Day 31 - Katherine, NT

Tuesday, 29 June 2021

Few people realise that Australia’s population density is just short of three-and-a-half people per square kilometre. To dip under that you’d need to go to Namibia or Mongolia. That's it. That’s a lot of personal space and even though Australian cities’ are as crowded as anywhere else in the world, the freedom of wide open spaces with plenty of room to breathe is a core value for most Aussies.

For bush campers it’s even greater. Most of our camps on this trip have had two people per square kilometre, Johan and me. Much of the time there’s no one in a coo-ee of 10 or even 100 kilometres of our camp.

So turning up at the Riverview Tourist Village in Katherine is an exercise in breathing deep and reigning in our outsized sense of personal space. We’re assigned space number nine, a thin and narrow dirt patch bordered on one side by a green corrugated iron fence with two strips of barbed wire on top and views of the tops of vine-covered cabs in the semi-truck graveyard next door. We’re lucky that no one’s in space number ten so we can spread out a bit, visually if not physically. But just before dusk a Holden turns up and a weary-looking young couple pop out, pitch a lightweight tent, then promptly get back in their car and drive off. 

Lots one through nine at the Riverview Tourist Village have roughly sixteen square metres per campsite to park your camper, your vehicle and whatever space is left over for your camp chairs. None of us have access to power, which was understood, but neither do we have water taps or waste drains, which wasn’t. Plus we get the unsurpassed serenade of truck traffic on the Victoria Highway for all but the wee hours of the morning.

Still, there’s two bonuses to the RTV: it exists under a canopy of some of the most expansive and delightful tropical trees you’ll find anywhere in Katherine, providing shade for most campers for most of the day. Second, there’s a gate along the back fence (where the really beautiful, spacious camping sites are) that leads to a trail down into the Katherine River valley and the small gorge from which a natural thermal spring burbles out from deep within the bowels of the earth. The small pool it creates eventually overflows into a tree-lined narrow channel that feeds another pool that flows into another channel and on and on until it reaches the main river some 100 metres away.

So first thing this morning, before the crowds descend upon the popular Katherine site, we don our bathers and head for the pool. We arrive just after 7am. Two bright-pink-bikini-clad young women have set up cameras to take pictures of themselves floating on their plastic tubes in various perky positions. We swim past their focal range and jump into the small pool from where the source springs. It’s private, delightfully clean and surrounded by lush river flora. Rivals anything you’d find in Bali.

Eventually, like yesterday, we float down the channels and then, because the morning’s still cool, rather than walking the path back to the original platform, we swim against the tide, through the pull of the channels, over the natural rock dam and back into the first pool, which is now full of morning pleasure seekers.

The rest of the day is, as expected, spent cleaning, working, sorting, shopping. We don’t come to urban caravan parks for the fun of it. By day’s end we discover no one has put cans of beer in the fridge from our stores under the seats of the trailer. What about trying out a Katherine pub for a cool pint instead? Bit of fun in Katherine never hurts.

At 5:08pm we embark on a walk through town to kill time before the 5:30pm opening of the “beer garden” we parked in front of. By 5:35pm the front entrance still hasn’t opened and Johan discovers a small sign suggesting we should enter around the side. We go looking for the side entrance but can’t find it. Yet another example of cryptic NT signage.

So we head to the next on the Google search list and end up at the Barrel and Cruse Bistro, which regrettably hasn’t taken advantage of their close proximity to the Katherine River to create a river-view terrace. The “beer garden” has a large colourful kids play gym next to it and three TVs, all broadcasting different stations. We order a couple of pints, chose a tall table in front of one of the TVs airing the ABC News updates on the current COVID “crises” across Australia, and eventually order dinner. 

Johan’s curry is tasty, the chicken a bit gummy. My burger is a high-piled sloppy mess of gristly meat, beetroot, egg, and bacon falling out the sides. When my pile of rejected gristle gets unreasonably high I grab my plate and take it to the counter: for a $24 burger, advertising “grass-fed Angus steak”, this is one of the worst burgers I’ve ever eaten. It’s the new cook, the woman owner apologizes, I’ll let him know, and offers to refund my money. He probably just needs to buy something other than the cheapest chuck, I suggest. I head back to the table to finish the sweet potato chips I’d swept off the platter and help myself to a couple spoonfuls of chicken curry from Johan’s side of the table. 

Even in the worst of times, we try to bend towards the half-full version of reality. A friend writes that when they end up in some awful caravan park situation, she tries to remember the refugee camps the world over, how their suffering makes ours pale by comparison. From Wordsworth to the New Age, the idea that "beauty exists in everything" is a worthy refrain to pull us from our imagined misery. The artwork of tree canopies. Healing waters. Boisterous barks from tropical birds our morning wake-up call. Nice camp neighbours to exchange travel stories with. Katherine hasn't been half bad after all.

Day 30 - A Sweet Slide Down the Bitter Springs

Sunday, 28 June 2021

Abby loves crocodiles. She had one wrapped around her neck once, at the wildlife park where they were extra-safety-sure to wrap a guard around the critter’s mouth. But wild crocs are a different story. They’re kind of a 4-letter word to the ears of a wary 11-year-old. So we try to refrain from using the c-word around the young ones.

The four of us arrive at Bitter Springs, a popular place to bring your floating devices, step down the ladder into the ultra-clear blue-black warm pool and let the current carry you down to the next set of ladders, which is about a 10-15 minute ride. If you don’t get too relaxed, you can just manage to pull yourself up, walk back to the start, and do it all over again!

That’s what we did – eventually. When Abby first got her toes wet, she was a bit concerned about the “Crocodile Safety” signs in the carpark. Are there crocodiles here? she asked, hesitant to walk further. Nah, we adults confirmed, there wouldn’t be so many people here if there were crocodiles about.

Still, Abby wasn’t convinced. She saw the pool full of noodle-hanging people. She sees her granddad and his two friends get in. So eventually she gets in, then gets out, then gets in again. We form a ring-of-three around her and she sits on a knee so her toes don’t have to touch the sandy bottom. There are also rocks and dead logs down there and who knows what’s lurking under them.

I suggest we do a group float down the canal, see where it ends up. No way! It's enough to make her want to get out again. But instead we hang for a bit, enjoying the warm bath. Abby gets more comfortable. Eventually she asks whether we can float down the canal to the other end. Sure!

For me, despite the throngs of noodle-waving noisy floaters, lying on my back, allowing the slow soft current to drag me along, the sun stripling through a canopy of tropical trees, intricate webs of giant spiders glistening in the light – I’m in momentary bliss. But there’s always the concern of bumping your head into a fellow swimmer -- or worse, getting kicked in the head by one -- so I look up and see a flotilla of noodle-hanging tourists floating straight at me. Yikes! Pay attention! No time for reverie!

I get to the end and Abby’s sitting comfortably on the stairs. I grab her ankles and smile big, You made it! Woohoo!! Let’s do it again, she squeals. You want to?

So down we float again, after which we’re all so relaxed we’re not sure whether we can move forward with the day. But Abby and granddad Kurt are on their way south, and we have a 2-night booking at a caravan park in Katherine. So we hug goodbyes and set off down the highway in separate directions.

Photos courtesy of Kurt Zinc

When we arrive in Katherine, it occurs to me that setting up camp in a crowded, shoulder-to-shoulder campground with a bad cough is not a good idea in the midst of a COVID-frenzy, currently plaguing Australia. Darwin’s in lockdown and it looks like travelers intending to make that their destination for the weekend have holed up in Katherine. The town’s crawling in caravans.

I call the Katherine hospital to find out where I might get a COVID test. I seriously doubt I have it, but what I do have is four out of the eight symptoms they outline on the government COVID site. What to do? The patient woman on the other end of the line suggests getting a test might be a good idea. But she can’t help with that. I need to call the COVID hotline.

I wait for 20-minutes on the COVID hotline – apparently the “nation-wide outbreak” is causing the higher-than-usual volume of calls they’re currently receiving – and the very pleasant, very patient young woman who eventually answers hears my story, agrees that it might be a good idea to get tested – but she can’t help with that. I need to Google “test site near me” and see where I can go to get tested in Katherine. Oh and it might take a few days to get an appointment, and then up to 3 days to get results, and oh, during those three days, you’ll need to isolate yourself, basically from everyone, including your family.

Patience. That’s what I’m gleaming from my interlocutors this afternoon. I Google “test site near me” but my phone thinks I’m in Sydney so what it comes up with is not helpful. I check my Settings. “Location” is checked. Don’t know why the phone can’t figure out that I’m not in Sydney but the northern Northern Territory.

The story goes on. It’s not worth dribbling on about. We’ve all been there, the wild goose chase through technology and bureaucracy, the time-suck, the headache … the impatience that ensues.

I sit down in my sundowner chair. I think I won’t get a COVID test, I say. May be time for a beer? Johan suggests. Hmmm. Sounds good.

Day 29 - Mataranka

Sunday, 27 June 2021

We emerge from the Limmens Park dust clouds like Glinda from her cloud of fairy dust. Ready for a smooth ride on a paved road. But after fuelling up in Roper Bar, the road heading west stays determinedly dusty, despite what the map says.

Eventually though it does turn into a one-lane bitumen road, crumbling at the sides. It’s pretty country, rolling hills and rocky escarpments. When my head isn’t (still) on a pillow, I’m enjoying the view.

The road ends at the Stuart Highway, just short of Mataranka. The tiny town is known for two things: it’s heavenly hot springs and home of the Australian 1908 classic We of the Never, Never, an account of life in these parts in early settlement days. Rough as guts. Territorians have bonded with their venturesome, free-swinging identity ever since.

Bitter Springs, thermal pools on the edge of Elsey National Park, has a campground nearby. Both are crawling with tourists, most of them carrying various renditions of the ubiquitous swimming noodle. We hear two pieces of bad news when we inquire at the campground for vacancies. First, no. They booked out at 11am. Second, parts of the Northern Territory have just gone into lockdown. Miners at a remote gold mine have tested positive for COVID19, Darwin is shut down, and Territorians and travelers are awaiting news of how far the current ‘outbreak’ has spread. (In Australia, a coronavirus ‘outbreak’ is always put in inverted commas because it rarely surpasses a dozen people or so. In the NT there’s currently four active cases. Good reason for a lockdown.)

That’s enough to send hypervigilant Western Australia into a frenzy and current reports show border closures. Which leaves us wondering how we’re going to get home.

In the meantime, another caravan park just down from the Bitter Springs has vacancies, unpowered sites in an open treed area. Just as we finish our set up the phone rings. It’s Kurt, neighbour in Lot 9 back in Pamelup. He flew to Darwin recently to pick up his granddaughter, 11-year-old Abby, and take her on a road trip to the centre, Uluru their destination. We’ve been keeping track of each other to see if our paths might cross. We’re just checking in to the caravan park, he says, the first on the left as you enter Maranaka. What? We’re at the Everlasting Caravan Park. Where are you? Yeah, that’s the one, he says. Unreal! You can find us along the back fence in the unpowered sites.

We spend the rest of the evening enjoying the company of our neighbours, currently 5000 kms from home. Abby makes steak sandwiches and I put together a sweet potato and black bean soup. Kurt brings a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. In the distance, a Willy Nelson singer starts up the free Sunday evening concerts the park offers during the tourist season. Good food, good company, nice music. All good.

But eventually my hacking cough gets the better of me and I trip off to bed, the cowboy rendition of a sweet Peter, Paul, and Mary ballad off in the distance lulling me to sleep.

Day 28 - Munbilla

Saturday, 26 June 2021

We talk about bodies, try to classify them into two sets: strong/weak, sensitive/insensitive, try to fit ourselves in there, who's more susceptible, the what how when and why of it all. But it’s too hard. Bodies are complicated.

What I do know is that when we do get sick, Johan usually fares better than me. He’s sick for four days, sputters and spews for a night, then declares it finished, time to move on. By Day Two of mine, my head is on the pillow and my face sullen. A cough starts up and exhausts me with its demands.

We arrive at the last campground in Limmens NP, Munbilla, affectionately known as Tomato Island, a wide park-like expanse on the Roper River with a tumble of trailers and caravans – all of them with boats on trailers, reading for river fishing – scattered across the lawns, copiously watered by river water. Not perfect but I’m tired and the bumpy roads aren’t helping my cough.

My little white pills (nothing worse than ibuprofen) take the edge off, but it’s another bad night of coughing and wheezing. Sorry, I say, when we wake up. I must have kept my sleeping partner awake much of the night with all my noise.