What appeared to be a classic coen brothers scene (for the few of you that get that reference, my father being one of them)

When I was first reading about the area we would be driving through, I read about a town on the border of Northern Territory and Queensland called Bing Bong, and thus the love affair began. We found the King Ash Bay fishing club just shy of Bing Bong, and camped there for two days so that Lloyd could cease his salivating for a bit of fishing. He caught us a beautiful Javelin fish and a huge shark, so I offered to buy him a beer for each fish at the clubs pub, which was simply a thinly veiled excuse to partake in King Ash’s Thursday Night Pie Nite (nite mind you, not night). On our way to the pub some 7 kilometers from our camp site on the river, we stopped by the tip (the dump) to drop off our days worth of garbage. Tips in rural country such as this are basically just big holes in the ground that are either lit on fire, or, as far as I know, combust spontaneously like a rank little explosion on impact. Anyways, we pulled up to the burning waste, and Lloyd hopped out to chuck the bag into the flames. As He began to walk towards the car, I noticed five or six large frogs hopping out of the pit like amphibians of death. “Ooh, look, frogs,” I called out innocently enough. Or so I thought. So that Lloyds next actions don’t seem slightly psychotic or deranged, I might point out that the cane toad was introduced to Australia by a frustrated farmer who couldn’t (VERY IMPORTANT SIDE NOTE- a wallaby just bounced by, first one I’ve seen) get rid of the cane beetle that was decimating his cane fields. The cane toad went above and beyond the call of duty. Not only did it eat the beetles, it also ate all the beneficial bugs in his fields, then killed the dog with its poison sacs, and procreated to the point that the toad has now threatened all with its pestilence that there is a national organization called toad busters, encouraging, basically, everyone to go out and kill every cane toad they come across, in any way imaginable. A cane toad breeds 30,000 eggs a year, while an average frog breeds 5,000, I recently read, and the threat they pose upon the biodiversity of the country could leave some species of flora and fauna extinct. On a far less serious note,I also read that the aussies often take cricket bats and golf clubs to the toads, and several references to the variety of ways to kill a cane toad has been criticized by PETA groups around the world. However, I am beginning to sound a bit like a Wikipedia excerpt. So, the dreaded cane toads lope lazily across the road away from the burning rubbish (did I mention they also eat garbage?) in front of the head lights of Lloyd’s ute (truck), and Lloyd returns from the back with a stern expression of biblical hatred and an axe. Wagners Flight of the Valkyries would be the only song appropriate or possibly something western and coen-esque, to add a soundtrack to the wailing that Lloyd inflicted upon these toads. I believe I actually covered my mouth when I saw him raise up the axe, the headlights casting devious shadows upon his face, he then brought down the axe, and the lights showing his silhouette chopping at the toads with all his might (they don’t die easily, so I’m told, but I have my doubts), the body of the toad flying through the air followed by a comical puff of dust. He chased down every last one, and I even found myself pointing out some that were about to get away. It was so hilariously macabre; I still feel a bit guilty taking pleasure in recounting it to you. But hey, if you think that’s dark, read about how I boiled a partially decaying roo head to take the skull home as a souvenir.

Port Smith Caravan Park Inhabitant.

Fishing? Neigh. More like animal-ing, sometimes unintentionally.

Thank God for Lloyd’s all new mud tires with tread you can lose your keys in. We have bypassed the largely disappointing Gibb River Road for a lovely cove north of Mitchell Falls on the Kambu Road called Welsh pool. Multiple signs attempted to discourage us from making the rocky, dusty, bumpy 4WD only trek, but Lloyd is a man who does not make a journey like this unprepared. Our overnight has subsequently turned into a three night stay, so we popped up our shade, chopped up a ton of firewood and nested. I have become a big fan of fishing, and Lloyd is avid, so we spent our first day with rods in our hands and sun on our backs and contended smiles on our faces. The first line I threw out caught me an estuary cod. On our way back to camp we liberated an abandoned crab pot. A crab pot is a net contraption with an in-door for crabs but no out-door, falcons with eerie screeches kept us on our toes, and sure enough the first thing we caught with the oh-so-tempting fish head suspended in our crab pot was a falcon, scary screech, sharp beak, razor talons at all. Lloyd donned a makeshift bird of prey handler get-up and whispered soft, gentle words of comfort sprinkled in with soft, gentle expletives as he practically crawled to the pot. He had thick welding gloves on and a towel wrapped around his head, plus steel toed work boots and reflective work pants- MacGyver the bomb defuser vs. a pissed off flying weapon. The bird was released without much bravado (nor a thank you, the prick) and the jerk still eyes the delectable fish head when the crab pot surfaces at low tide. On a more successful note, we have eaten two amazing mud crabs with claws that I have been told can crack beer bottles, a few dozen oysters we knocked off the rocks, and we’ve got three crabs, claws zip tied, knocking around in the bucket for dinner tonight . Not too shabby.

Port Smith

Well, I finally passed Port Hedland by after getting blown out of Coral Bay, and we zipped straight towards Broome, where I first arrived in Australia some six months ago. We have just left the Port Smith Caravan Park where we drank and fished and swam and played cricket and frisbee with Ellie’s dog Moo and attempted to crab. The park is serving as a king of kangaroo rehab, so the beastly things hop through camp, dragging their massive tails through the dirt. Its still amazing to me to come out of the toilets to a roo dragging past or having to remember to zip up the tent or else they might nap on your sleeping bag. They are the strangest animals. Their famous hind legs and tails are absolutely massive, but their forlegs are teenie tiny, and when they arent hopping, they lean forward on their tiny T-Rex arms, looking as thought ye might topple over, then they pull their large behind forward, tail dragging big old snake trails in the dirt. I saw a joey scramble into mom’s pouch a few nights ago, and unlike the cartoons, it wasn’t the most elegant manoever, back legs kicking dirt into mom’s face, and tail eventually sticking out obscenely while the joey tries to get comfy. This one must have been a bit too big for this kind of behavior, like a twelve year old with a pacifier, because the mom looked horirby offbalanced and uncomfortable, the pouch spiking out like a garbage bag full of cardboard. Next is Gibb River Road, up in the northern Kimberlys. Its full of cattle stations and jackaroos (Aussie ranches and cowboys) and we plan on bush camping and gorge exploring and river floating and moving as. Slow. As. Humanly. Possible. Just like in Port Smith, internet service and phone reception will be spotty at best, but I will continue to write when the inspiration strikes and post blogs when the availability appears. Kisses.

WHEW!

Life has been breathed back into me, as Lloyd and I set off again into the wild Australian outback. We have said goodbye to Port Hedland, (not so much goodbye as a SO LONG SUCKERS!!) and drove through the night to Coral Bay. It sits just south of the Ningaloo reef, and offers beautiful diving and snorkeling, sandy beaches, and WINDY camping- emphasis on the windy. We reminded outselves how to fish, cook over an open flame and watch the waves without a care in the world, except for that aformentioned pesky wind, which whipped the walls of the tent into our faces as we listened to the crashing waves all night. So, on we move, because that’s how the life of a nomad works. Don’t like it? Then pick up and move along! I’ve got a brand spankin’ new camera just screaming to be used (once we get away from the threatening sand- Im typing in the closed car at the moment), and once we find a safe harbor, we’ll unpack and live the life we’ve been cheated out of for the past six months. Next week, Broome! With fat wallets and happy smiles-love, us.

Rainbow Back.

Money is the name of the game. Its why everyone is here. Its not the red dirt, no, or the road trains, no, or the salt mountains. Port Hedland was borne out of the love of money (some may say iron), and people flock here for the hope to reap the benefits. Western Australia, the state where Port Heddy resides, is home to 75% of Australia's profitable land- the stuff where gold and pearls and iron and those money making materials come from. About once every four hours trains kilometers long enter and leave this town, with carriage after carriage transporting iron away and to the rest of the world, and each carriage costs one million dollars. The overseer of this project, BHP Billiton, is the reason why people leave in this inhabitable area. Everyone is somehow linked to BHP, like it or not.

The town is 85% men, who all wear orange or yellow long sleeved shirts with reflective strips on them. All of them. They are all miners, iron miners to be exact, and all have a reason to be here, usually heartwrenching. Left wives at home to save money to pay the mortgage, dont have a family so decided to move to Port Heddy and get filthy rich for no real reason, the like. I am working as a housekeeper/bartender at the Walkabout Hotel. Most employees are flown up from cities like Perth or Adelaide, housed and fed on site, and leave in a month or two to travel north to Bali.

Sea life

We pulled over to camp outside of Cassock, despite multiple signs stating the contrary. Lloyd put teh bait trap out just past the rocks covered with oysters in the shallow sea and brought me back a small hermit crab. He told me that the aboriginals eat them, so as the sun set and the fire reduced to cooking-perfect coals, I collected hermit crabs. As I write, the pot next to me is tinkling with them, scrambling over one another to get out.

I stand knee deep in the bath water Indian Ocean, wearing nothing but my welcome to Australia present from Lloyd, a great big outback hat with an eagle feather I found stuck in at a jaunty angle. I toss the line out, a guppy on my hook, and focus on the reel, ignoring the urge to yank each time the ocean swells tug gently at the line. Within seconds, the age old nbattle of man vs wild or, in this case, woman vs Australia commences. After a violent pull, instinct kicks in, detailed instuctions fly out the windon, and I'm pulling the catch in hand over hand, completely wrong like an overexcited child, whooping and hollering. No, its not an old old boot or a rusty tin can, but a symbol of iconic Australia, a reef shark, with my hook-mine!- plunged through its lip. Back at camp, after the mandatory photo shoot with my treasure, we inspect. Rough skin, sharp teeth, slitty yellow eyes and smooth feathery gills. I gut it, clean it, saute it in garlic and butter over our camp fire and we eat it with out fingers. One of my life goals, to catch, gut and cook a fish, with bonus points for it being executed in Australia, with a reef shark, and completely naked. Check.