Optimism is a wonderful thing. About 5km on the return journey from Drysdale Station the Pajero acts like its hamstring tendons are cut. The road is the same as it was on the way in, although my optimism or refusal to accept reality smoothed it out considerably before we left this morning. I try not to behave badly because Ms M is my passenger, but she is alarmed as unmuffled curses continue for at least two hours. It feels like the car is hitting large metal pipes or other immovable objects placed at 300mm intervals (picture driving over the steel barriers on a D-Day beach). The car is crunching on its springs with no shock being absorbed. Metal is hitting metal as the rear of the car jitters and slews across the road. The lights, indicators and windscreen washers go on at regular intervals. The car is being destroyed.
After 230km of this cruel and unusual punishment, we limp into Home Valley Station anticipating a nightmare of delay and impossible mechanical challenges. Our camp on the bank of the Pentecost River offers an extravagant view of the Cockburn Ranges. All is pastel pink and grey. The river is tidal and rises about 5 metres; it’s full of crocs and, apparently, barras.
I take the Pajero to Brian, the Home Valley Station mechanic, who tells me all four of its shock absorbers are kaput. He seems quite amused at my misfortune but this may simply be his Scottish sense of humour. He advises me to get on the phone to Kununurra immediately to find out if I must order new shocks from Perth or Darwin and fly them in on the Mail Plane, due in a little less than a fortnight. There’s a joyful thought: a fortnight marooned in this place.
Luckily there’s a coin-in-the-slot phone near the bar. The first two places I call tell me “not a chance” or “you’re dreaming”. One says “Spare part for a Pajero? No way. Why didn’t you get a good Australian car like a Toyota?” This theme is constant. The Land Cruiser replaced the old boxy Land Rover long ago. Then, suddenly, Repco says they have four shocks that’ll fit, they’re not the same brand, mark you, but who cares? I order them instantly; the man promises not to sell them until I get there.
Without any shame he says “They’ll set you back $700.” “Fine,” I respond bravely. “Tell me, when can you install them?” Maybe I’ll have to get the Pajero transported the 120km to Kununurra by truck. Pigs mightn’t fly but money does. “We’re two weeks behind at the moment, mate. Maybe three.”
We visit Bermuda in the Triangle Ward at the Hospital. He says he’s eating everything they give him. This may be a good omen given the health-boosting properties of Hospital custard with a half-apricot on top. His ankle is heavily bandaged but a crimson infection peeps out. I thought aliens exited through the chest, not the lower leg. He is being slowly consumed by a weird parasite but seems unconcerned. What have they told him?
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Brian has removed two of the shocks. With an evil grin he pours metal dust out of them.“Wurrst shockers uv evurr sin,” he says. Anticipating a far worse shock when I get his bill, I give him the news about the reduced US economic rating from Standard & Poor's and suggest his price similarly be reduced from AAA to AA.
“Fook off,” he says, fondling the brand-new shocks like a young girl’s legs (his wife works in the Home Valley bar and smiles knowingly). He and his sidekick, a very tall Aboriginal named Diesel, get on with it. So what loomed as a big, big problem has had a very lucky and quick solution. There is a bit of hanging around in the bar while I’m waiting for the work to be done, suffering Country and Western video hits (“Ah’m carryin’ mah bible backed up with mah rifle...”) but I can handle it.
In Kununurra, Bob bought steaks as thick as paving stones and cooked over the fire they are wonderful. Because we were in town at the wrong hour our wine stocks continue to be at a long-time low, but as it’s now all stored in the Pajero I am rationing it. I am subject to bribes, pleas, demands, intimidation and outright lies.
While the Pajero is in Brian’s operating theatre, we travel to Bindoola Gorge, another of the amazing rock pools in this Durack and Pentecost River country. Bindoola is formed from shattered sandstone blocks, their sharp edges suggest that their formation is more recent than any other formation we’ve seen. In the Wet, water roars over a cliff with such power that a huge pool has been dug in the rock, with large blocks flung up on the opposite side.
Brian triumphs and completes the shocker installation a day late, but there’s no complaint from me. He’s being hassled by a foreign gentleman who acts like we’re all his servants. He hassles Brian with demands made in a heavy German or Austrian accent. He complains that Brian is working on the Pajero and not on his Range Rover, which he brought in after we arrived. He uses his title on every occasion as he thinks will gain him an advantage. The staff at Home Valley is polite and in gentle terms tell him to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine. A barman calls him Dr Mengele. Brian is an expert at handling people like him.
When Brian went out to tow him in, Mengele refused to follow his advice about handling the car and caused more damage. The alternator is burned out, the computer management system is frazzled by an ignition meltdown. The dear Doctor isn’t going anywhere soon.
“Och, very hard to get parts for Range Rovers,” Brian explains. “Maybe from Melbourne. Or New Zealand, even England if you’re unlucky. Maybe two weeks, maybe six.”Mengele is apoplectic. “Zis cannot be!”Brian shrugs. “Is,” he shrugs. He instructs me to go straight into Kununurra on my new shocks and get the wheels balanced. “Road’ll tear your tyres to shreds otherwise,” grins Brian. “I’ve seen it happen.”The others are going into El Questro*
