The Rod Blog

26 November 2005

Home again, jiggidy jig

...and this little piggy came home. 7,600km, good thing I'm tough (unlike this one, who couldn't cut the distance). The final episode in the adventure was a major dump of rain 5 minutes from home - a Sydney Harbour of water tipped in one burst, but I wasn't going to stop even though cars were pulling onto the verge with their headlights on.

Now to the wierdness of returning to ordinary life.

A special thanks to everyone who showed me such fine hospitality.

22 November 2005

Nelson, the first greenie

Now in a little holiday spot called Nelson, on the SA/Vic border. Quite nice, and an attractive river for an afternoon cruise.

I ask the local about phone access. The greenies, phhhffff! are objecting to a mobile phone tower in a paddock. They don't like it (apparently) because they think holiday spots should be away from things such as mobile phones. Doesn't sound remotely like a green issue to me. But what an insult, to be a greenie.

20 November 2005

Of dust and flies and things

Oh tales of woe and malady. This is what you need for entertaining travel stories, so it is with great regret that I have none. No Kalashnikov-bearing border guards or goat-eyeball feasts with bearded natives. Just another day, another beer by the sunset and a D&M with master chef travelmate David. Sadly, David’s now left me, but I am in Adelaide with Jeanne & Jason for a couple of nights. It’s really nice to visit friends & relo’s while travelling.

And now, the tough job of digging up a disaster or two for your enjoyment. Why would you want to ride the Nullarbor, people asked me. Well, I wouldn’t want to do it for a living, but I thought it was a hoot. It’s one of those rites every Australian should do at least once, especially on a motorbike. The only low point is the dustiest, windiest camp site I’ve every seen. Impossible to put anything down or it’ll blow away. Dust drilling its way into every nook of your body and luggage, up your nose and in your jocks. But the views were beaut and we kept our cheer despite.

David is the Iron Chef, and the best I can do from my lowly kitchen-hand rank is keep him supplied with chopped veggies and clean utensils. So we arrive in Pemberton, and the local dam is chockers with marron (cray). This is my big chance. I will go hunting-and-gathering and, by God, whatever it takes I’m going to return with some for dinner, or die in the attempt! Yeah, right. They show no interest in my delicately prepared chicken pieces, and my elaborate trap made from a cheese grater is useless. An early demise is not my prefered option, I go over the road and buy some. It was them or me and besides, they taste better.

Okay, hardly a disaster, but did I tell you about the flies? The flies! Aaagh! I’m riding down to Yorke peninsula, and blat-blat-blat on my visor smearing their oily little bodies in little coloured paint blots. Very amusing, thinks I, this will make a quirky picture for my collection. And, in due course I arrive at the national park where I will set my tent, crack a bottle, and admire yet another wondrous sunset (sadly sans-David). But as soon as I’m off the bike, news is out. Fly newsflash. Here’s some new nostrils to explore! Eyeballs, ears and mouth. Dodge the ineffectual flapping arms, and get ‘em while they’re fresh.

Blow that for a joke (oops, a pun), I’m outa here. Take your stinking park, and I’m back to the caravan park for a civilised stay at a cabin (with, would you believe, a TV & DVD).

Last week of my trek now. A few days along the southern Vic coast, and home on Saturday.