The last car through

The last car through

The Last Car Through

 

 From Kununurra to Derby on the Gibb River Road

The clouds are hanging like smoke plumes in a clear blue sky. You would almost have to squeeze your eyes shut to look into the sun and see them. They could have been smoke signals from some Indian tribe by the round and identical look of them. Without any warning the clouds start to form a thick blanket, which turns a dark grey and bursts open just a few minutes later. Water flows in long red-coloured streams and finds its way through the soil. We’re driving an unsealed road, the red mud gets stuck in our tires and all four of them spray the wet red dirt around as we drive. 

We have started on the legendary Gibb River Road, once a road to move cattle, but now a 4wd track that every offroad enthusiast wants to drive. As the Lonely Planet describes: “ A high-clearance 4WD (eg Toyota Landcruiser) is mandatory, with two spare tyres, tools, emergency water and several days’ food in case of breakdown.” I believe we got this sorted.

The largely unsealed road of about 660 km long lies between Kununurra and Derby and along it are some of the most stunning gorges to be found in Australia. We really want to experience this drive, but time is running short and it is already December. The wet season is about to commence and this road can be closed at any time when the circumstances are unsafe for travel. 

Fortunately, the department of Transport in Kununurra informed us it would still be safe, but that we should not take longer than 4 days and that we would probably be one of the last cars to drive the whole thing from there to Derby before they close it off. 

The rain stops as suddenly as it started. The clouds drift away like sailboats and leave an empty blue ocean. I turn down my window and warm, humid air flows in. The road takes us up an elevated plateau with an impressive grey rock wall which beautifully contrasts with the red dirt and blue sky. I see two vehicles coming from the way we are heading. They seem to be sand coloured from a distance, but when they pass us they turn out to be the same white Landcruiser Troopcarrier that we are driving, camouflaged by a layer of mud. We now know what awaits us…

We don’t have to wait long for that matter, before we know it we’re standing before the Pentecost River: a 300 meter long river crossing. Helga gets out her trekking poles, puts the camera in a water resistant backpack, grabs an Oricom handheld from the glove department and starts to walk across the river. The Troopcarrier waits with its front wheels in the water and me on the bonnet scouting the river. We realise that this river probably has some less dangerous freshwater crocodiles, but could also house some bloodthirsty saltwater ones since the river ends in the sea. 

The water almost reaches her shorts, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. She won’t be distracted by the current and reaches the other side quickly. I now know which depth to expect. 

Over the radio Helga tells me about the obstacles and the route to take. 

Slowly, in low gear, I follow her trail with our loaded Troopy. When we’re on the other side the clouds, again, turn to a solid grey blanket. By the time we are both safe and sound inside the car the blanket tears open: just in time.

 

The road winds through a breathtaking landscape. The road is rough, but the low tyre pressure makes it bearable. We stop to have lunch at Rollies Jump Up, make coffee with our percolator and look out over a long stretch of nothing. The whole day we are the only ones on the road. 

We set up camp at Kennedy Creek next to an old fire pit. For many years travellers through the Kimberleys have stayed here and probably not much has changed. 

We have already left before the sun rises. It must have rained extensively a few kilometres down the road because it’s alternately mud and sand. We take a turn off the Gibb towards “Gibb River” cattle station. A young couple opened a little shop here about a year ago and together with the Aboriginal community, a nurse and the owner of the station they form a small, but hospitable place to stay. Three large mango trees are the centre of attention when we pull up and leave us and the car in some more than welcome shade. We enjoy the stories from the people we meet and we feel very welcome in this community. The map comes out quickly and we leave with several notes and circles around places not to miss along our way. We return to the main road full of new ideas and places to visit. 

31 Kilometres later we leave the Gibb again. We start on the road that will lead us towards Mount Elizabeth Station and for the next 29 kilometres, which is not that long save for the teeth shattering corrugations, we mindlessly endure the rough road.  When we reach the homestead we find out that the owner has left the station for the wet season and we meet the caretakers. They turn out to be both writers and they decided to live in this desolate place to finish their books. Surprised by us visitors so late in the season they don’t hesitate to answer our enquiries. The owner from the shop we just visited made some notes on how we should visit the gorge that belongs to Mt Elizabeth Station. There should also be some Aboriginal Art around on the rocks a little bit further downstream. The writers have no knowledge about the art, but give us the small laminated mud map of the area which shows us the way to the gorge and point out the grey gate towards the beginning of the track. 

We cross a small river and slowly start on the narrow road that winds through the dense vegetation and boulders. It is obvious that this road has not been used for a while now. Nature has started to reclaim some parts of it; we can hear the low scrub in the middle of the track brushing underneath the car, roots found their way over the road and the first rainstorms left deep ditches to navigate around. 

We stop when we reach a steep and rocky descent we don’t want to risk with our car. The sun is at its highest point, but we decide to follow the rest of the track on foot. We battle the heat step by step, while our footprints are clearly visible in the dust behind us. The track becomes more narrow until all that remains is a walking trail on which we continue. Small white ribbons are the only way of knowing we are actually going the right way. From beneath her pink cap I can see Helga’s face; sweat trickles down her face into her t-shirt and her colour matches that of the cap.

A water python watches us from its hiding place when we make our descent into the gorge. We waste no time, undress and quickly dip in the cool, blue-green water.

 A little while later I am in search of the rock art along the edges of the gorge. The trail is almost not a trail anymore and it’s hot, almost too hot. I had just dried from the dip in the pool, but it seems as if that was hours ago instead of minutes. I give up. The little drawn map is just not detailed enough. Half an hour later and we’re back in the car. Two hours later and we’re taking a turn onto Gibb River Road. To be able to drive 80km/h again is a absolute joy by now. 

We spend the night at Galvans Gorge and are disappointed when it turns out to be just a small pool with no flowing water the next day. We decide to skip our morning swim and drive on to “Over The Range” Car and Tyre Shop. Neville Hermon settled here about 14 years ago coming from New South Wales. He saw a business opportunity and fell in love with the Kimberleys. Slowly he managed to build up his shop and when we look around us there are a lot of cars that did not make it until the end of the Gibb. Neville mainly uses Landcruisers and we make out a 40, a 60 and a 70 series around the main building. He now employs one man and he tells us that his next focus is to build a house for his family so they don’t have to live in a caravan anymore.

 

Neville points out that we should go to Adcock Gorge a little bit further down the road and we take a belated morning swim there. After this we drive through King Leopold Ranges, past Queen Victoria’s head and put up the tent near Kimberley Downs just before the rain hits again. We watch the road turn into a muddy affair and I look at Helga: we both start to laugh, again, we are just in time. When we drive the last stretch of the Gibb River road we are becoming more and more aware of the trees along side the road. The Boab Trees are not to be missed in this part of Australia. These ancient trees are amongst the longest living things in the world and some are more than 2,000 years old. Storing water from spring rains give them their swelled trunks and thus distinctive look. We pass more and more cars and we realise the past days of seeing maybe one car a day are over. Civilisation is around the corner and as the gravel turns into bitumen the quietness of the car lets us relive the wonders of the Gibb River road in our minds. 

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Durban, SA: will the car arrive?

Durban, SA: will the car arrive?

Durban, SA: Will the car arrive?

February 6, 2016

Walking over a blanket of clouds, I am carried away by white horses to a castle in the sky. Tyres banging on the landing strip of Johannesburg shake us in our chairs, I suddenly wake up and take a deep breath. It has been 24 hours since we left Melbourne and it will be another hour before we reach Durban, the place where our car will arrive too. I lean back into my uncomfortable airplane chair and start looking for my horses on the clouds again. 

February 7, 2016

We end up in a great place in Durban, a hospitable couple welcomes us in the only gay-friendly guesthouse in Durban. The guesthouse is surrounded by a large stone wall, an electric fence, 24 hour camera security and an electric sliding door. This could leave the impression that having a gay guesthouse requires this sort of security, but looking around in the neighbourhood you can see that all the houses have this extreme form of security. It’s almost as if they are competing against each other with the height of their walls and the amount of electric fencing. We’re staying in Berea, a part of Durban not too far from the city and the harbour. That evening we get the conformation that the ship which holds our container has arrived in the port of Durban.

February 8, 2016

On Monday we start with a positive attitude on the process to get our car cleared. We know that the ship is in the harbour, but locating one of the 1221 container on board is difficult. We chose a large agency in South Africa, hoping they would have the experience to get this process finished as quickly as possible. The choice for a large organisation appears not to be the wisest, we are constantly dealing with different people. Finally, after 4 days of waiting, which consisted of a lot of calling, we learn that our container has moved to the depot for collection. Helga and I spend another 2 days amongst heavy industry, dodging forklifts and eating dust while seeing a lot of containers being emptied and filled with boxes. In the end our waiting is rewarded: after 8 long days we drive our car out of the container and we say goodbye to the people of the depot who took good care of us.

In the meantime Helga used her time productively by getting a South Africa Sim card and making appointments to get our travel vaccinations.

 


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The Howling Moon Factory

The Howling Moon Factory

The Howling Moon Factory

It’s the Tuesday after we drove our car out of the container and we’re on our way to the Howling Moon factory. We drive through sluggish Durban traffic and ask ourselves:” Who drives their car in the middle of rush hour when they don’t have to?” that is the question I ask myself as I pull up behind a smoking Toyota Corolla and try to gain enough speed to shift from first to second gear. Let’s ask another question: “Durban, a South African city with the busiest port and over 3 million people, you’ve had your car for one day…Is it wise to drive it during rush hour”? answer: “No.” Question: “Is it fun?” answer: “Kind of!” We both lock our doors when we drive through one of the more shady neighbourhoods and we both wonder as to who locked the back door, something we’ll have to get used to. It’s Africa.

Howling Moon is a South African producer of camping equipment with its head office in Durban. I’ll try to describe one of the things they make that is so important to us.

You climb on the roof of the car, unzip a sturdy canvas cover and throw over the back of the car. You slide the ladder to its full length, climb off the roof and pull the ladder downwards while stepping backwards. Like a harmonica the rooftop tent unfolds made from a wood/aluminium floor, aluminium poles to make the frame and a thick canvas.

Helga and I walk into the factory where mainly women are working on tables set up into long rows and where they get kilometres of thick green cloth through their hands and their Singers (sewing machine). We get some curious looks when we walk through the factory and when walking the stairs to the office. I wonder about the steady noise the sewing machines keep making while they follow us with their eyes. I would probably have sewn my own shirt into some canvas when doing to same.

 

Camping, it’s not for everyone: it’s being creative with what you have, dealing with inconveniences and constantly looking for new and easier ways to do things. If you add a fit, energetic and colourful person to this mix you get Dave, the progenitor of Howling Moon. We come into his office and introduce ourselves, we tell him about our travel plans, experiences and adventures. One of the first questions we get back is: “how do you think we can improve the rooftop tent? After this we are summoned to get our tent out of the car as soon as possible so they can do a service of the tent and add some improvements that have been made over the years.

Dave has them to clear a space in the factory so we can start to unpack and re-pack the car, since nothing was where it should be after the shipping.

 

While we are working on this, every once in a while an employee will come and have a look as they are curious about who we are and what we do. They have no experience with camping like this, but they are interested in our stories. Dave will often invite overlanders to visit the factory so his employees get an idea of how their products are used and they can “travel along” through the stories they tell.

 

We are captivated by the friendliness and the enthralling smiles we get from behind the sewing machines. We feel as at home here as we do in our home for the past 11 months: our Howling Moon Tourer rooftop tent.

 


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Among friends in Harding

Among friends in Harding

Among friends in Harding

The rain falls down hard on the tin roof of the cottage. We’re on the couch, watching an empty fireplace in the corner. The cottage’s interior is stylish and spacious. Our shoes are muddy and placed on an old newspaper, full of political news. Not a bad place to put your muddy shoes.

The continuous drum of the rain on the roof seems to get louder until we realise someone is banging on the wooden door. I quickly open it and in the dusk I see someone, panting, wet, with rubber boots. He’s pointing towards some really dark clouds in the distance.

He turns around and points to the car, which is the only one still outside in front of the house. I understand and I follow the rubber boots up the slope towards the car. Hail is common in this area. With soggy shoes I climb behind the steering wheel and see the large wooden doors of the hay shed being opened. I start the car and drive inside. The wind is so loud around the shed that it drowns out all other noise. We both wait for a second at the door, before we both start running back, he to his family at the farm, me back to the cottage.

February 19, 2016

It’s early morning when we drive down the muddy path that leads us back to the main road, it’s covered with leaves and broken branches from last night’s storm. We turn onto the highway and mix ourselves with the few cars heading towards Harding. We are on our way to a workshop to have one of our batteries tested. Since our arrival in Durban, our starter battery seems to not have enough power to start the car. A test at the workshop proves this and we decide to leave the battery to see if slow-longterm charging helps.

We look around the village, do an extensive puzzle journey through the supermarket in search for familiar products and enjoy ourselves on the farm.

 


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Let’s start on the WILD COAST!

Let’s start on the WILD COAST!

Let’s start on the WILD COAST!

Our footprints show on the dew of the wet grass. We take over the last things to the car before we begin on the first real travel day in Africa. A wave of emotion overwhelms me when we leave the familiar entrance path. The main road takes us through Harding again and bends afterwards onto a gravel road. We have felt welcome here. People walk in long rows on the side of the road and welcome us with their broad smiles of white teeth, contrasting against their dark skin. We are not driving fast and we see the children run towards the fences to see us and the car a bit better. We’re driving with our windows open to be closer to these beautiful people.

 

“I realise that in 2011 I bought an old Landrover, with the dream to make this trip we are doing right now. It took me years to get the car ready and equipped to take us safely through Africa. Every spare hour was spent by driving down to the car, sitting and waiting in a dusty shed, and turning the ignition to hear it start, just to keep this dream-journey alive while I was preparing. Just the sound of a car who had seen so much more than I, who was waiting faithfully for adventure in a dusty shed, like a tiger on a leash.“

The white palms, full of lines and raw of working on the fields, wave at us from a distance. I don’t know if it’s fair, our background and education gives us such an advantage. It feels good to be welcomed by such a beautiful country like South Africa, but I don’t think I deserve being cheered at.

 

We get in line behind a long row of cars waiting in front of a women in full workman’s wear and a flag. We got the recommendation to leave enough room between cars so there is always the opportunity to get out. The inhabitants of the village nearby make the most of these stops by selling drinks and fruit. Helga and I are captivated by the smile of a short, heavy, black lady who carries a bowl with ice and cans on top of her head. We did not think that smile could get even bigger, but it certainly did after we bought two Cokes.

After this interruption we notice that the villages become less fortunate and the road gets worse. We have a hard time navigating and the heavy rain from the last few days shows in the broad muddy tracks and water filled potholes. I can see Helga’s white knuckles from holding on to the rail in front of her which is attached to the dashboard. The last time we drove through mud we got stuck big time and it took us a few hours to dig ourselves out.

 

People have stopped waving and children hurry towards the road, not to say hello, but to fold their hands into little bowls and shout: “ Ssssweets! Sweets!”.

F*ck the tourist who ever thought of doing this! I am shocked when I look in my side mirror and see the previously folded up hands picking up stones from the ground and throwing them towards the car. I feel angry and powerless. Absorbed in our own thoughts we drive on, and on some level I understand them, as a child I was also not the best in dealing with disappointments. And yet, I believe that giving out candy is not the solution. There is a challenge to find something that works for us, but is also beneficial to the children.

 

We stop when the land makes way for the sea and we find a good campsite. All the facilities are built in small wooden huts which are all connected by a boardwalk suspended a metre above the ground.


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