"G'dday! What can I do yer for?" His round smiling face was red, his eyes bloodshot for a different reason than ours, but he was SO cheerful. His broad, gap-toothed grin made us smile, despite our aching weariness. At that hour (just past midnight), our gastronomic hopes had sunk back to the depths of 'yet another snack' level.
"What do you have?" I asked, glancing around at stands of crisps and chocolate bars and lollies—trying to look anywhere else than at the large blackboard behind him advertising meals—real meals.
To our amazement, he turned and pointed to his chalked-up menu, and said, "Anythin' yer want, lovely. Chops, snaggers, steak? Bacon and cackle-berries, maybe? You name it bewdiful— I'll cook it for yez." When we recovered from our shock and could talk again, we ordered steak and eggs and tomato and toast. At our genial host's insistence, we ordered more toast with our beloved Vegemite, and home-made jam, as well—to be followed with a cuppa from a large pot of tea. Before our chef extraordinaire trooped off to start cooking, he had one more surprise for us.
"Didjawanna beer while yer waitin'?" he asked. "On the 'ouse! Me and the boys of the road gang out there are 'avin' a bit of a Chrissy party. Reckon they'll wanna share a bit o' the season's greetin' with yer."
Now there was a wakeup call. Real food—and a beer, to cheer our previously sagging spirits. Kanute left me briefly to get more money from our car, while I settled myself at a table covered by a plastic Xmas tablecloth. In the centre, a small vase of faded plastic flowers with a bit of tinsel woven through celebrated the festive season. A bottle of tomato sauce and another of Worcestershire sauce stood in tidy order with the standard-issue glass and chrome-topped salt and pepper shakers.
The concept of this long and dusty road trip had evolved like most of the finer moments in our life. The embers of a whisper of an idea had been fanned by our imagination, and a wildfire—otherwise known as a brainstorm—had developed a life of its own. We blame this specific inspiration on the innocence of youth—for creating an enthusiasm most closely comparable to that demonstrated by sniffer dogs. With a burning impatience to be reunited with those we held dearest, our 'maiden' road trek across the famous Nullarbor Plain began. All it took was an astonishing 37 hours of near constant driving, for 1,674 miles (or 2694km). An appalling 468 miles of this journey was an unsealed stretch of the Eyre Highway. Highway? Oh yes... that's what they called it, even back then. With no way around that desert, the only choice was to grit teeth and maneuver right through the middle of it. We must have been keen, to take this in our stride in December, the hottest time of the Australian year.
Even with that wealth of vigour and good health in abundance, bodies finally weaken—and a moment came when exhaustion changed our plans. Serious hunger developed for something more substantial than the snack food we had munched on for so many miles. Dried fruit and nuts, cheeses and biscuits had all done their job—kept us awake and fortified in strength and spirit—but now body and soul and taste buds too, demanded more. Despite the hour and our current location in the middle of the desert, and as if in answer to our unspoken prayer, a distant glow of lights appeared on the horizon. In that cloak of darkness a faraway glow comforted us.
"It's only a dot on the map," I said, "but it looks like Nundroo must be a substantial town."
Kanute nodded and his eyes brightened as he said, "I don't expect it's quite like Las Vegas, in the desert in Nevada... but it sure looks good from here." He still chuckles at the remembered quip.
As we drew closer, our dismay grew proportionately larger. A solitary roadhouse-cum-petrol station (with a house and a few dilapidated sheds tucked well behind), comprised the sum of that misleading brilliance. Despite the rows of cheery coloured lights and the small Christmas tree bravely glowing in the window, our hearts sank to an all-time low. Two stomachs growled ominously now they had been fully awakened by our fertile imaginings.
YOU ARE READING
Old McLarsen had some Farms
Sachbücher"You two become farmers? You must be kidding!" How little our friends really knew us. Sure, that's how life had been for the Secretary and the Building Supervisor... but those were the keywords - "had been". An opportunity had arisen to learn farmi...
