Ladies to the Left, Gents to the Right

 

croc-hiding
Not a good spot – there’s a croc lying there!

At our age, toilet facilities are important, so we were pleased to read in the booklet we got about our trip that each of our overnight stops had ensuite facilities. Most impressive in the middle of nowhere! But more of them later.

En route along the unpaved road, things were different. There was no shortage of bushes, trees and scrub to crouch behind, after first of all ascertaining that there were no nasty creatures lurking. By the end of the trip we’d all got quite used to men in one direction, ladies in the other and a communal mooning at anybody unfortunate enough to be passing.

not-a-good-place
Not much use either!

It was the dunnies that were… interesting. (An Australian toilet is a dunny by the way.) To have any sort of toilet in a wilderness area is a feat of logistics and many and varied were the solutions to the problem of where to put it and how to dispose of it. Some dunnies were of the simple ‘long drop’ variety – a long drop into some sort of pit where it would eventually compost down. The flies loved these. And the smell could be pretty overpowering too. But they gave you privacy and they always had toilet paper!

dunny
The queue at the dunny

Others were more sophisticated with buckets of some kind of disinfectant and instructions on washing down the toilet bowl after use. They also usually had a trap door in the bowl which kept the flies and smell out, and which opened when a lever was hauled back and forth. Noisy but effective.

Our bus was loaded with a water tank, liquid soap and anti-bacterial hand wash so we managed to avoid any episodes of the runs – or at least, no-one was admitting to them.

In the roadhouses we stopped at, most had flush toilets – oh the luxury! But they came with warnings. Put the lid down to keep out frogs and snakes, they admonished. Apparently creatures come through the septic tank system and up the toilet bowl.snakes-sign

Gary, our guide, told us a tale of a young girl in her early twenties who had been bitten by a snake when she sat down on the toilet, and was so embarrassed by where the bite was that she told no-one. Two hours later, she collapsed (it was probably a brown snake, one of the most venomous) and unfortunately they couldn’t save her.

It was certainly one way of making sure we put the lid down!

frog-signOne night in our glamping tent, we discovered a frog sitting happily on the cistern in the en suite. It point blank refused to return down the way it had come, so my other half (MOH) simply closed the door of the en suite so that it would not come into the bedroom area. Another of Gary’s tales was that frogs liked to seek out the warmest places to sit on and therefore they headed for your face in bed at night. Neither of us was happy with the thought of that frog, pretty though it was, spending the night with us.

I had been trying to ensure I didn’t become dehydrated that day and had been regularly emptying my water bottle (they recommend you drink around four litres each day) so of course, the inevitable happened. In the middle of the night, I had to go. Gingerly stepping out on to the cold floor boards, I reached for my solar powered torch. It was dead. I stretched my arms out to find the light switch. It wasn’t where I thought it should be. I stepped forward and collided with the door of the en suite. I couldn’t find the handle to open it. By the time I did manage to fling it open, things were desperate and I couldn’t have cared if I stepped on the frog or even sat on it. Much relieved, I returned to my bed.

The next morning, the frog was clinging to the toilet brush, none the worse for its interrupted night.

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Where Are We?

 

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We followed the Gibb River Road

So where are we? We’re in the Kimberley, one of the last wildernesses in the world and one of the least populated areas anywhere. It’s right at the north-eastern end of Western Australia and its eastern edge is the border with the Northern Territory.

The Gibb River road on which we’re – rickety-rickety – travelling is unpaved though the graders go through it regularly in order to smooth out the worst of the corrugations. The route is only open from around March to October, depending on the rains which are heaviest in their summer months and which regularly flood the roads and the settlements. Some of the roadhouses mark each year’s flood or post pictures of how high the waters came and when it’s too bad to drive, the road is closed to all traffic.

There is another road, a bitumen road further south, the Great Northern Highway for those who don’t have 4-wheel drive vehicles, but hey, where’s the fun in that? So we rickety-rickety our way, thankful to be strapped in as we bounce along.

reflection
A calm creek that we crossed

It’s beautiful country with creeks and rivers flowing all year round, home to huge numbers of birds. Rugged red sandstone cliffs give way to oases of waterholes surrounded by gum trees and grasses, their images reflected in the still waters. Waterfalls tumble down the cliffsides, and as the sun sets, the colours change to misty blues and greens and golds.

Darkness falls around 5.30pm here in July and the temperature plummets. We pile on layers of clothing and huddle round the campfire before dashing off to our beds in the hope of retaining some of its warmth.

The nights are punctuated by rustlings and snortings under the floorboards of the tent or by the gentle and not so gentle snores of our neighbours. We coorie under the bedclothes and refuse to let our imaginations go to work on what those noises could be.

We’re woken each morning between 4am and 5am by the dawn chorus – a chattering and warbling and downright squawking that doesn’t happen in Scotland. The only bird I can recognise is the kookaburra with its chortling sound. We do have a small alarm clock but we’re always awake before it buzzes. Others are stirring in the adjacent tents so unwillingly, we creep out of our beds and dress. One morning, it’s so cold (it sank to 5 degrees that night) that I slip my clothes into the warm bed with me and get dressed in a horizontal position. I used to do that when I was growing up in a tenement in Glasgow but I was a great deal more agile then as my heavy breathing and contortions reveal.

bbq-breakfast
We’ll have the lot!

Meals are in open-sided pavilions and are amazingly good considering the isolation of it all. It’s not as if you can nip down to the shops if you’ve forgotten anything. Breakfasts are hearty with a variety of choices that many a hotel would find hard to match. There’s only one problem; there’s only 45 minutes between arriving for breakfast and leaving on the bus, scarcely enough time to fill your stomachs, gather your belongings and head for your seat. No-one wants to be last on the bus!

My other half (MOH) finds this well-nigh impossible. He’s used to a leisurely breakfast followed by equally leisurely ablutions and a read of the morning paper. This dawn rushing is not to his taste. We try arriving early for breakfast but they’re not ready so we still have to wait, wrapped in the alpaca wool ponchos which are supplied to keep us warm in the early morning chill.

What to wear is another difficulty. The temperature may be in single figures before dawn, but after the sun rises, it heats up and may reach 30 degrees in the afternoon. So layers are the answer. They can be divested and stuffed into our backpacks as the day progresses. But we have another problem. The size and weight of our luggage (16kg) is strictly limited due to space on the bus being at a premium. That’s ok if you’re only doing the two-week trip before returning home, but we have an extra three weeks to cater for. And we have a variety of scenarios to dress for – cities, fancy restaurants, long walks through the wilderness, family get-togethers and swimming in waterholes, and temperatures ranging from downright cold to 45 degrees. ‘Co-ordinated layers’ might be the term for it but by the end of the holiday I am heartily sick of wearing the same things in whatever combination I can think up.waterfall

I forgot/couldn’t pack a decent pair of shoes so I have a) hiking shoes b) velcro fastening sandals and c) a free pair of flip-flops from M&S (they call them ‘thongs’ here – snigger, snigger). Work that lot into the equation.

But amongst all this stunning scenery, who cares what I look like?

Off We Go! Or how I spent my summer holidays July-August 2016

 

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The Gibb River Road is in red

 

It’s 5am on a chilly winter’s morning in July. It’s still dark and we’re sitting in a hotel’s open-air restaurant trying to stuff as much breakfast into us before we set off. We don’t know how long it will be before we get a chance to eat again. Other couples huddle around us exchanging wan smiles as they wander around the buffet for cereal, toast, tea and coffee. The poor girl rostered to serve us at this early hour looks as if she can’t wait to get rid of us so she can return to bed.

We’re all wearing shorts, warm jackets and stout walking shoes. Beside us lie various backpacks laden with water bottles, sunscreen, hats and cameras. Our luggage has already been portered to our transport, a converted four-wheel drive flatbed truck with a seating pod containing 20 seats. We will become only too familiar with this vehicle over the next 16 days.

truck
Our transport

We’re in Broome, right at the top left-hand corner of Western Australia and we’re about to start an epic trip along the unpaved Gibb River road into the Northern Territory, and ending in Darwin. It’s only open over the dry season, April to October, as during the wet months, the road is flooded and impassable.

We met our guide and some of our fellow travellers yesterday in the hotel lobby. Gary, our guide, is in his thirties, from Belfast we discover the moment he speaks, and he has fallen in love with the Kimberley as this area is known. His enthusiasm is infectious, his manner open and friendly and within a couple of days he has us all whipped into shape and following his instructions to the letter.

I was worried that this trip would challenge me in many ways; would I be fit enough to do the many walks scheduled into the itinerary, would we be the oldest in the group, not exactly being spring chickens, would there be many other foreign tourists, would we fit in ok, would we…..

The meeting in the hotel reassures me on many fronts. For a start the rest of the party are all Australians and some look quite a bit older than us, though age is no indicator of level of fitness as we will find out. But it doesn’t take long for us all to chat away, the Aussie sense of humour coming quickly to the fore, and confidences regarding various ailments exchanged.

By 6am, we’re all on board the bus and setting off. We’ve bagged the front seat but not for long as Gary explains the movable feast that are the seating arrangements. Basically we move back a seat every day until you reach the back seats set over the axles which make for an even more bumpy ride at which point you are promoted to the front and the sequence starts again.

He gives us a quick tour of Broome as the sky lightens and as we reach the white sands of the long, Cable Beach, deserted at this hour, we park and watch the sunrise over the ocean. Yes, it’s the Pacific Ocean and this is Western Australia, but the land has curved back on itself so that we are facing east.

sunrise
Dawn through sleepy eyes

At first we’re driving on bitumen but it’s not long before we hit the unpaved road and the corrugations. Several hours of this and we’re grateful to stop and stretch our legs at Windjana. We walk along the river, Gary pointing out the freshwater crocodiles on the opposite bank. The ‘freshies’ are smaller with narrower snouts than the big saltwater ones, the ‘salties’, and are not nearly as dangerous.

freshies-2
Freshwater crocodiles

‘They won’t kill you, their snouts can’t get a good grip of you,’ he reassures us, ‘though they can still bite you quite hard.’
We squat on the sandy beach for lunch, the freshies far enough downstream to pose no threat and then back on the bus and off to Tunnel Creek. This is a paddle through a natural formed tunnel through the Napier Range which opens out into an idyllic watering hole at the end. I’m glad of the walking pole I borrow from the bus’s supply to keep my balance in the stony, shingly waters.
By the time we reach our final destination, Bell Gorge Wilderness Lodge, it’s dark and we’re tired, cold and hungry. We’re sleeping in posh tents, perched on a wooden base and large enough to hold a bedroom and bathroom complete with shower and flush toilet. A hot shower, a three course meal and we tumble into bed exhausted at 8pm. It’s been a long day!

glamping
Glamping, Oz style