The Northern Territory Diaries: In which two musos, a failed writer and a cynic drive more than 1165 miles.

Day One: July 30th

As we start the drive to Kakadu National Park Kate smiles broadly and announces to the car:

'I'm really looking forward to having a shit outdoors again.'

Keir doesn't even lift his head from the map.

'Yeah sweetie, but this time remember to dig the hole first okay.'

'Good point,' Kate agrees.

We stop off in Litchfield to see the Termite mounds and have a swim in a place called Buley Rock Hole. One of the mounds is called a Termite Cathedral. Huge and impossible to believe that its basically spit and shit. There is a field full of smaller ones and from a distance they look like hundreds of headstones lined up. Every single insect seems to want to enter my head via my ears and nose.

Buley Rock is stunning. I sit paddling and looking at the trees whilst the other three have a proper swim. We continue on our drive and stop at our first Road House. There is a sign advertising Bikini Car Washes. I soon get the picture. We eat Barra Burgers and continue our drive. An hour or so later we're bored.

'Will we be there soon?' Kate asks. 'Why aren't we there yet?' She adds.

'It's a road trip,' Keir reasons. 'There will be some driving.'

Kate sighs. I know how she feels. In the end we have a nap. When we wake we are in the middle of nowhere driving along a straight road with bush on either side. The sun is setting and the sky is spectacular. But there's nothing for miles and miles and miles. I'm told you need to be one of the three M's to live out here: Missionary, Misfit, Madman. Kate says that when you read some of the letters to the editor of the NT News the theory rings true.

Its dark when we arrive at the lodge in Kakadu National Park. It's like a mirage and so much more than we'd expected. There's a bar, a restaurant, a pool, and oh delight, an open mike night.

'Keir I'll give you my first born if you get up and perform as Franky Walnut,' I say.

'Absolutely not,' Keir says. 'They probably don't have an amp anyway and I'd need to plug the guitar in.'

Kate and I check.

'They have an amp Keir!'

'Ah. They probably don't have a mike,' he says.

We check.

'They have a mike Keir!'

Keir goes to buy a bottle of red wine at the bar.

'You want that chilled or room temperature?'

'What's room temperature?' Keir asks.

'About what its been all day,' the girl answers.

As 35 degrees doesn't seem like the ideal temperature for a fine red he buys it chilled. It's a lively drop.

And then its a trifling matter of two bottles before Keir dons his Franky Walnut disguise (a hat) and staggers to the makeshift stage. The audience are delighted. Franky is funny. And the only other person to perform that night was some dude with a didgeredoo.

After Kate and Dave head off to bed we stay and chat to Joel, a friend of Keir's who is a park ranger of sorts and grew up around here. He's a gentle soul and offers to show us some 'off the beaten track' places the following day. 'Off the beaten track' has become synonymous with 'perilous, long and steep climb' for me and I feel a shudder of dread.

A woman who works on the bar comes over to clear our table.

'Hey, I hope I don't sound creepy but-'

'You sound creepy,' Keir says. Keir is drunk. I love drunk Keir.

'Ha. Yeah, well I hope I don't sound-'

'But you already do.' Keir is grinning.

'Ha! Yeah. Is your friend who I think she is?'

We neither confirm nor deny it.

'Is that Kate?' She persists.

'Yeah,' I say.

'Why didn't she get up and sing?' She sounds incredulous.

'She's on holiday,' I say.

'Aw.'

'Another drink Thea?'

'Yes Keir, yes please.'

Day Two: 31^st July.

We head out in the morning to see some Aboriginal paintings on the nearby cliffs. They are fascinating and mostly instructional. Here's good to fish. Here's how to separate the fish up. Others are stories. This is an angry spirit. He eats women. Women stay away. We catch a bit of a tour in one of the caves that would have been a living area.

'You can see here some round indents in the table rock. A mortar for seeds to be ground up in with a pestle to make the cakes they ate.'

The Aboriginals back then led a busy life. Fishing, cooking, telling stories, hunting, learning the lessons they learned from an elder at each stage of their lives to take them to the next part. The lessons continue for their whole lives becoming more informative, more expansive, bit by bit.

Dave tells me that nowadays if an Aboriginal person leaves their home, for example to complete a sports scholarship, they lose that chunk of learning completely. And their parents then have no one to pass it on to and so it is completely lost. I've seen completely lost looking Aboriginals wandering the streets in Darwin. When you learn about the customs and rituals of their lifestyle its amazing they have survived as a race at all in the face of overwhelming odds. And then there's the booze. It's so sad to see such an interesting and rich culture laid so low. We drive past a few lying on the side of the street in the burning sun. Or sitting around smoking and staring in to space.

Keir observes that when you take away the hunting and the gathering what's left is downtime.

In the afternoonthe boys finally get to put the 4WD to test. More than an hour off road. Rough terrain doesn't begin to describe it. I think my arse bone is going to come out of my mouth. Kate and I are thrown around like puppets and its slow progress.

'This is like the slowest roller coaster ever,' I observe.

'With no end,' Keir adds.

We finally arrive at the Jim Jim Falls parking area which starts a 900 metre walk to a swim hole. It's so hot I feel like the sun has crawled in to my head.

I get out of the car and see a Crocodile Safety Sign. “There are Saltwater Crocodiles living in this area. Enter the water at your own risk.”

'Yeah, we can't swim here,' I state and start heading back toward the car.

'Aw it'll be fine,' Kate says. 'I checked online and its a really beautiful and popular swim spot.'

I'm in no way convinced but we start the trek anyway. It quickly becomes less a walk, more a climb. You have to focus on every step around the rocks.

I know that to my friends this place seems beautiful, but to me its the set of a horror film. You know the one: Four friends set off for a weekend of hiking and high jinx but something evil is watching them from the cover of the trees.

The silence, to me, is not peaceful, its portentous.

Around three hundred metres in I realise I'm not haivng fun. We bump in to a woman coming back from the Falls. She says its worth it, it's lovely. She then points to the river next to us where a huge crocodile trap has been set. A sign tells us to stay away from the waters edge but its impossible to continue along without being right next to it.

A further 100 metres and my courage gives out. I'm certainly not going to swim in the water when I get there and at this point I really don't want to catch a glance at the natural predators who's home this is. I get the keys off Dave and head back to smoke and read whilst the others press on, Kate in a very fetching pink bikini.

I decide to have a nap in the car but every five minutes or so I notice a man stood nearby staring at me. I close my eyes and when I open them again he's stood closer though I never see him move. This dance continues for about fifteen minutes until I open my eyes to find him stood right by my window giving me a toothless grin. I open the door.

'What's the time?' He asks.

'It's half three.'

'Hot innit.'

'Yep.'

He then rubs my arm, a bit like a child would, and says:

'Friendly? Friendly.'

I take a closer look at him. He's a bit older than me. He has two fingers missing and he's childlike.

'What's your name?'

'Kevin.'

'Are you on your own Kevin?'

'Mum's gone to look at the crocs.'

'Alright, shall I get out of the car and get some fresh air with you?'

'Yeah.'

We sit on some rocks and I roll a fag, which is no mean feat as Kevin is hugging me from one side with his head resting on my back.

We talk a bit about rocks and crocs and why his brother hates him and why his mum, Tammy, is an angel.

We stay like this for twenty minutes or so until he sees his mum approaching. He rubs my arm again, in what I think he has been taught is an 'Appropriate Manner' and tells me I'm nice and beautiful and thank you for being kind to him. Which makes me a bit sad.

Day Three: August 1^st.

We collect Joel the Ranger and head in to Arnhem Land.

We visit an Aboriginal Settlement called Gunbalaya. Its a pretty barren landscape with stray or wild dogs lying about everywhere in the sun looking bloody awful. Dave worked here for a while some years back and says its one of the best in the Norther territories and its improved a lot since his last visit. There's a beautiful billabong next to the housing area but its full of crocs. We go to the Art gallery which is incredible. An old man is sat on the floor painting. Some women sit in the shade weaving baskets whilst one of the older ladies explains the process to us. She occassionally says something in her own language and the younger girls try to cover their laughter. I'm pretty sure she's taking the piss out of us tourists and I don't blame her. She tells us its fine to take pictures which I do but I feel intrusive and basically like a bit of a twat. You know what I mean; “Oh yah I met some fascinating indigenous people! Yah. Yah. I could see the ancient wisdom in their eyes and yah I think I captured it here on my Instagram....”

Nearby there's a pot on a fire and some grey indeterminable meat boiling away. The outside walls are covered with brilliant paintings of local animals. My favourite is of the bats.

We visit the local mini supermarket. The sign outside is painted in bright colours. Dogs lie around there too. They don't even beg, they just hope you might throw something their way.

Inside the shop is well stocked but fresh fruit and veg are very expensive and I assume they have to be flown in. The staff wander about barefoot and there's a sign that says: Don't humbug staff for discounts please.

Dave says they are supposed to share everything they have, food, money etc equally amongst their family so it goes against the grain to work in a shop and not provide.

There's also a sign that says: This is a nice place. Don't spit on the floor please.

The Aboriginals don't have a word for 'Outside' – They never needed one before.

As we leave I see another sign, this one in the window on bright yellow card:

Shop workers needed. Must show up every morning from monday to friday.

They don't really have a concept of time. How long will it take to finish? A while.

How many kids do you have? Too many.

Joel tells me that growing up with Aboriginal kids has given him a different way of thinking and speaking. He says that if you ask an Aboriginal person a question they will think about it properly before they answer. No fear of silence.

Joel takes us to Ubirr where we can see some more rock art and then watch the sunset from the top of the rocks. Its high up but easy to climb. He tells us a few Aboriginal stories he's heard based on bits of the landscape. There never seems to be a conclusion. Joel says this is because you never get the whole story from one person. They'll tell you a bit and then leave you to mull it over until you bump in to some one else who knows a different part of the story and is willing to share. it.

We go for a walk through the Monsoon Rainforest and I see fat bats in broad daylight hanging from the trees like pendulous fruit. There's an area that only women are allowed to walk so Kate and I head off alone to see the rock where an animal became an old woman and menstruated on the rock. O-kay. I imagine women thousands of years ago making this story up just to get a break from the men. 'Oh yeah, its bad luck for men in here...yup...you just stay righhhht here. We'll be back in a few hours. Come on Mavis, fuck this.'

Over lunch at a croc spotting area (why oh why) I tell Joel that people have really enjoyed telling me horror stories about crocodiles.

'Ah well they're not all bad. They can be quite cute,' he smiles.

'Uhuh. How so?'

'Well sometimes the male ones swim underneath a female croc they quite like and blow lots of tiny bubbles around to impress her.'

We have dinner at a deceptively basic looking place called The Border. There's a Thai woman in the kitchen and she's a genius. We gorge.

On the way back we see the night sky and stop dead in our tracks. I won't even try to describe it to you. The milky way though, its reallllly milky round here.

Day Four: 2^nd August.

We leave the Lodge in Kakadu and head for Katherine and our first night camping.

'Keir, what's the name of that swim hole we're going to?'

'Crocodile falls.'

'Seriously.'

'Fatality Falls.'

'Keir.'

'Oh alright. Not Too Many Deaths Falls.'

We check the map Joel has given us. Maps around here are usually the name of a place with a very long straight line followed by the name of another place. Everything is: Drive 200 k's then take a right and drive another 300 k's and you'll probably see it.

We get to Katherine and find the campsite. We set up and head in to town for drinks and dinner.

As we get out of the car Dave says;

'Ahhh fuck, here we go.'

I look around at the perfectly pleasant street and wonder what he's harping on about. Then we walk in to the pub. Or we try to. A man with dead eyes asks Kate for ID and spends far too long checking it. The pub is full of Aboriginal people and the security is massive and quite scary. Also strangely attractive to me but that's another story.

The toilets are labeled: Gents and Sheila's.

We go for dinner at a great restaurant, we always seem to be able to find the finest of fime dining no matter where we are.

Afterwards we drive back through town and watch drunk aboriginal people fighting. I see one girl punch another in the head. Little kids are sat around watching. We have to drive slowly as some stagger in to the road. There's police everywhere trying to reason, trying to stop them. We end up doing three circuits of the town centre. Its both fascinating and horrifying to watch.

Day Five: August 3^rd.

I'm walking through the bush alone at night and I can hear animals chattering unseen all around me. A man dressed as a butler steps from behind a tree and hurries up to me with a letter on a tray. I open it and inside in old courier typeface it says 'Wake up Thea. Its not night time anymore! WAKE UP.'

I wake up in my tent and it takes me five minutes to crawl out and get all my limbs in working order.

Keir has fucked his back and every time he gets in or out of the car he screams.

We drive to the local hot springs which are incredible. And hot. And we float around for ages, all happy, all refreshed.

We drive to Timber Creek our next camping spot a few hours from here. On the way we buy a gas stove, coffee and lots of non perishable food. Keir gives me a look and we head off to the Thirsty Camel Bottle Shop and buy half a dozen bottles of good red wine.

'We'll have to ration it so we don't run out,' Keir observes.

'We can try,' I say, already thirsty.

In the car we listen to an Audio book called Batavia. True history of a Dutch ship crashing off the rocks of western Australia in the mid 1600's. Its gripping but badly written, which in itself is delightful.

Timber Creek: Population 70.

We find a lovely camping spot next to the river. There's a sign announcing 'Croc and Kite feeding here at 5pm!'

yay.

We watch the Kite feeding which is swooping and fast and fun. They wander down to the croc feeding. I see a croc. I leave.

We go for dinner at the only food place and are served by a man from Cambridge. A fireman who is having a year out.

'Why are you here??' I ask.

'I have no fucking idea,' he responds.

We head back to our tents at 9pm and as we can no longer see each other we decide to call it a night. The sky at night just gets more breath taking and as the mosquitos don't seem too bust around here I lie with my head outside of my tent and watch the stars until I fall asleep.

Day Six: August 4^th.

There were a lot of animal sounds in the night. Things running. Things scratching. Things screaming. Dave farting really loudly from across the other side of the camp site. Me laughing.

I make coffee on our little gas stove and we all slowly come to life and head off for the drive to Kunanurra.

We listen to more Batavia. Keir makes up an excellent example of how badly written

it is:

“They were poor in four ways. Poor in that they had very little. Paw like the vulnerability of an amputated animal paw. Paw like the Paw Paw fruit unavailable on this ship. And pour like the tea liberally laced with ginger to aide the mal de mer some suffered so terribly. Although of course the first 'poor' may be the most pertinent.”

I think Keir is a comic genius.

We drive through a never ending landscape of arid rocks and parched trees. Every ten minutes or so it is punctuated by a place name sign that serves no real purpose as far as I can make out.

Quart Pot Creek.

Lily Creek.

Pint Pot Creek.

Keep River.

Newry Station.

Basalt Creek.

Battle Creek.

Moriarty Creek.

Glenarra Creek.

Butler Creek.

Dead Horse Springs.

Beta Creek.

Black Flag Creek.

Cheese Tin Creek. (I'm not making it up.)

I look up to see Keir eating instant noodles dry, straight from the pack.

We enter Western Australia. The Last Frontier Sign makes me feel like a cowboy.

We go through quarantine and I sadly hand over a dozen apples, bananas and some tomatoes and watch the lady put them through a shredder as we drive on.

We drive to El Questro Camping Wilderness. Its a million Acres of camping land. Its basically Belgium.

I ask Kate if she thinks this landscape is beautiful.

'Of course! It looks like another planet. Its been like this, unchanged, for hundreds of millions of years. You can almost visualise the tectonic plates crashing together.'

I look out of the window. I see an arid inhospitable terrain leached by the sun. No shade anywhere, no water.

'Just think,' Kate says. 'This looked the same when dinosaurs were here.'

This sparks something in me and I take another look. I see that its not dead, maybe just a bit abandoned by the things that thrived here once. I can't see it through Kate's eyes but she makes me appreciate it more. I've certainly never seen anything like it.

It's impossible not to acknowledge how easy it would be to dispose of a body in this part of the world.

The WELCOME TO EL QUESTRO Sign has been shot through with a rifle.

El Questro is, as I mentioned earlier, really big. Really, really big. We arrive at Reception and are allocated a part of the Bush to ourselves. Its another twenty minute off track drive to find it. Its within a circle of old trees by a river. Which we definitely can't swim in. We all try and set up our tents behind each other, steadily moving further and further away, so that whoever is at the front will get eaten first if the crocs decide to use the bank in front of us as an access ramp.

Someone has arranged some rocks in a circle for fire making and the boys head off to find twigs. They return looking sheepish with the best part of a tree.

There isn't a soul in sight for forever. Just Bush. Kate and I have never been anywhere so remote.

Keir and I sit in the red dust and share a bottle of wine whislt he doodles on the guitar and we chat about the immediacy of youth. He says he can still attain that feeling for about ten minutes every morning after his first coffee. A world of possibilities.

Kate reads. Dave stares at the river leaning against a tree.

We have a reservation for dinner at a restaurant back by the reception area. Its five star dining and we, feet caked in mud, sit on the verandah in the middle of the wilderness eating fish tacos, calamari, chorizo, steaks, feta, garlic mash, barramundi and hot bread. We drink cold beer and good wine and there's a hot mustard that makes our eyes water. We are so relaxed and happy we can't stop laughing. Kate's hair is turning in to chunks like dreads and she looks beautiful. I can't resist planting at least three kisses on her head as we stagger back to the car.

I thought I'd be nervous, sleeping alone in a tent in so remote a place but the booze and the starry sky and the sound of birds bitching in the trees cocoons me and I fall asleep staring at the sky once again.

Honest Dave and the Crocodile Tears

Everything wants to bite, kill or eat me. Sometimes all three. I'm in Darwin and the weather vacillates between hot and hot and humid.

I've come here a few days before our planned drive to Broome because Honest Dave is commentating a Roller Derby and has invited me along.

On the plane I am sat between him and a man who bears a striking resemblance to Inigo Montoya (You killed my father. Prepare to die.) Inigo is drunk or stoned or both and wants nothing more than to chat. I have two choices; Either talk to him or listen to him talk to himself between burps and heavy sighs. He talks about the Northern Territories and mentions that we'll be driving through Wolf Creek. I turn to Honest Dave with a deceptively blank face.

'That place doesn't really exist does it?'

Honest Dave laughs for about six or seven minutes and then happily puts on his noise cancelling earphones and watches Lincoln whilst I try to read my book and periodically respond to Inigo with stock phrases:

'Really, that far?'

'Gosh that sounds like fun.'

'Just the one tooth huh?'

I quietly plan my revenge on Honest Dave.

We are met at the airport by Maiden Shiner a Roller Derby Chick who will be our host for the next couple of days.

By 2 AM we are sat in her back yard smoking and the conversation turns to crocodiles.

'Aw yeah you'll deffo see some,' she intones casually. 'Two weeks ago the next door neighbours came back from work to find one in their car port.'

I find myself clutching my cigarette like a sword whilst scanning the darkness for red glowing eyes.

'And another friend got woken in the night by the sound of his dog going mental and when he went downstairs to see what the fuss was about he found a fresh water croc in his living room.'

She then lets out a piercing scream and Honest Dave looks over my shoulder and mutters 'Oh Fuck.'

I turn very slowly to look in to the eyes of imminent death and find myself confronted by a spider on the wall. A Huntsman to be precise. Big, yes. Scary, no. Compared to the mosquito's eating me alive out there its positively cuddly.

'It's just a spider,' I say.

'I hate spiders,' she whispers.

'Me too,' Honest Dave mutters.

Their priorities seem a bit fucked to me.

I fall in to a fitful sleep with the sensation of a thousand tiny creatures tap dancing unseen across my body.

I had a dream the night before we flew out here and wrote to Christian, still half asleep, to share it:

“I just had a weird dream that you have a creature in this country that is a black bug when born, and is tiny but with a human face and then it grows to the size of a three year old boy and remains that size but with these black wings and shit. They get really attached to humans, both emotionally and in a physically clingy way if they find someone they love like a mum.”

He wrote back:

“That's not from a dream. It's a Ferky Toodler, native to Kunanurra, which, conveniently is on the way between Darwin and Broome! You can hear young unattached ones baying at the full moon over the nearby Lake Argyle (nine times the volume of Sydney Harbour).”

Every time I thought about this for the rest of the day I'd start laughing. I've been in Darwin two days. I'm not laughing anymore.

In the morning I hose myself down with insect repellent and we head off to the Parap Markets for breakfast. Its a cosy bustling little market with lots of sheeting tethered overhead to provide shade. We buy excellent coffee and wander about deciding what to eat. Most of the food stalls are Indonesian and there's one crepe stall. I can't face anything that sweet and eventually find a stall that does a kind of omelette that's basically the remnants of a good take away held together by egg. It's delicious. Honest Dave has some noodle stuffed chicken wings and a satay stick. For breakfast.

We go to the hat stall because I'm told I'll need one for the drive. There are two kinds: The one Crocodile Dundee wears or the one Indiana Jones wears. It actually has a label on it that says 'Indiana Jones Hat'. The seller assures me he re-watched the film just last week to check and it definitely is the one Indiana Jones wore. I let Honest Dave choose something floppy for me. I'm stunned that he has an opinion on the matter.

As we leave the market I see a woman holding an Aboriginal man's hand and saying:

'I know darling, but if I let you in I'll get in so much trouble.'

Everywhere we walk in town there is a reminder of the constant presence of crocodiles. Pictures of them, belts made out of them, bars named after them.

We drive to Berry Springs. It's beautiful and full of trees. We get to the lake and see a few people swimming or throwing their kids in. I float about in the hot springs for an hour and a little girl paddles past me and says 'Isn't it fun!' I agree that it is, and off she paddles never to be seen again.

We watch the sunset at the Ski Club and I drink lots of beer.

When we get back to Maiden Shiner's she asks if we went to Berry Springs.

'Yes! It was lovely, I had a long swim.'

'Aw, did ya see any fresh water crocs?'

'Er, no. Ha ha ha. We were in a safe -'

'Fresh water river,' she points out. 'Didn't you tell her Dave?'

I look to Honest Dave in horror.

'Ah well, they're fresh water Thea, they hardly count.'

I will henceforth be referring to Honest Dave as just Dave.

I casually Google the river and discover that yes, crocodiles live there. A good life lesson: Just because Australian parents are throwing their children face first in to the water does not automatically mean that the water is safe. And yes, I know that a fresh water croc will not eat you. But if cornered it will take your hand off and I defy anyone to spot a crocodile next to them whilst having a paddle and not scream in blood curdling terror.

In the following two hours of internet research on 'How to survive a crocodile attack' I learn two things:

1. People almost never survive crocodile attacks.
2. If you stick your arm down its throat and press down it will fill with water and back off. This is of course largely theoretical because no one has ever had the presence of mind to shove their arm in the gaping maw of the thing that is eating them.

There is also some nonsense about going limp. So. A crocodile has launched itself at you, all sharp teeth and intent, and your head is one vigorous tug away from being separated from your spinal cord. Go on, go limp. I dare you. The theory is that the first bite is just to catch you. Then, once you've stopped making a fuss, it'll open its hellish jaws to get a better grip. That's your opportunity! Opportunity to what? Post something about it on Facebook? Try to reason with it? Sorry? Oh, really? Poke its eyes out. Sure. Initially it was just hungry. Now its hungry and really pissed off.

The stories people have told me. I won't subject you to them but here are some notable highlights:

“And he was just hanging from a tree showing off to his mates when Eric the croc launches up out of the water and just rips his.....”

“So they're stuck up a tree in dark and their mate is dead and every hour or so the croc comes back with the body and just shows it to them....”

“...he's pissed and up to his waist in the water fishing and people are shouting 'Get out you idiot!' and next thing this croc has appeared next to him and he throws a fuckin' tinny at its head. Its the last fuckin' thing he ever did. That croc clear bit his head off and swam past the poor bloke's family with it....”

The following day Dave and I go to the Mindil Markets which are on the beach. Its fantastic and we sit staring at the sea we are forbidden from entering and eat lunch bought from a stall. Dave by this point is basically eating an entire lamb shank like anyone else would eat a chicken drumstick. He is getting more feral by the day.

The Roller Derby is good fun. I sit drinking cold beer watching a bunch of fantastic looking women ram the shit out of each other. There are two kinds of girls. The ones who have bought in to the image and sport lots of tattoos and red lips and the ones who haven't bothered. The latter group are far more terrifying on the court. Dave gives me the option to sit behind a yellow line on the court called The Suicide Line. Girls often come haring off there and in to your lap. I choose the stalls.

Afterwards whilst chatting to one of the girls she asks if I've seen a croc yet.

Why oh why in gods name would I want to?

Kate and Keir arrive the following day and we meet them at the ski club to watch the sun set and drink lots of cold beer by the jug. Its lovely to see them again and we're giddy by the time we head off to dinner.

As an aside, I have never seen a sunset like the ones up here. It's not just the incredible range of colours but the way it changes moment to moment. And the glow is something close to rapturous.

Kate and Keir have just arrived to collect us and start the two week drive to Broome. We're easing ourselves in and will be staying in Kakadu National Park for the first three nights. There is a palpable air of excitement. We've been told we can't bring alcohol in to the Aboriginal settlements. Keir is figuring out how we might sneak a bottle of whiskey in for personal use. Kate keeps laughing because it is sort of hilarious how I've ended up on a holiday that I would never have planned for myself. Dave has bought a hunting knife and some flip flops and I have armed myself with Bushman's insect repellent. The can states that its also good on leeches. I'm not thinking about that.

As we leave Maiden Shiner tells Kate to keep me on a knife edge of terror because “she's funniest that way.”

The Maori and the Music.

I am woken at lunchtime by a text from Mr Wild:

Hey Thea. You in upstairs?

Yes love.

I need to print manuscript paper. Is there a printer there? Hi!

There is. Although how it works is anyone's guess.

Ta. X

A moment later the full force of his personality is stood in the kitchen as I try and figure out why the kettle keeps short circuiting all the electricity. I fix it. I have no idea how, I've only been awake four minutes but the feral need for coffee briefly transforms me in to an electrician.

'Coffee.' I state.

'GREAT!' He booms.

I take him in. He is barefoot, his long white hair wild as usual. The only alteration are his glasses which are now held together with masking tape upon which he's stuck a small plastic red heart, the sort you find in children's sticker packs.

'Nice heart.'

'Pin fell out. Decorated it.'

'Uhuh.'

We take our coffee and go to stare at the printer. It stares back. A Phd and a First Class Degree and we haven't got a fucking clue between us.

'Well it's a wifi printer so I should be able to connect it to my mac without too much trouble,' I say uncertainly.

Mr Wild presses some buttons and shouts; 'What about now?' for twenty minutes or so, and a mere decade later it is up and running. We are ridiculously pleased with ourselves. I have been conscious for less than an hour and have knocked two pieces of electronic equipment in to shape. In normal circumstances I wouldn't even try. I'd just call a friend and scream 'Make it work! Make it work!' until they capitulated and came round. If the day continues like this world domination is on the cards.

We celebrate with a fag and another coffee.

'So what are you up to today Mr Wild?'

'Welllll,' he sighs. 'I'm supposed to be finishing my Phd but a friend has a show on in a few days and the composer is having some personal issues and has had to bow out, so I've been recruited to prepare the music.'

'Is that difficult?'

'Not normally but there's two problems. The first is that it is pop music, which would be okay, but its done in the style of the late 19^th century, late romanticism to modernism. Self absorbed bores they were, and their whole thing was that nothing should be predictable. So it jumps from one thing to the next and it's impossible to second guess.'

'And the second problem?'

'The composer only managed to drop off some of the music. And its gobbledegook.'

'Gobbledegook?'

'Yes, complete gobbledegook. He did provide some additional information. At the bottom of the sheet it said “PTO” and when I did there was a note saying “These are my favourite things” and two pictures. One of a penis, the other of a cat.'

We think about that for a while.

'I'm sorry I missed your show last week. I was stuck up a mountain with Madame M,' I explain.

'Oh that's alright. It was bloody good though.'

'How did the Glass Harmonica sound?'

'Great! Particularly with the Horse head fiddle and the throat singer.'

'The what and the what?'

'Bloody thing kept breaking down though. Y'know a glass harmonica is basically a sewing machine with glasses attached yah?'

'I did not know that.'

'Oh yeah. Peddle, spin, turn.'

'Right.'

'Got a man in. He fixed it. It broke again. He fixed it. That's the thing with instruments back then. Volatile.'

'Horse head fiddle?'

'Mongolians. Obsessed with horses.'

'Okay.'

I tell him I've been researching Grants for a writer's retreat at the Banff Institute in Alberta.

'Ah Canada. Going to live with the grizzlies are you?'

He starts giggling and I know why.

'You've watched that documentary haven't you. Grizzly Man.'

He giggles some more. My friend BGR told me about it a couple of years ago. A bloke called Treadwell decides to go and live with some bears. Like a bear whisperer. The documentary is pretty full on and Treadwell believes he has a connection with them and its all about the love, until of course one of the bears gets bored and rips his head off.

'I just keep thinking of Herzog's voiceover saying: “I believe the common denominator of the Universe is not harmony, but chaos, hostility and murder.” And then sure enough, dead.' He is still giggling.

It reminds me of something else BGR told me that I found fascinating. Apparently a bear cub has facial expressions much like a human child: Fear, Joy, Sadness etc. Until it makes its first kill, after which its face loses expression. I've tried to verify this with online research but all I can find is evidence that cubs have facial expressions and bears mostly use their stance and ears to communicate. I say 'research'. Google, ten minutes.

I went to a BBQ the other day. My first proper Aussie BBQ. Anything that ever had a face was on that BBQ. I ate Goat steak and African Sausage and chatted to strangers. Initially I was talking to a retired couple who have recently returned from a nine month drive through America. The woman was clearly head over heels with the place.

'So we started off in Hawaii and made our way to San Francisco...' she told me about every state they visited and what they ate and how the Deep South is very much the Deep South. It was really interesting and I enjoyed her stories but when she finished and I said;

'Well it sounds like you had a blast!'

She responded with;

'Well we started off in Hawaii and made our way to San Francisco...'

I was able to fill in some of the details myself by the third telling of it; 'No silly, you wore the new hat in Texas. I think you'll find the best steaks you had were in New Orleans.”

I also met Madame M's new flatmate Miss T. She didn't know anyone either and looked as startled as I do when taken under the wing of Madame M.

We end up chatting over chicken wings. She asks about my tattoos and reveals that she has one of her own. She pulls down her lip and inside she has 'Go fuck yourself!' in Italian.

'But you're so pretty and dainty to have that inside your mouth!' I exclaim.

She grins. 'I used to do a bit of modelling but I'm also a tradie.'

'A tradie?'

'I'm an electrician.'

I like her very much. Nothing about her is expected. A bit like late 19^th century music but without the self indulgence. She is getting the inside of her upper lip tattooed too. And possibly her tongue.

'Why all the internal inks?' I ask.

'Well in part the modelling. I would like to have had my chin done too but my Dad says I look beautiful regardless.'

'Your Dad think you're beautiful despite not having your chin inked?'

'I'm half Maori.'

I stare at her blankly and she explains their tribal markings;

'One half of your face belongs to your mother, the left, and one side belongs to your father, the right. So the 'Moko' you see on a Maoris face represent their family and tribal history. The chin, the 'Mana' is your self. It represents you.'

'And how do you know what your self looks like in ink?'

'Ah you go to the tribal elders and they look at you and tell you.'

I am about to propose marriage to her when someone passes around a dish of pork lollipops and I'm momentarily distracted.

We then get in to my favourite discussion, after food, which is the importance of storytelling. We talk about oral histories, fairytales, mythology and the importance of sharing your stories openly with others if you want to have half a hope of making a connection with anyone. We pause briefly as I fall upon a mountain of what look like lamb cutlets and before long I have the meat sweats, we have exchanged details and she has offered to tell me anything at all I want to know about her and her life so far on this earth for writing purposes.

'I'll give you a pseudonym,' I offer graciously.

'Just use my name, I don't care. It's Tai. Tai Emery.

I have been spending a lot of my time lying on my back in the last couple of weeks. And not in the fun way. I need constant external motivation or I would do nothing at all and have to be poked with a stick to check I'm still breathing. After nearly three weeks I'm missing Kate and Keir's company and the sound of their music drifting through this house. I'm looking forward to seeing them again in Darwin this weekend.

Kate sent me a message on FB the other day. It was at the end of a longer discussion:

Thea, make sure you don't forget to

• put music on

• drink herbal tea
• 
go for a walk
• 
have little routines

She also gently suggests that I write at least an hour a day and that maybe this time could be spent working on 'That Novel'.

I mentioned to her a while ago that my darling Ex Tom always used to softly but relentlessly kick me in to action and it was the only reason I ever finished the first draft of 'That Novel.' She remembered and has wholeheartedly taken it on board and I love her for it.

I think about the list as I lie on my back on her big red sofa staring at the sky for an hour or two and I wonder if she'd agree that this constitutes a routine.

She made me.

The church is too big really. The mourners tip toe towards their seats whispering and waving to family and friends not often seen, except in churches. There are plenty of mourners but even full this place feels too large. The ceiling so far away, the stone walls cold.

It is a sad occasion. Margot was well loved and had many friends. But it is not a tragic occasion because Margot lived to be ninety two. A good innings as everyone keeps saying. Who ever came up with that expression to describe a long life? And why has it survived?

The only real sadness in the room is felt for me I think. They believe because I am so very old and so very wrinkled that I do not really hear them or see them as they do me. And so they speak freely as though I'm not there.

'He'll not be far behind poor thing. They never are.'

Bloody hell! Thanks for that.

'Are you alright Dad?' This from my daughter Bella.

'Fine, I'm fine.'

'Do you need anything?'

'No.'

'Is Dad okay?' This, my son George. He is speaking to Bella.

Bella speaks to me. George speaks about me, for me and regarding me. I'm not sure when that happened.

'Gramps, d'you want a sweet?' My grandson Sam. He's a child trapped in the body of a thirty five year old man. I like him very much.

'What have you got?'

'Sours, wine gums and lemon sherbets.'

'I'll take a sour.'

He hands me the sweet and kisses my temple before wandering off.

Everyone is settling down and a sombre silence fills the echoey room. The odd cough.

The priest takes the pew and starts talking about why we're here. Margot's body lies in a box before us. When I was young I fantasised about this day and I'd cry. The horror of Margot trapped in a box, away from me, unable to return. I don't feel that way now. Margot isn't in that box.

The priest talks and I check my pockets. Glasses. Yes. Eulogy. Yes. Keys. Yes. Handkerchief. Yes.

Before long Bella is squeezing my hand and I lift my head to see what she wants.

'It's time Dad,' she whispers, tears rolling down her lovely cheeks.

'Oh right,' I say. 'That was quick.'

I go to stand and find my legs are as stiff as all blazes. Bloody cold church. George helps me up and I totter toward the front. Christ the body is a bastard. It doesn't reflect the inside at all. This old sack of skin and bone once ran through the streets of our home town, chasing a tipsy Margot. I shouldn't be so unkind to the old shell. Its never said a bad word about me.

This is the last thought I have as I step up to the mike.

'He can barely stand,' George whispers.

'He's fine,' Bella says. She wipes at her tears. 'He wanted to do the eulogy George.'

'I know!' George rubs his hands together nervously. 'I just don't think its appropriate. He hardly seems to be here these days, his mind isn't ri-'

'Shut up George.' Bella's patience is worn thin with her stuffy brother and his sense of propriety.

She knows he's written a back up eulogy just in case Dad loses his thread or forgets where he is.

'Go for it Gramps,' Sam whispers his eyes locked on his grandfather.

Bella smiles at him though he can't see it. She turns her attention to the front and watches as her father locates his glasses and puts them on. Removes the folded paper from his pocket and spreads it in front of him. Then he looks up at the room, his eyes confused. And then he looks a bit longer and slowly a huge grin spreads across his face.

'Oh,' George says.

'Firstly Margot would like me to thank you all for coming.'

'Oh God,' George mutters.

'She's sorry she can't be here herself but she upped and died on us last wednesday.'

Sam laughs in to the stunned silence and pops another sherbet in his mouth.

'Thank you for respecting her wishes. She always hated flowers at funerals. She believed flowers were for the living. Although she did love a good ritual, which is why we're in this bloody freezing church despite her life long atheism. She was contradictory like that.'

He stops speaking and stares at the paper in front of him. Bella can feel George poised to leap at the lectern and places a restraining hand on his arm.

After a moment that to George feels like a century Dad grins once again,

'I'd like to tell you about the day before Margot died. You all know what you know about her; she grew things, had green fingers, spoke Italian, had two children, married me when she was thirty. You know what you know. The day before Margot died was much like the sixty years preceding it. Bloody good fun. We woke around noon. Since my retirement Margot always insisted we stay in bed for as long as humanly possible. She said I'd earned a lie in and she never understood why when people retire they maintain the same routines. So, we woke at noon and the sun was streaming in through the open windows. We always have the windows open in summer. She was lying on her side facing me, already awake, and when I opened my eyes she said “Morning sailor.” She said that every morning. And I said “Hello Gogo.” We lay there in silence for a bit as people who have been in each others constant company for sixty odd years are want to do. And then slowly Margot pulled herself up and clambered out of bed. Its strange to watch someone you've known most of your life slow down. We both have so many pills to take on daily basis. But for ninety two she was doing alright. No zimmer. No stick. Just slow. She went off to make our morning cup of tea like she has done every morning for as long as I can remember. But when she returned she didn't have the tea. Instead she struggled through the door with a bottle of cold champagne and two glasses. I pulled myself up in to a sitting position. What's this? I asked. Is it another bloody anniversary? She smiled at me. “No love. But why not eh. We might be dead tomorrow.” This did make me chuckle. Margot has been using that excuse for as long as I've known her. We might be dead tomorrow. Those five little words have started more adventures than I can begin to recount to you now. The only reason you're here George is because of that sentence.'

George sits there speechless. Bella stifles a laugh.

'We had no intention of having kids. We were quite happy just the two of us and we hated everyone else's children and thought bugger that! Then Margot forgot to take her pill and I said what if you're pregnant and she said “Sod it! We might be dead tomorrow.” And so there you were George. And then Margot said you might grow up lonely or strange without a sibling so we had Bella too. You still grew up strange but I think Bella keeps an eye on you don't you love.'

A ripple of good humoured laughter rolls through the room. Bella looks sideways to see George trying not to smile.

'Margot crawled back in to bed and I went about opening the bottle. I had a moment of thinking how we'd look to a stranger. Two wrinkly old sods in Marks and Spencer's Men's Pyjamas sat up under our yellow duvet opening a bottle of champagne at lunchtime. I thought we must look marvellous. If I hadn't met Margot and convinced her to marry me I'd have been a very different man. Every adventure we had. Every good and bad decision was made by Margot. She made me. I've used that as an excuse quite liberally over the years. When we missed your wedding anniversary party George, remember? We got drunk on cocktails in the garden and never showed up and you were so angry with us. And what did I say to you?'

George coughs, embarrassed by the sudden attention. 'You said “She made me”'

Another ripple of laughter.

'That's right. We went to Morocco, India, Italy, Canada, Greece and Alaska because she made me. We saw the Northern Lights because she made me. And we'd bring you kids back hideous souvenirs knowing you'd hate them but put them out whenever we came around. God that made us laugh. We sold the house and bought a bungalow in the middle of nowhere because she made me. We held boozy extravagant dinner parties way past an age when it was deemed respectable because she made me. We took up painting because she made me. And she made me because we might be dead tomorrow.

We spent the whole day in bed drinking champagne and smoking cigarettes like we used to when we first met. We got drunk. Margot read me a poem from a book on her bedside table which made me cry a bit. I won't recite it here, its none of your business. We ate cheese in bed too and we stayed up later than we have in years. And we talked. We reminisced. We laughed a lot the day before Margot died. And then when I looked out of the window and saw the moon and the stars hanging themselves up for us, Margot curled in to my side and fell asleep. And soon after so did I, my breath matching with hers. I woke first the next morning. Margot didn't wake at all. And here we are, a week later. And yes Clare, you're probably right, I'll not be far behind. And that's good. That's as it should be. The world is a dull place without Gogo, but the last sixty odd years have been gravy. Every single day. I think I'm the luckiest old bugger alive. Now. If someone could help me down off this lectern, my grandson Sam over there has promised to take me to the pub. Because we might be dead tomorrow. '