You know that inner voice? The one that says “Geez mate, the steels showin’ . Better change that tyre right away!” And then there’s that other voice, the one that dares you. “She’ll be right till you get to Alice Springs….trust me, I know theses things.” Usually, when that voice says “I know these things”, it doesn’t have a bloody clue.
And so it came to pass. That conversation in my head happened when we pulled into Marla, our first stop after leaving Coober Pedy. We had pulled in for lunch at this great roadhouse, with a lawn to sit on (which my be so-what to you, but after a week with nothing but stony ground, it felt like a Posturepedic). There was a smidge of concern at that moment, but doobie voice put that concern at ease….aaah the false bravado.
Now, before I unfold the ensuing debacle before your ever widening eyes, I do want to change topic briefly (only because I’m anal about timelines). After we left Marla we still had that barren landscape in our faces for maybe another hour and then on the horizon a green band appeared and five minutes later we had entered scrub country – trees, bushes, grasslands. Less Sub-Sahara, more the Serengeti (on a quiet day). Loyal readers, I’m not saying verdant fields of green pasture, but it certainly wasn’t the popular mythology of the red centre and a few disconsolate gums making up the numbers.
But I digress. (Yeah, Serengeti, blah,blah, get on with it). We were making good time and looking for a roadside stop for the night and hopefully our first camp fire in months. We found the perfect match at a place called Maryatt Creek -shade, water and fireplace. Now the first thing you do for any stay is to disconnect the electrics that link the car and the van – indicators, brake lights, electric brakes and fridge. I grabbed the harness and it was hot. Second thing I noticed was smoke coming from the connector and the acrid smell of burning plastic. This is NOT good. Not an uncommon problem but easily replaced by any good auto -elec, and if your going to be without indicators or electric brakes, the Stuart Highway is one of the better options – flat, not very busy. This setback was not going to distract from a perfect outback sunset, a roaring campfire and a beer.
The next morning we crossed over into the northern Territory and stopped at Kulgera for some ice. Had another look at the tyre. The competing voices were hard at it and, as per usual, I dared the prudent counsel on offer and we pressed on. (look, it’s not like I can’t change a tyre under duress. I just doubted the jacks ability to easily, on my part, get a four ton caravan off the ground). “What’s that noise?” says Tamika about 20 minutes later. She wound down the window. The wind was whistling as per usual and there was this other sound. Not the screeching, grinding noise you would expect from a tyre and rim disintegrating on the bitumen at 90 kph, but enough to at least pull over and check , just to be sure. And sure enough, in that moment of aghast, that other voice was nowhere to be heard.
Before our eyes, a disaster of biblical proportions. It would be hard to imagine a more ruinous sight.
The tyre was no doubt scattered over the previous kilometres, the rim ground down to a mangle of aluminium and wire, and yes, a jack that required a professional body builder and nuts that must have been welded on. There we were in the middle of nowhere on a warming morning – no fix, no mobile phone, no hope. All I could do was clutch the tyre iron, do my best Puss ‘N Boots at every passing motorist and pray for a rescuer. AND IT WAS SO !! Five minutes later, a black 4WD that had passed moments earlier doubled back to see if we needed help. He was no ordinary hero. Years of outback experience, a toolkit that a mechanic would be proud to own and a pneumatic jack. Jackpot!!
My new BF, Henry and his wife Carol were angels. We had the spare on in under 20 minutes and we gratefully waved them on their way. Unfortunately, we were only to find out later that the shrapnel flying everywhere had severed both electric cables to the caravan brakes and punctured two of the other van tyres.
Still, undauntered by no indicators, brakes and two slowly deflating tyres, there was a quick consensus that we could muddle our way to Curtin Springs with the help of our portable air compressor and really, could it get any worse? Well, for once, it didn’t and Uluru was getting a visit from us after all.
