Day 35 - Still Outside Timber Creek

Saturday, 3 July 2021

One thing I notice about the tropics, other than the warmth, is the noise. The sounds. The range, variety, volume and novelty of bird calls, for instance. And night noises. Where the desert is stark and still at night, the tropics come alive. Crickets serenade the whole night through. Some birds apparently don’t sleep. Bats fly hither and thither. Things are more prone to go crunch in the bush, disturbing my light, hesitant sleep. And then there are the river creatures.

Ka-sploosh! We look at each other across the table, our card game temporarily suspended. It sounded like a decent-sized kid dive bombing in the river. Highly doubtful in croc country in the middle of the night. What was it?

We get out the strong torches, shine them on the river. Nothing. Maybe it was a tree branch falling in the water? A crocodile pouncing on some poor unsuspecting animal just down for a drink? I learned that crocs can’t eat under water, so if they catch a fish, they need to surface to swallow. Maybe this croc had caught a big one, thrashing about in its steely jaws before he munched it? What else could it have been but a croc?

Over breakfast we watch birds. Plenty of White Cockatoos. The squawkers. Several souring Whistling Kites, checking out the humans invading their territory. Two audacious Great Bowerbirds checking out the contents of our breakfast table, cocking their heads when we shoo them away. Are you kidding? Who are you to boss us around? They hop over to the car, onto the open door, look intent on going inside. Johan shuts the door and they hop back over to the table, tap their bulky beaks on the plastic muesli container. Shoo!

No new news on borders. But the Northern Territory reports no new cases in five days. That’s got to convince the W.A. government it’s safe to let us stranded WAussies back in?

A man in a ute pulls up. Found us out, did ya? he chortles. How’s the catch? It’s his favourite fishing spot and he’s hoping he has better luck today than yesterday. He and Johan chat. The man lives nearby but hasn’t been too far from home so can’t really tell us much about camping options between here and the border. He offers various opinions about the state of the world, the local Aboriginal community, state politics, and our predicament -- whether we should head to the border and what we should do once we get there -- before grabbing his rod. Throws a line in a couple times. No luck. After ten minutes, he drives away.

Later another man turns up, walking through the bush. Fishing good here? He’s camped up at the campground we rejected last night. He’s from Victoria, headed for W.A. but is happy to wait until things change. Retired and in no hurry.

Later still, a group of four and a dog walk by, eyeing our campsite with clear envy. How’s the fishing? they try, before getting to what they really want to know. How long you going to be here? They’re also up at the campground but would prefer to set up their two vans here, plus park their boat in the waterhole. Not sure, we say. They’ll check back tomorrow then, and wander off.

We decide to hang out another day, maybe head to the border tomorrow, check out Keep River National Park on the NT side of the border if we can’t get across. It’s a lazy Saturday afternoon.