*After handing out bouquets and brickbats in Broome, marauding Bulldust Diary columnist /illustrator, Peter Burleigh , becomes slap happy in Derby , where fly in fly out has another meaning
The funniest thing about Derby is a sign on its outskirts:
“LET ME DO YOUR DISHES.
DERBY ANTENNA & AERIAL SERVICE.”
Things go downhill after that, although not literally. The place is flatter than a pancake. In fact, Derby almost isn’t there at all. It’s built in a tidal salt pan and its scattering of buildings is the same colour as its sandy marsh surroundings. The mud covers a little bit more of it every day. The tide and the sand flies are a key feature of its reputation. I’ll bet it’s no less miserable today as the day it was founded in 1883. And there are the mosquitoes which stand over the sandflies, mosquitoes at least as big as their night-fighter counterpart of World War Two. Attempt to slap one down and it’ll fly into your ear and eat your brain. The town’s crumbling at the edges but remains an operating port, exporting lead and zinc ore. Derby’s van park – yet another Gateway to the Kimberley - is so crowded even sardines would get claustrophobia.
The town’s highlight is the Pier restaurant at the end of the causeway at the far edge of the sand flats near the jetty. Its small terrace is perfectly located so you stare drop-jawed into the crimson sunset with a chilled Margaret River Chardonnay in hand. Under the veranda a sprinkler system sprays Citronella-and-water mixture through fine nozzles in an attempt to suppress the biting insects. The cool mist is delightful but repels nothing. The tastier individuals among us, your correspondent included, proudly display their red bites for days afterward. The compensation for being the mosquitoes’ meal is a big slab of super-fresh grilled Barramundi (and chips) for $22. The insects are included in the price. It’s still not a sufficient incentive to stay a second night.
After dinner we overhear an argument amongst the fishermen on the pier. A Maori (or Samoan, I couldn’t tell) says “Two hundred years ago I’d be eating you.”
Next morning at Nita’s Cafe in the main street, surrounded by thistles and garbage, we spot a funeral notice taped to the wall. A Smoking Ceremony is to be held for a local Aboriginal woman. A footnote reads “The family requests that people attend sober.”
