Part Two The Northern Territories Diaries.

Day Seven: August 5^th.

I wake at 4am. It's pitch black and the lamp Christian gave me doesn't cast a light in this vast empty space, it just exists as a pinpoint. I sit on a camping chair smoking and watch as the sun comes up about an hour and a half later. Its like waiting for a show to start. Bit by bit the set is revealed, the birds start chattering, the sound of kangaroos crashing through the dead leaves and Dave snoring in his tent/cave. The trees are stripped of bark and just bone white trunks remain. I make coffee on our little stove and head in to the bush to take some pictures. When I get back Kate is emerging and we sit together eating and waiting for the boys to wake up so we can go to Zebedee Springs for a swim. Swimming has become a daily need. When we're not in the water we're covered in red dust. It gets everywhere and now both Kate and I have insane hair which we're quite proud of. I arrived wearing silver sandals, they are now the same colour as my feet. Filth.

When we arrived at El Questro there was a ridiculously good looking cowboy wandering around with a leaf blower.

'Kate. Kate! Have you seen him?' I ask pointing directly at the cowboy not ten feet away. 'Look at him! Look! Look!' I have shown nothing like as much enthusiasm for the wildlife. He's not wearing a wedding ring and he has cheek bones you could slash your wrists on once he has inevitably broken your heart.

In the last few days Kate has somehow managed to get me climbing mountains. As far as I'm concerned if you have to use your feet and both hands to advance, it is no longer a walk. But Kate, like a spider monkey, is scaling half the thing before I have so much as stubbed out my cigarette and had a small weep.

Zebedee Springs is a mercifully short walk. Its a hot spring pool formed by six or seven small rock pools nestled amongst tropical palms. Its brilliant and I bob around on my back in the bottom pool whilst Kate and the others climb up to each pool to see if they get hotter.

Everyone decides it would be an excellent idea to do the El Questro Gorge walk. It's advertised at a modest three hours either way and is rated at a difficulty level of '6'. A level '4' walk has left me questioning the very essence of existence and I gracefully bow out claiming I have important things to do on my computer, at the bar. I spend a happy few hours watching the cowboy wander back and forth in tight jeans and a dusty hat, squinting in to the sun like James Dean as he lifts heavy things and puts them down nearby in slow motion.

The others return victorious a few hours later and describe beautiful pools of water and incredible views. I describe the cowboys arse.

Kate has been told that there's a lovely sunset spot a short drive away and we hop in the 4WD to catch it before dinner. It certainly is a short drive. Unfortunately no one mentioned that it was also a terrifying off road 45 degree ascent with hair pin bends, rocks the size of your head and absolutely nothing to stop you slipping off the edge and plummeting to your death. Kate and I yelp at a few of the turns. Keir is more or less silent and Dave quietly mentions that his sphincter has entirely clamped shut with not a hope of opening again any time soon. I take a moment out of watching my life flash before my eyes to enjoy the sight of the cowboy sauntering past on a horse. Wearing spurs. Dave heroically gets us to the top where there is only one other car and a young couple sat on the bonnet having a romantic moment which Dave makes short shrift of by farting loudly.

We now refer to that fifteen minutes of our lives as the Sunset Of Terror. You have to say it in a 1940's BBC announcers voice.

Sunsets are all well and good but its hard to enjoy one when you know you'll be making the same terrifying descent again shortly, and this time in darkness.

We have dinner at the more casual outdoor bar when we return. After I have finished kissing the ground we order Fat Yak beers and sit waiting for our food listening to an excellent chap playing guitar and singing country songs. The cowboy wanders up to the bar with a horse in tow and orders a beer. He then does a circuit of the beer garden looking moody and occasionally kissing babies.

'D'you think he's a model?' Dave asks.

'I don't care,' I say.

'I think he might be an arsehole,' Keir observes.

'I don't care,' I say.

We are all ready for bed by 9pm these days. Keir points out that furiously recreating is exhausting.

We head back to our campsite, in the middle of nowhere and make a fire. Kate sticks marshmallows on the end of twigs that we may well have pissed on earlier in the day and attempts to hold them near the fire without losing several layers of facial skin. Its very hot and a tad bigger than we'd planned. We all wish we had something to sit on. Its lovely having a fire if you can sit around it. Its a bit strange to have a fire and just stand around it. Kate and Keir take a torch down to the river to irritate the crocodiles. Dave has been talking about how easy it would be to murder someone out here and Keir returns and says:

'Is your tent going to be okay there Thea?'

'Why wouldn't it be? Its further away from the river than yours.'

'Yeah but what if a car drove past and decided to reverse in to here to turn around. It would run straight over you.'

Keir is a worst case scenario predictor. He does it all the time. Comes up with potential disasters you couldn't begin to make up yourself. He chuckles and climbs in to his tent. I sleep in the car with one foot out of the window.

Day 8. August 6^th.

Keir staggers out of his tent, hair on end, crazed eyes.

'It took us ages to put the fire out. Dave poured five litres of water on it and I covered it in dirt. It was out. It was definitely out.'

'Uhuh. Do you want a coffee?'

'Then I got up to piss in the middle of the night and it was burning again. And not just a little bit. It was huge.'

He sits drinking his coffee staring at the now cold fireplace as though it might burst in to life at any moment and attack him.

We, and by 'we' I mean Kate, has decided we're going to do the Emma Gorge walk today. If it wan't for Kate we'd all sit around scratching our arses all day and whilst some of the proposed plans make me shudder with dread they are all ultimately great fun and we feel so much better afterwards for having made the effort.

'How perilous is this walk Kate?' I ask weighing up the options between Birkenstocks and Converse Trainers.

'Aw its a lovely shady stroll,' she mumbles not at any point meeting my eye.

'By who's definition is it a lovely shady stroll?' I persist.

'Aw mumble mumble mumble,' she asserts knotting her trainers, packing a litre of water in her back pack and secreting a harness in the side pocket.

We start the walk. Before long I am scrambling over rocks in the unforgiving sun. Kate is a dot in the distance. After twenty minutes I sit down to await death and am confronted by two octogenarian women in hiking boots skipping past me on their return to camp base. (I don't know if I've mentioned this before but our party is the youngest group on this journey. Almost everyone else is what is termed a 'Grey Nomad.' I thought it sounded noble and clannish until Dave explained it was just retired people with caravans spending their kids inheritance in one final outdoor dance before death claims them. I like the term 'Grey Nomad'. Keir calls them 'Snowy Prunes.' Usually prefaced by the word 'Fucking'. Usually when he's driving.)

I have a smoke and before long another couple of elderly people, this time with walking sticks and and fold out chairs, nimbly hop by and I ask them if its much further to the Gorge.

I don't know why I ask. They always blatantly lie to your face.

'Not far now! And so worth it.' They grin sadistically.

I overheard another woman who was sitting and smoking (and keeps reappearing at every place we travel to) and is basically me in twenty years, scream “If one more person tells me its not far I'll fucking kill them!” Before taking a long angry drag on her fag and dragging herself by her chipped red nails up a sheer cliff face.

When I arrive at Emma Gorge the others are swimming. As always Kate gives me a wide berth until I have gotten in the water and cooled down a bit. I take the place in and as always am so glad I bothered. At the far end of the gorge is a Drip Waterfall. It trickles down like rain over a wide area and its lovely to float underneath. The water is cold but at one end it becomes thermal and its all we can do not to physically hurl the nomads out of it before climbing in ourselves.

On the drive back we listen to the only music CD available to us: Taxi Ride with Manjeet!

When Kate and Keir returned from the UK the taxi driver that picked them up played his very own cd and sang along to it. He even handed out laminated sheets with the lyrics so they could join in. They bought a copy immediately. It is terrible in that he has absolutely no sense of rhythm and the phrasing is more crowded than a whore's knickers. But the Indian backing music is great and the lyrics are so funny and sincere you can't help but love it and him. We all sing along to 'Aussie Aussie Fair Dinkum Aussie'. I am particularly moved by a number called 'Gandhi and World Peace.' At first you might be forgiven for thinking its completely shit, but when you listen to the words and how sincerely he wails them you just have to accept that he speaks the truth. And there's no shame in having a little cry. None at all.

Kate books us tickets for the Chamberlain Gorge cruise in the late afternoon. Dave bows out, he has some episodes of Futurama to catch up on.

Whilst waiting for the bus to pick us up I see the cowboy stroll past looking sweaty with a monkey wrench.

'He's a wanker,' Keir says.

During the drive to the boat our guide, Johnny (early 60's), tells us a bit about the excursion.

'This particular boat cruise is really in honour of a man named Buddy. Buddy worked here for many years and he was a great man. A friend of mine....my best friend actually.' He pauses and stares in to space. 'Anyway, Buddy died comin' up for two years ago now...and well....he loved this particular area that we're going to see...I remember he and I sitting under a Boab tree practising some songs together and he reckoned the place was special. Well, Buddy was special and I'll tell you more of his story as we go along.'

Its all a bit Brokeback Mountain and I look to Keir for confirmation. Keir is smiling and nodding earnestly at Johnny. We're all sunk.

We get on the little boat and as we glide along looking at rocks that haven't moved for millions of years Johnny points out baby crocs sunbathing on the rocks. He tells us that after the terrible floods of 2011 the whole area was devastated. All the big crocs washed away. Boab trees torn from the ground and sent on their way. The Aboriginal community were aghast, they'd never known a Boab to be destroyed by weather. But slowly life was returning, shoots are becoming trees and they've counted thirteen little freshwater crocs in the area this year.

'If you look to your right here you can see the Boab that Buddy and I used to practise our songs underneath. He'd say this place was magical, then he'd wander off in to the bush and return an hour or so later with a bottle of wine!'

Everyone chuckles and I am now certain I'm listening to a love story. Friendship my arse.

'When the area was bought and turned in to El Questro (which by the way is a made up name and means nothing at all) Buddy spoke to the new owners and said to them-' he pauses to control the wobble in his voice. 'He said: “I never had a home. But when I came here It felt like my home. And I call it home. If you let me live here until I die I'll work for you as long as I can and to the best of my ability.” And they shook hands – Buddy didn't believe in writing things down – and that was that.'

I can feel the man's grief travelling out like waves and wonder how much I can stand.

'Anyways, he was only 69 when his heart gave out-'

OH COME ON!

'And legend has it that his good old heart stopped the moment he saw his bar tab.'

We all laugh, more out of relief than anything. Thank God that's over. I was inches from weeping.

'So anyway, we're gonna stop here at Buddy's Beach and have a glass of bubbly and if you'll humour me I'd like to sing you a little that Buddy loved.'

YOU'RE KILLING ME JOHNNY! YOU ARE KILLING ME.

He sings the song. It's a good song.

He then reads a poem that Buddy wrote.

I ask for a top up. And another. And just the one more. Thanks.

Before we leave Johnny hands out some fish pellets and tells us to look over the side of the boat. There are lots of fish staring back at us patiently. Kate suddenly screams and jumps back. She turns to the rest of the boat wet faced and stunned:

'That fish just spat at me!'

Johnny chuckles through his broken heart.

'Yeah, the fish have been trained to spit at you for treats.'

Its amazing. We hold out a pellet and each fish takes aim and spits a jet of water right in to your face. We do this for half an hour without ever tiring of it before Johnny tells us its time to head back.

That evening we have dinner at Emma Gorge and drink lots of red wine.

'Thea was crying when Johnny sang,' Keir tells Kate.

'I welled up,' Kate says.

'You cried too Keir, I saw you blinking furiously,' I say.

'Yeah,' Keir says.

As we're leaving we bump in to Sam, a tour guide and old school friend of Keir and Dave's. Dave has been trying to get hold of her for months and the co-incidence is incredible. She tells us to travel to the Bungle Bungle the following day where she's taking her tour party. We can have dinner with them. We agree and head off to our tents happy to have a vague plan.

Day nine. August 7^th

Its time to leave El Questro. We pack up, throw stale bread to the fish and a small crocodile comes and claims some.

Hygiene is now a thing of the past. Where a few days ago we were begging Dave to wash his clothing we are now insisting he burn it.

As his t-shirt makes its own way in to the now ripe 4WD Keir says:

'I might buy him a top at the next town. As a gift.'

It would be a gift to us all.

We stop via Zebedee springs and have a final float. I overhear a conversation between a very alpha male dad and his entirely effeminate 10 year old son:

'Just get in son.' The dad sounds weary.

'But it looks dirty,' the boy observes with wrinkled nose.

'Its not dirty, its a hot spring. Its lovely and warm. Just get in.'

'I grazed my toe.'

'The water will do it good.'

'Well if I get an infection it'll be on your conscience.'

He lowers himself in gingerly and stands with his hand on one cocked hip.

'See? Its nice right?'

'Mmm. Is this freshwater?'

The dad sighs.

'Yes.'

'So why are there no crocodiles here?'

'Its too warm, there's no oxygen and so no fish to eat.'

'So there's no crocodiles here?'

'No.'

'Why?'

'Son I can't have this conversation for an eighth time. I'll drown myself if you make me.'

Something brushes up against the boy and he screams and throws himself like an ingenue in to his fathers arms.

The father with a look of bewilderment and love hauls the boy on to his shoulders and walks him around the pools.

'Isn't that a pretty tree dad.'

'Yes son, its....nice.'

We arrive in Wyndham in the burning midday sun. Its a shit hole and Dave loves it.

The prison is the nicest building in town.

We stop by some Aboriginal even that's been advertised and are stopped by a nervous looking white man who says its all pretty much over now. Dave senses something amiss and tells Keir to turn the car around. A moment later an angry Aboriginal man approaches the car and ensures us that he'll happily kill Keir and fuck his wife. Keir does the sensible thing and drives in to the compound of angry people.

'What the fuck Keir?!' Dave exclaims.

'Ooops,' Keir says and turns the car around.

We take some pictures of the fuck all that is Wyndham and hit the road. We drive for eighteen years and pass a thousand dry creeks. I have lost the will to write down their names by this point and only note:

Mistake Creek and Big Mabel Creek.

At one point I shout out:

'Oh oh! Look! Look!! A fairground!...Oh. Sorry. My bad. Its just another rock.'

We pass a dead cow and the top half of a dead kangaroo.

We get to the entrance of Bungle Bungle about half an hour before sunset. Its a two hour off road rough and scary terrain. That people do not drive at night. We begin the drive.

We drive through muddy rivers in the dark. We drive up hills in the dark. The landscape is the same mile after scary mile. Eventually we arrive at Sam's tour group camp and drag our sweaty seasick bodies from the car which somehow is still in one piece (although we have found some unattached screws on the floor) and hear laughter and merriment around the corner. We walk through and find a very civilised dining area has been set up in the middle of the bush. We pass glamorous luxury tents (houses with canvas walls and en suite showers) and envy these people. We will be setting up our tents in the dark.

We're greeted by Sam and her team warmly and sat down and fed huge rare steaks and lashings of red wine. The will to live returns.

After dinner we sit around their big camp fire and drink whilst they regale us with their adventures to date. Not a one of them is under 60 and they have more life in their little toes than any of us right now.

We mention the hike up to Emma Gorge and how I thought I wouldn't make it. Sam mentions a man on her tour called Keith who did it and he's in his late 80's. AND he stopped and helped younger people over some of the more tricky rocks. Show off.

'Yeah he made it up there, he was amazing,' Sam says.

'But did he make it back?' Keir asks.

Everyone falls about laughing.

'He's an inspiration to us all,' Dave says. 'We'll remember him fondly.'

'Yeah, they've renamed the place 'Keith's Gorge.'

We have been treated to a wonderful dinner and evening but we still have to set up our tents and Kate is looking enviously at the luxury accommodation.

'I want it,' she says. 'We deserve it and we must have it.'

She looks feral in the fire light and I burst out laughing. She starts giggling.

'I feel like the monkey that threw the peanuts back,' she laughs.

Sam takes pity on us. Who wouldn't? And somehow how swings it for us to get two luxury tents for the night. Dave immediately has two showers lowers himself on to the crisp pillows and makes a noise of contentment that's a cross between a gurgle and purr.

Ain't no such thing as a free glamp though. Sam asks very nicely (she's lovely) if we are going to see Cathedral Gorge the following day. We are. Its a huge cave with incredible acoustics. She asks if Kate would sing for her tour party whilst inside. Kate says sure.

Kate standing on a rock inside a vast chasm singing Ave Maria to the luckiest fucking tour group in the world is one of the most memorable experiences of this trip. There is absolute silence, you could hear a pin drop and she fills the space with her voice. When she finishes the crowd shout for an encore but she ducks her head shyly and scrambles over the rocks and back to us, narrowly missing the spot where I have recently pissed.

We look at the rocks. They are big. And rock like. I am so over rocks.

We make the horrible bumpy ride out and agree that people were correct when they asserted that you should really only fly to the Bungle Bungle.

As we get to the exit we are confronted by a mirage in the shape of an old man with a generator and a coffee machine. We poke him a bit and then demand all his coffee.

We drive for two centuries and listen to Batavia. Mutiny has occurred and something unspeakable has been perpetrated upon one of the ladies on board. This writer is beyond terrible but we are so hooked on the story there is no chance of ever switching it off.

Sam has recommended an isolated spot called Saw Pit Creek to camp for the night. So far all the Creek signs have been vaguely official looking. This one is a bit of card with Saw Pit spray painted on to it with an arrow.

'Huh,' Keir says. 'Its almost exactly like a sign a serial killer would make half a mile before the real Saw Pit sign.'

We drive down and it really is isolated. And beautiful. And isolated. As night falls the boys go off to get fire wood and Kate and I cane a bottle of red wine and gossip as though to all the world we were sat in the bar of a five star hotel. Albeit dirty, covered in twigs and having just had our first outdoor shit of the trip.

At bedtime we try to put out the fire. Keir pisses on it. We throw mud on it. Kate doesn't feel like she's contributing enough. I turn my head and look down to find her squatting over a plastic cereal bowl with her knickers round her ankles right next to me.

'Not getting performance anxiety are you dear?' I ask.

'Don't break my concentration,' she mutters.

A moment later she proudly throws her bowl o' piss over the fire, and Keir's hand.

I sleep in the car.

Day ten. August 9^th.

We know from Sam that the river we're camping next to has freshwater crocs in it but the place is so remote there's no official signs.

We have a swim in the morning. Fuck it. There comes a point where the desire to get the relentless dust off you severely outweighs any concerns you may have about getting nipped.

We drive to Fitzroy Crossing Campsite. Its got a restaurant and amenities and we are very excited. And very dirty. The boys go off to meet Sam who is also there for a pre dinner drink.

Kate and I put some lipstick over the grime and sit and get drunk as the sun sets. We are happy and looking forward to dinner.

Before dinner I roll Keir a cigarette with too much tobacco and he smokes it far too fast and has to go and throw up before we eat.

I sleep in my tent but wake at 3am and can't go back to sleep. I stare at the stars for a while then find a corner and have a wee. Whilst crouched there I glance up and find myself staring at a door with the word 'Toilets' written on it.

We have been in the wilderness too long.

Day Eleven. August 10^th.

Its my 39^th birthday and Kate and Keir give me a card that Keir has made. He's an excellent cartoonist and has managed to capture much of our trip so far including a severed cowboy head in the jaws of a croc.

We spend the day wading through Tunnel Creek. A cave with lots of pools of indeterminately deep water wearing headlamps and looking out for chubby bats and shy freshwater crocs.

Everyone had a goal they wanted to achieve on this trip:

Dave: Experience the interconnectedness of everything.

Kate: Experience time from a new perspective.

Keir: Experience living in the moment fully.

Me: Experience not dying.

As we are about to make our way out of the caves I ask Dave if he's had any luck with his goal yet.

'Well, yeah. Just now I was sat looking at the view and there were some kids laughing and I realised that their laughter made me happy.'

We have a feast for dinner and the waitress comes out with a Brownie with candles in it and they sing Happy Birthday.

I read messages from my loved ones on facebook and get a call from my sister.

I go to bed feeling loved and as rich as I'll ever need to be.

Day Twelve. August 11^th.

We embark on the long drive to Broome and the luxurious Cable Beach Spa Resort where we'll be scrubbing ourselves clean for the next 6 nights.

The drive seems to take even longer than usual, particularly as we detour 80kms via Derby so Dave can get a picture of himself naked next to the Derby sign.

We stop by the coast and everyone gets out of the car.

'You not getting out Thea?' Kate asks.

'No, I'm all good for barren desolate landscapes thanks. I'm full.'

'But this one is a really shit colour,' she points out.

She's right. We stay and have battered barramundi and chips for lunch. Its caught that morning and so fresh its like butter.

We continue driving and stop briefly at the Boab Prison Tree. I literally get out, march over, take a photo, fight my way through a crowd of Grey nomads and get back in the car.

I want Broome so much I can taste it.

We drive, we listen to Batavia. And then like heaven on earth we are in Broome and at the resort.

Everything is elegant and beautiful and shaded and tropical and oh the luxury.

Adrian is there to greet us and I'm delighted to see him. Its been nearly two months since the tour ended and we parted with the exchange:

'You're a psycho.'

'Fuck you.'

A valet collects our car and only recoils slightly before climbing in to its godless interior in his crisp clean uniform. Our butler comes with a buggy and drives us and our luggage to our deluxe accommodation.

There are chocolate covered strawberries and champagne and cold slices of melon. I have a king sized bed and the sheets are crisp and white and wonderful.

We have a look at the beach which is white sands and littered with gorgeous men.

Adrian gives me a nice looking piece of rock he finds.

The others go to the pool and I have my first ever spa bath. Its a bit violent and shocking until I find the right switches. I use every bit of complimentary L'Occitane soap and creams and languish for an hour.

The sun sets, we drink champagne. We dress in clean clothes and go for pizza and wine.

Life is a big warm cloud of pleasure and I crawl on to my island sized bed and sleep like the dead.