Today
we have more or less finished our Nullarbor crossing and I’m a bit sad. It feels like coming back to normal
life. No more hypnotic hours on the road, no more quirky roadhouses. Cocklebiddy actually had a wedge tailed
eagle in a cage at the back and a sign at the front “Honk for wedge tailed
eagles” No more grand swaying road
trains batting along.
It’s
funny how some places make you feel good and others for no good reason simply
don’t. Fraser Range Sheep Station
which is being developed as a clever tourist place, was like that. We’d had our longest day’s drive yet (about 450 kms)
and had booked two nights in “historic shearers stone cottage accommodation” as
a treat, but when it came to it I
didn’t fancy sleeping outside the van and so we changed to a
plain site. The van has come to
mean security over the weeks. I realized last night that it provides a walled
bed that you can’t fall out of and I haven’t had one of them since I was a baby
in a cot. It is so snug with the
curtains drawn and the world shut out
There
were lots of people, mostly our age. being friendly round a campfire as well as
a young couple from the UK on working visas to whom we bequeathed our sleeping
bags having bought a luxurious quilt at Crestwick Wool Mill. The place itself had a rose garden and
carefully tended bushes round the sites as well as a cosy camp kitchen. What was not to like?
Dunno but both of us wanted to move on
next day and it was good to get on the road and reach the puzzling little town
of Norseman, named for a horse who pawed at the earth one night when tied up by
his owner. Laurie Sinclair, and in the process unearthed a lovely gold nugget
and triggered a rush. But there is
no rushing going on in Norseman now.
Some of the few shops have closed down and empty houses are to be seen
in every street, Despite this, an air of civic pride prevails. Every sign naming a road has a little
pawing horse on it and four banners celebrating the town lead
up to the central island upon which a some camels finely crafted from
corrugated iron are grouped. It
seems a thoroughly good place to live.
The roads are wide because in the past the camel trains needed a big
turning circle. The houses are
neat and there seems to be enough water.
The
puzzle is solved for us by a woman called Patricia who is manning the till in the
hardware store. It’s almost
closing time and she’s happy to chat. It’s FIFO – the way mining companies now
fly in their workers for ten days, accommodate them in purpose built quarters
and then fly them out for four days to bewith their families in places like
Perth “Even New Zealand” she says witheringly. It’s that that has sucked the people out of
the town. There is an ad for
a community development officer in the local photocopied paper. What would we do, we wonder, to bring
back people to Norseman? Over wine
in the van we come up with a plan. Refugees. The money wasted on detention
centres could provide all sorts of support for settlement here. The poor little monthly market made up
of four stalls selling honey, candles, sausages and massage oil respectively could
be full of exotic handicrafts and food.
Someone could bring back the camels perhaps…
Our
informant Patricia who has been a truck driver in Woomera and Roxby Downs in
the past, has faith. Mining towns
wax and wane and there seems to be serious investment in the wind. And nothing will stop the place
being a crossroads for travelers across the Nullarbor going to Esperance to the
south and Kalgoorlie in the north. In fact Kalgoorli is beckoning us now.
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