clean up her soiled pants, and moved the van as soon as possible.  Once the van was organized and Lindsay was calm, I had to chuckle at the irony of the situation.  Between the near arrest and my wife covered in dogshit, If there were EVER a time when I could have used a drink, this was it. 

    

I must say that considering the circumstances, Lindsay did a great job keeping things under control.  We soon were settled and Lindsay had finished nesting, so we decided to wander around Barunga.  This was the Australia that very few Australians, let alone foreigners ever see: an Aboriginal village with no white people living there.  We returned to the van, had a bite to eat, and then walked over to a campfire down by a billabong to listen to three elderly women tell their dreamtime stories.  We both felt a bit touristy surrounded by all the other white people watching these three ladies laugh their way through the tales of the dingo, the echidna, and the time before time.  That being said, it was a neat experience to warm ourselves by the fire, under the stars listening to these ancient tales.  We were pooped from the day’s excitement and decided to hit the hay early.  We slowly drifted to sleep to the raucous, bellowing sounds of the all-aboriginal dance party and beat box competition around the corner.  To this day, I can't get the overpowering “AW YEAH!!!!" of the DJ out of my head.

 

We spent most of the next day at the festival just wandering around and observing the various events -  football and basketball games, spear throwing competitions, didjeridoo making workshops, art shows, traditional dancing. A concert was held in the evening, and we listened to a few of the bands play. Our favorite band was Zenith from Kuranda, QLD, a few hours north of Townsville.

The Gibb River Road (June 5 - 9)

With Broome behind us, we were on our way.  This was it.  This was the part of this crazy nine week trip that I was the most excited about.  Yes we ran the harbor bridge in Sydney, watched the sun set over Uluru, swam with 16 foot sharks, and sampled the finest of wines in one valley after another.  Those were all fantastic, don’t get me wrong, but this trip across the Kimberly from Broome to Darwin was to be the piece de resistance of the trip.  I had first heard about the trip from a friend at work in Townsville who had taken a 4WD from Townsville up to the remote jungles at the top of Cape York and referred to the Gibb River Road (GRR) as “one of the last great Australian adventures.”  When an Aussie says something like that, you can't help but be hooked on the idea.  When I proposed this to Lindsay, she informed me that she had already suggested it and that I had dismissed it as being too far of a drive.  I couldn’t remember that conversation, so as far as I (and this blog) am concerned, the journey was my brainchild.

In a nutshell, the GRR is a remote, brick red, dusty, dirt track that leads 700km from Derby in the west to Kununurra in the east.  It runs through the heart of the cattle station- and gorge-filled section of the outback known as the Kimberly and is only open about 4-6 months of the year.  Just as in Townsville, there are two main seasons, The Wet (which runs from late November to Aprilish) and The Dry (the rest of the time).  Even when the monsoons dissipate and The Wet is over, it takes a good month or two for the waters to recede enough to make the road passable.  That is assuming that a late storm system or cyclone doesn’t make its way into WA.  We had purposely left this part of the trip (and our time in the Northern Territories) last specifically due to this reason.

From Broome, we skirted the coast and made our way to the mudflat hamlet of Derby.  Just outside of town we made a stop at an interesting historical marker, the Boab Prison Tree.  The Boab (or Baobab in Africa) is a huge bulbous tree that grows to be very old and very big.  Sometimes, as in this case, these trees end up being hollow on the inside with a cavity the size of Lindsay’s apartment in Boston.  Apparently back in the day, the local white police used this specific hollow tree to house aboriginal prisoners prior to moving them to the town jail.  After a quick stop there at the Boab tree we fueled up in Derby: one diesel gas tank (approx. 50L)  and two 20L red petrol canisters for emergencies.  We had stocked up food adequately before leaving Broome planning for 5-7 dinners, lunches and breakfasts.  Although there were roadhouses along the road where we could pickup the occasional can of chili or overripe tomato, they were few and far between.  One sign we saw along the road said “next service 250 km.”  After an obligatory picture of the GRR sign, off we went.

Due to our less than prompt departure from Broome, we were a tad behind schedule.  The first part of the road was actually a paved bitumen road, which has only one paved lane that both directions of traffic must share.  After an hour of driving we hit the dirt running.  After another 45 minutes, with the sun nearing the horizon, we arrived at our first nights camp at Windjana Gorge.  It was an impressive site to see.  Before us was a huge stone ridgeline, pink with the last rays of the sun.  This rock ridge is actually the petrified remains of an ancient barrier reef rising hundreds of feet above the surrounding grassland.  We pulled into our large shared campsite and got set up for the evening. 

We were traveling in a 4WD pop-top camper van complete with fridge, which worked out perfectly for this section of the trip.  Each evening we would arrive in camp, I would unhook the four side latches, and Lindsay would push up the top giving us enough space to walk around inside.  Once she unfolded the bed, brought the folding chairs, table and stove outside by the fire, and “nested,” we were in business.

I made my way to the communal fire and started chatting with a few Aussie blokes who turned out to be from Queensland.  Once they ribbed me for drinking VB (in Queensland where XXXX is king, VB only stands for Very Bad), we had a great time “taking the piss” out of each other.  We were about to set up for dinner when one of the guys came up and said, “Seeing as its your first night out on the Gibb, why don’t you come over for a feed.”  I glanced down at the can of chili in my hand and without a consult to the boss, graciously accepted his offer.  We rocked over to their group of 4-5 couples who were traveling together for a month and proceeded to fill our plates with delicious sausages, rissoles, salads, and bread.  A+ tucker.  (I know I am going a bit over the top with my Australian colloquialisms, but if not now, when?)  We had a great feed, a ton of laughs, and then it was time to hang out by the fire where I was forced to provide some musical entertainment.  Soon it was getting late (9:00) and we hit the hay.

The next morning the birds of the bush woke us up.  This was a pleasant trend that would continue for the remainder of our time in WA and the NT.  After brekky we took a nice morning 7km hike through Windjana Gorge, spotting a colony of flying foxes and heaps of “freshies,” or fresh water crocs. 

Throughout all of Northern Australia there are many crocs.  After being decimated by hunting, sometime in the 70s they were given governmental protection and since then, their numbers have skyrocketed.  There are two distinct types that we encountered on our travels.  There are the relatively small, fish/bird/snake-eating “Freshies” that are skittish and live in fresh water streams throughout the region.  It is safe to swim in streams inhabited by freshies except during mating season.  The much larger, more aggressive “Salties” are actually estuarine crocs that live along coastal regions from Towsville, up all around the north, down to Broome.  These are beasts that are not to be trifled with.  Normally these baddies remain along the coast, but during the Wet, the small little streams become rivers and the rivers overflow creating swamps.  It is during this time that the salties have a tendency to move inland.

From Windjana we headed further down the road toward Tunnel Creek.  Here we followed a little stream which let to the mouth of a cave.  After scampering over some large boulders, we were standing in the knee deep river that meanders through the cave to the other side.   Its a kilometer from one side to the other so we took out our headlamps and enjoyed the cool of the shade while we walked.   Once back at the car park, we had a bite to eat and then got back on the road heading west.

We made a quick stop for a hike at another gorge along the road and then continued on to the turnoff to Bells Gorge.  Here we encountered our first water obstacle.  The road up to this point had underwhelmed me to say the least.  Maybe it was because it was early in the season, but the ferocity of the corrugations and extreme roughness of the road we had read about had yet to materialize.  But twenty kilometers off the Gibb heading to Bells Gorge the road dipped down into a murky stream and then let out the other side.  We approached cautiously.  Although I had no idea how deep the water was, the road was open and we were theoretically driving a vehicle capable of making it though…theoretically.  We only had to wait about 2 minutes before some bogan appeared in a cloud of dust and slammed through the creek at about 40 km/hr spraying mud everywhere.  Once I saw that, I figured we were good to go.   Past the water, we continued on to Bells Gorge for a cool sunset swim.

Later we set up camp at Silent Grove campsite.  That night we ran into our friends from the first night and again, like two scrawny dingos, we scavenged a bit of food.  This time it was traditional Australian damper, which is a type of bread cooked in a dutch oven.

The next morning Lindsay was behind the wheel for the first time in a LONG time.  I had been driving long days for weeks on end and I needed a day off.  She handled the Bell water crossing with ease and I could tell she really enjoyed driving that day.  We started the day at Galvan’s Gorge, a little bit of paradise in the middle of the outback.  It had everything: a large plunge pool, a multi-tier waterfall, aboriginal rock art, and even a rope swing.

Later we arrived at Manning Gorge for lunch and an afternoon hike though the bush.  To this point, my wuss of a wife hadn’t swum in any of the gorges or streams due to her compete lack of thermoregulation.  This hike, however, began with a mandatory swim across the river.  The only alternative was an additional 45 minute hike around the river, which neither of us wanted to do.  So in we went ferrying our things in polystyrene boxes to keep them dry.  It was a beautiful hike through the scrub, sandstone and Eucalyptus, ending at majestic Manning Gorge, where we had lunch and I did a bit of cliff jumping while Lindsay took a siesta.

We hiked back to the river and again had to swim across.  I went first with the gear and made it half way before an elderly lady sitting on a rock in front of me said, “did you see the croc over there?”  I chuckled and looked over my shoulder only to see a freshwater crocodile basking on a rock downstream.  This was awesome.  At this point Lindsay hadn’t heard what we were talking about and she was up to her waist preparing to dive in.  I could have said nothing and she would have swam across in peaceful oblivion, never knowing about the croc.  That would have been soooooooo boring, so I said, “Hey babe, watch out for the croc over there.”  She looked downstream, saw the reptile, and froze.  After a moment of contemplation, she looked right in my eyes and screamed, “Honey! WAIT FOR ME,” and she dove in.  In that 50 meters, she would have given Michael Phelps a run for his money.  The elderly lady and her husband joined in and yelled to Lindsay as she swam for her life, “crocs a coming, better get a move on!”  Needless to say we both made it to the other bank safe and sound.

From there we proceeded to Mt. Elizabeth Cattle station, a working cattle station that allows for bush camping.  I collected firewood while Lindsay freshened up.  That night we had a great flame grilled steak and tater dinner while sitting around the fire talking to some nice folks from the Netherlands and a friendly Australian couple.  In the morning we were surprised to see about 15 white and green peacocks pecking around the campsite.  Lindsay and I then went out for a morning walk in the pasture and watched about 100 wallabies hop around and eat breakfast in the early morning light.

We left Mt. Elizabeth and had a leisurely morning moving west.  As we moved down the road, the scenery became more and more familiar.  As it turns out, this area of Australia has many similarities to home in the Southwest USA.  In Australia this area is know for gorges, cattle stations, red rock and aboriginal culture.  Arizona is known for canyons, ranches, red rock, and native American culture.  At lunchtime we reached the Pentecost river, a croc-infested long stretch of water that must be crossed to continue forward.

We sat on the bank and had a bite for lunch, watching other groups cross the river.  4WD after 4WD made the crossing look easy.  Just before we finished lunch, our confidence was raised as we watched an aboriginal dude cross the river in what appeared to be a station wagon from around 1973.   Soon enough it was our turn and we crossed with no issues.

Forty five minutes later we arrived at our days resting stop, El Questro wilderness park.  This ex-cattle station is a 500,000 km2 wilderness retreat that caters to everyone from the 5 star crowd to people like us.  We arrived early enough to get one of the private campsites down by the upper Pentecost river, which we had heard was the way to go.

That afternoon we hiked up the amazing, monsoon forest-filled El Questro gorge, which required a couple of swims and hopping over and around gigantic boulders.  By the time we finally got to our campsite we were exhausted from a long day, but thrilled to be where we were.  Our site was nestled between large eucalyptus and boabs right down by the river, and there was no one else around.  I collected wood and started a fire while Lindsay got out the brie and crackers.  As the last rays of light filtered through the dust, we were serenaded by the howling of some nearby dingos.  Pretty, pretty, pretty good.

The next day we woke with the sun and headed to Zebedee Springs, or as Lindsay refers to it, “the most awesome place on the whole friggin' trip.”  Why you ask?  I am going to pause at this point in the blog to see if you can guess……

If you guessed that Zebedee Springs were geothermal hot springs, you would be correct.  A short walk from the parking lot brought us to a tropical palm grove tucked away in a steep canyon.  We could hear the waterfalls before we could see them.  We arrived to find a large stream of water bubbling out from under a large boulder, and the water was not just tepid, it was warm.  I can honestly say this was the first time in our relationship that I had to force Lindsay out of the water.  She was in heaven.

From there we drove down the road to Emma Gorge and took a nice hike to the base of the falls.  From there we took the truck on a 10 km off road track through the bush, checking out some smaller gorges and examples of local aboriginal rock art, listening to a little CCR on the way.  By the time we finished we both were looking forward to a shower, so we returned to El Questro, cleaned up, and returned to our campsite. 

Once settled in, I took a folding chair and Lindsay's book and put them down by the river.  I then forced her to put everything away and relax.  She quickly accepted my “offer” and enjoyed the rest of the afternoon down by the waters edge.

I had other things in mind.  I left her down by the river to go and get some pics in the afternoon Kimberly light.  I drove around shooting random things for awhile, but as the sunset approached, I found a great, fat boab tree I had scoped out for a nice silhouette shot.  When I arrived, there was a large herd of cows around the tree, which I thought might add to the shot.  There was one large tan cow behind me so I honked the horn and it sped off to join its comrades.  I sat down in the grass to set up my camera and get a good angle on the shot.

I was fiddling with this button and screwing with that lever and was lost in my own little world until my peripheral vision perceived some movement on my left.  I looked up and no more than 20 feet away a medium sized bull with flared nostrils was charging straight toward me.  If you have ever heard of the “fight or flight” response you can imagine my state of mind.  I jumped to my feet and (I am not sure I had a choice in the matter) subconsciously chose flight.  The flip flops on my feet may not have been the best choice in footwear for fleeing from a raging beast, but that is all I had.  Luckily I wasn’t that far from the truck and after a short, awkward flip flop sprint, I had dashed around the other side while fumbling with the keys.  I peeked up over the hood of the truck to find the bull standing just a few feet away, but at least he had stopped his stampede.  Once my heart rate returned to the upper limits of normal, I started honking the horn and yelling at the beast.  I wanted that shot of the boab sunset and no bovine was going to stand in my way.  So there I was, out in the middle of the bush yelling and honking and beating my chest at this animal trying to get him to move.  Despite these efforts, all of my noise did nothing to phase the bull.  In fact, it had the opposite effect.  As I peered past the primary offender, I noticed two very large bulls with much larger horns sauntering in my direction.  The rest of the herd also seemed to have regained their confidence and started descending on me.  Seeing as the “calf-ary” was on the way, I conceded defeat, got behind the wheel and sped off to find an alternate location for the shot.  I ended up running down an embankment in the twilight looking for boabs.  By this time, the sky had lit up in streaks crimson and orange and I knew I couldn’t be to picky.  So I settled on a skinny little boab by the side of a creek and took a few pics.

This reminded me of that old adage, “it is better to take a second class photo of a skinny boab than be gorged by the horns of a crazed bull.”  So true, so true.  Later I returned to the campsite and relayed this harrowing tale to Lindsay who informed me I was an idiot.  That night we again had a nice dinner around the fire and crashed.

The next morning we were out of El Questro and on the road early.   During the evening we had made the executive decision not to visit the Bungle Bungles, a national park containing some odd rock formations 6 hours to the south of us.  So by 10am, the road had returned to asphalt and by 11am we turned off the Gibb River Road.  It was a fantastic trip across the Kimberly that exceeded all of our expectations.

During our extensive travels we have shared the roads, the pubs, and the caravan parks with many a Grey Nomad.  These Australian retirees take their caravan/trailers all over the country moving from one watering hole to the next in an attempt to "see it all."  On many a bumper or rear window of their wide variety of vehicles can be found their unifying motto, a mantra if you will: "Adventure (pronounced Adventcha) before Dementia."  I personally think its a great motto to live by...if you can remember it.  Well, after seeing this over and over again, I thought up a variation on the motto more fitting to Lindsay and I.

Broome (June 3-4)

We took off from Perth at 7:30am on June 3rd and touched down 3 hours later 2200 kilometers north in Broome.  The minute we stepped off the plane and on to the tarmac, we could tell our days of blue jeans and sweatshirts (or jumpers as they say here) were over.  Cloudless blue skies and lots of sun.  Muy caliente!

We collected our bags and got in line for a taxi.  Once we loaded all 5 of our bags into the back, the driver asked us where were headed.  When we told him the Kimberly Klub he let out a little laugh and said, "Alright, mates!"  Then he drove us the approximate 750 meters to the hostel.  We clearly didn’t do our research on this one.  Five dollars later (Lindsay felt so bad she actually tipped him an extra $2 for his troubles), we got settled and checked into our room.  It wasn’t exactly the Kauai Hilton, but it was functional (a word I find I use a lot with Lindsay on this trip).  Despite not being ecstatic about the coin-operated AC unit, the way too creaky double bed, or the less than immaculate floors that arguably hadn't been mopped in months, Lindsay dealt with it relatively well.  And how much were we paying for this magnificent palace?  $125 per night.   The thing is, Broome happens to be a very expensive town in a very expensive country.  This $125 per night shack was honestly the cheapest double room in town.  We soon found out that prices on everything from food to gas were between 30 and 50 percent higher in Broome, even when comparing to Sydney and Melbourne prices.   Location, location, location.

Once we were settled, we decide to explore the town on foot.  We initially bypassed the main area of town, ending up instead at my new favorite place for a beer in all of Western Australia: Matso’s.  This brewery/bistro is nestled down by the mangrove mudflats at the edge of town, and serves up some of the best beer and “tucker” around.  By this time it was nearly noon and the sun was becoming oppressive, so we took a seat on the large porch that wrapped around the old Queenslander house.  For the next two hours we shared an African chicken salad and a burger, and I sampled the local draughts.  First I tried the Mango Hefeweizen.  Next I sampled a shot glass of the Chili beer (which they made me sample before buying a schooner).  Finally I had the ultimate…the Chango.  Yup, half Chili, half Mango.  I was in heaven.  After lunch we located the main part of town and took in the sites. 

Now for a bit o' history.  Broome was created for one reason and one reason only: to support the local pearl trade.  Sometime in the last 150 years it was discovered that the seas around Broome were filled with oysters bearing pearls.  At first a few Europeans moved in and used Aboriginal slaves to dive for the precious mollusks.  Apparently when too many of them died from the bends, Chinese and Japanese workers were brought in to do the dirty work.  For a while, the money was in pearls.  Later for some reason, it was the mother of pearl that became the focus.  During its hay day of pearl harvesting, Broome served the purpose of all mining/pearling/ranching towns as a place were the workers could buy liquor, women, and supplies.  Sometime after Pearl Harbor, all the Japanese and Chinese workers were interned (we weren’t the only ones) and the industry died during the war.  Since then, the pearling continues, but tourism has become the economic focus of the area.

We walked around the shops (all selling pearls) and returned to our hostel.  Between getting up at 4:30 for our flight, the brutal Broome sun, and lunch at Matso's, we were pooped.  I took a quick swim and then Lindsay and I had a much needed nap.  That evening we took the local bus to the beach area outside of town called Cable Beach.  It apparently got its name from the telegraph cable that was laid there connecting Australia with Java and the rest of the world back in 1889.  We shared a glass of Sauvignon Blanc while watching a beautiful Broome sunset.  Once back at the hostel, we had our cheapest and worst meal in since coming to Australia…minestrone out of the can prepared in the hostel's kitchen.  I hate minestrone.  Please do not make it for me.

The next day was to be a work day for Lindsay so I decided to go for a beach walk to take some pics in the morning.  It was a nice morning, but I ended up getting a little overheated and was forced to get a large mango slush on my way back into town.  At 3pm we caught a bus back to Cable Beach for our evening’s entertainment.  We walked down to the sand were we met Ghan, our camel.  After some introductory camel riding lessons, we hopped up on the beast and along with about 20 other camels, and off we went down the coast for an hour or two.  It was a great time and very relaxing.  We watched the sunset for the last time over the Indian Ocean, and caught the bus back to Matso’s for dinner.  It was another great evening of barramundi, curry, live music and Changos.  And guess what…not a bowl of minestrone in sight.

Here was the next morning’s plan: get up early, take a taxi to the Cheapa Campa rental agency to pick up our 4WD camper, and be on the road out of Broome by 10am.   Here is what happened: we arrived at the rental agency at 8 as planned.  We read the disclaimers, signed the paperwork and I even pulled my credit card out and was ready to pay by 9am.  Right on schedule.  That is when the daughter of one and sister of two accountants took a second look at at our balance.  I have learned to stay out of these things so I sat there patiently while they “sussed it out.”  Not much progress was made after 15 minutes so I left to grab a coffee.  When I returned Lindsay was on the phone to the rental company still looking for confirmation of the balance due.  I was a bit antsy by this point and calmly asked how much was in dispute…$23 dollars.  And just as we had resolved the payment issue, a pleasant looking elderly couple came in to rent their vehicle and we had to wait for them to check in so the salesman could give us all the car demonstration at the same time.  By the time they got checked in and we all went over the details of the car, it was 11am.  After a painful supermarket stop that seemed to take forever and a lunch at Macca's, we finally got out of town at 1pm.  Ah...married life.  (That's us in the back in the photo below).