(All aboard Samuel Beckett’s magical mystery bus tour of Darwin )
It being war games time in Darwin, jet fighters roared overhead as the bus pulled into a stop … and in bounded a familiar figure, a pony-tailed , religiously inclined woman with a large backpack. She is often seen and heard campaigning and singing for God in supermarkets and other byways where sinners flock , that distinctive backpack , strapped like a parachute, which may well be a dust cover for the wings of a fallen angel.
Sitting down , she beamed about at everybody, no doubt delighted to have a trapped audience, and started talking to a nearby passenger who appeared to be one of those unfortunate creatures, a clean cut youth from south , new to Darwin . She was so intent on getting her message across to him she , sitting side saddle , did not notice that her mysterious backpack was resting on the shoulder of a passenger who adopted the hunched pose of demi-god Atlas holding up the sky.
A jet screamed by , and the young man , slightly puzzled but earnestly listening to what she was saying, raised a finger to indicate he could not hear. She responded by proclaiming : “ Yes ! Isn’t it terrible . This is wrong . We shouldn’t have to put up with this . Babies can’t sleep . People must speak up, protest.” Then she shifted her gaze to encompass the whole bus . “This is terrible , we must speak out. It is wrong having all this noise over the city . People are too scared to speak up . God has said that you must speak what is right, not speak what is wrong .”
At this stage , the youth who had been burdened by her backpack moved across to another seat. “I’m sorry, love ,was it on you ? “ she asked . “ I was going to put it ( the backpack) on the floor.” We made eye contact and she resumed her monologue about the noisy jets, timid Darwinians and God. She has a valid point . Why are ear- splitting joint exercises held over Darwin when the RAAF has a base at Tindal which seems to be mainly used as a wallaby breeding stud? No other capital city would tolerate this frequent ear-splitting assault.
Unfortunately, my stop was next , so I alighted , leaving her to continue the crusade against Satan and the war against Top Guns of America , Australia , Asia and NATO. In another bus encounter with her near the Casuarina interchange , she , accompanied by her bulbous backpack , cornered a spaced out male Aborigine and told him God was the way to salvation.
Soon after , the re-enactment of the Bombing of Darwin – the 30th anniversary of self-government – during which the city went mad with fireworks and a palm oil tree next to our house went up in flames like a fiery Ku Klux Klan cross , my wife was sitting in a bus at the Casuarina interchange when the female bus driver suddenly jumped up and announced she was going for a pee . After explaining that it had been a hectic, busy morning during which she had been unable to take a comfort break , the driver sprinted away. Back in the driver’s seat , she set off and there was a loud explosion under my wife’s seat - just like one of the hundred or so mortars that had rained down about our house on cracker night. Not only did my wife get a fright, the bus driver jumped up and looked startled . God only knows what embarrassing situation could have resulted had the driver not partaken of that pressing pit stop before setting out on the run. A shovel which may have fallen from one of Darwin’s many lead -footed tradesmens utes was found to be the cause of the explosion .
