On the hallowed Fitzroy Crossing- Curtin Airbase-Broome leg of his outback pilgrimage , Bulldust Diary scribbler, Peter Burleigh, sees signs of a Biblical deluge and meets the local godfather with the washing machine monopoly.
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At the midway point between the Bungles and Broome is the Fitzroy River, a legendary stream I’ve wanted to see since I was a kid. It is barely flowing now, but you can see that it has recently smashed its way through the landscape. The water is a slate grey colour; the scrubby desert runs right up to the banks. No green undergrowth leaks out from under the trees. Apparently nothing is watered by the riverflow except the magnificent trees that tightly delineate the banks. High up in their branches you see dry debris marking the upper level of the flood. The proportions are definitely Biblical.
At the midway point between the Bungles and Broome is the Fitzroy River, a legendary stream I’ve wanted to see since I was a kid. It is barely flowing now, but you can see that it has recently smashed its way through the landscape. The water is a slate grey colour; the scrubby desert runs right up to the banks. No green undergrowth leaks out from under the trees. Apparently nothing is watered by the riverflow except the magnificent trees that tightly delineate the banks. High up in their branches you see dry debris marking the upper level of the flood. The proportions are definitely Biblical.
The town of Fitzroy Crossing occupies a vulnerable location; photos in the van park office show we would be under five metres of water if the water had came down last night. The bar would be above the water though, thank the lord, because it’s perched on a huge man-made mound. With all this water it’s easy to imagine turning the desert green with a little determination and diligence. That’s what they thought the Ord River scheme would do, which as far as I can see is a failure: rice and cotton failed; vegetables failed...about all that’s happening is mango plantations and, of all things, sandalwood plantations. I haven’t checked my facts though, but why let the facts put you off your opinion?
We are talking to a stranger about his experiences when his satellite phone rings. He is alarmed, thinking there must be an emergency back home in Perth or wherever he is from. But no, it is his wife calling from the showers a hundred metres away, and would he bring over her hairdryer.
We are talking to a stranger about his experiences when his satellite phone rings. He is alarmed, thinking there must be an emergency back home in Perth or wherever he is from. But no, it is his wife calling from the showers a hundred metres away, and would he bring over her hairdryer.
The highway runs straight and straighter over this vast flood plain. It’s perched on a mound almost four metres above ground level, no doubt at a huge infrastructure cost with a disastrous financial return; perhaps its strategic value is worth the investment. The scrubland between the Fitzroy and Broome is colourless and scant, like hair on the head of a very old man. We pass along the southern boundary of RAAF Curtin, where there’s a detention centre. Didn’t see any boat people. Not surprising; if they look out their windows, they see Dante’s Inferno and don’t dare escape.
The Broome Tourist Information Office is staffed by blondes who are wishing they were in a Cable Beach bar. Broome is packed to the rafters with tourists and drop-ins. A big whiteboard shouts "FULL" against all five large van parks. Luckily no one makes a crack about "no room at the inn"– however, as good or bad luck would have it, an unpowered site suddenly becomes available. Broome has three overflow facilities for vans: the Pistol Club (a dustbowl, apparently), the PCYC (I don’t want to stay anywhere near the police), and the Seventh Day Adventist Kingdom Hall facility. Hallelujah.
We are directed to a tin-fenced enclosure jam-packed with vans of every race, creed and cult. Our site is at the rear of the Kingdom Hall. This is not an appropriate venue for atheists like us, but we’ll keep our faith in disbelief to ourselves. This place is great. Clean, organised and controlled except for dogs urinating outside the fence. Our backpacker neighbours play Jim Morrison’s “The End” at full volume and are scourged in a friendly way by Jim, the Adventist manager. They meekly reduce the volume from 50 to 12.5.
Adventist washing machines are 5 bucks a go but are on a kind of religious self-control system. Worse, you’re not allowed to use the machines from sunset on Friday to sunset on Saturday. Saturday is their Sabbath, when we’re treated to hymns, chanting and the clunking of teacups for four hours. Displays of Christian honour are a challenge for people like us (eg: atheists), who must be assumed to have no redeeming features.
Adventist washing machines are 5 bucks a go but are on a kind of religious self-control system. Worse, you’re not allowed to use the machines from sunset on Friday to sunset on Saturday. Saturday is their Sabbath, when we’re treated to hymns, chanting and the clunking of teacups for four hours. Displays of Christian honour are a challenge for people like us (eg: atheists), who must be assumed to have no redeeming features.
Janey and I listen to hymns of self-denial – something else we don’t believe in - while we eat a huge breakfast of fried eggs, bacon and Baked Beans (Broome Coles, on special, $1.00/can). They leave us to enjoy their hospitality without conditions. What they don’t do is act like missionaries who flog their version of JC's short earthly tenure with a foot in our door. Well, it’s true they can’t resist handing us a photocopied sheet called "A Message from your Dad" when we were leaving. It is a collection of slightly threatening homilies like “I know the number of every hair on your head”, “All you have done and will do is in my sight” and “I know everything in your heart.” It is signed “Your Dad, Almighty God.”
Broome is a delight, in particular its historical architectural character of high roofs, wide eaves and light-coloured corrugated iron internal and external walls. Little remains of the sleazy racially-exploitative pearling town of the early 1880s except a few Chinese street names and a couple of Asian General Stores. Any Chinese you meet these days greet you with "G’day mate", or "owyergoin"? The main street has a whimsical set designer’s charm and includes the Sun Picture theatre, from 1933, the oldest open-air picture theatre still operating in Australia. It offers deck chairs facing an outdoor screen.
Long ago I went to a similar theatre in Roma, Queensland. Under every patron’s arm was a half-carton of cold cans. You sat 0n deck chairs on the dirt floor, above you only the stars (the real ones, not the Hollywood ones). Signs said "Only one person per chair", presumably to reduce the incidence of unmarried mothers in town. You’d empty a can first, then throw it at the screen, which had been made from kerosene tins hammered flat and painted white. Audience reaction to the movie could be quickly and emphatically expressed. Nowadays this practice is banned because the popping and clanging of cans (not to mention the drunken laughter) disturbs the audience. The Australian joy in larrikinism, which still endures in our present group of camping aficionados, has been diluted by Political Correctness.
It’s a jolt to the heart when you notice aircraft, large aircraft, drop to within a few metres above your head as if they’re landing at the end of the street. In fact the Broome runway does begin at the end of the street. The planes skim the tops of the one-storey buildings, shave the top strand of the airport fence and put down within spitting distance of the toes of your sandals. No pretending there’s no airport noise near town – it’s right in the middle of the bloody town, so make a feature of it. Remember, weird is good. Where would we be without folly to amuse us? Who knows what history you’re going to write until you write it?
Broome’s Cable Beach is spectacular. At sunset dozens of cars assemble right on the beach in ordered rows. Clothed and unclothed people stare into the slanting orange sunset from the edge of the manicured lawn in front of the Cable Beach Resort and Zander’s Restaurant. Digital cameras click in a storm of virtual shutter sounds. Below us, groups of camels are silhouetted against the water. They wade through the shallows carrying dorky tourists at $80 a go. For a sunset evening in mid-winter it’s warm, tropical, not humid, delightful.
Back in town, Matso’s Restaurant is the best we found in Broome. It has its own brewery. The success of our night was the “Smokey Bishop” dark ale named after some transgressionary cleric or other; we bought a case for the road. Our approval of Matso’s food was unanimous – impressive given that the collective wisdom of our group is as elusive as jelly nailed to a wall.
