Somewhere near Marla SA

By Emma James*

As the sun set over the Stuart Highway in the middle of Australia ending the first day of a new decade, the western sky was illuminated with hues of orange, red and yellow. While the clouds were turning shades of violet, lilac and silver. The sky darkened and then the moon in its full glory rose up over the eastern horizon lighting up the sky and the desert landscape. The cloud wasn’t enough to dull the glow, the rays breaking through resembling the sun. Looking north up the highway, the intermittent flash of the bus blinkers caught the iridescent orange of the hazard triangles on the road – luminous indicators to motorists that our bus was, as our Germans put it, kaput.

In times of trouble we have two choices: laugh and think “this will make an interesting story” or cry about how unlucky we are.

Our group of thirteen international travellers and our bus driver, stuck on the side of the Stuart Highway without mobile phone reception, chose to laugh. We chose to pull up a stool, grab a drink and admire the beauty around us.
We had food, water and swags to sleep in, it would just be another night under the stars; Nothing new for us, we had camped the past two nights between Uluru and Kata Tjuta.

These two natural wonders are awe-inspiring. They take breath away and leave a feeling of insignificance.  Out of almost nowhere, Uluru as one entire rusty red rock pops out of the landscape like an iceberg; almost 85% of it lies underground.  Photos don‟t do justice to its grandiosity.  And seemingly not so far away (except everything in the desert is farther than it seems) lies Kata Tjuta.  The rock faces smooth, yet pocked with holes, they look like mounds of ice cream that somehow haven‟t melted in the intense Outback heat.

Watching the moon setting and the sun rising over these wonders is humbling and it was this sight that began our new year before our journey south down the Stuart Highway towards Coober Pedy.  Full of awe and good spirits, we hit trouble about 50kilometres inside South Australia.  The bus needed more oil.  That added, we moved on, but the clunking noise continued and we pulled over again.

Our mini-bus called “Binga” (after cricketer Brett Lee) was lagging.  After passing the message “We’re limping in at 60km/h, send help if we don’t make it” to the next town, we jumped back in, cranked the music and started crawling.

We made it about 20kilometres and as Bon Jovi screamed “shot through the heart”, part of the engine fell away and Binga was all out.  “How fitting” we all laughed as we piled out of the bus, grabbed our stools and our drinks and admired the view. The highway was quiet and as far as the eye could see, only red dirt and a few small trees. A few horse prints the only sign of life aside from the small handful of passing vehicles, one stopping to take the message on to the next town that we were stuffed.

... Kombi adventures .... Marla SA ... small world, eh ?

We couldn’t have chosen a better spot to breakdown. The clear landscape meant a clear view of the sunset and the moon rise. Laugh or cry?  Definitely laugh and smile at the beauty of the world, something that many of us in or busy lives don‟t stop to appreciate.  And as if on cue, as the moon was making its final ascent into the night sky, the northern horizon was suddenly ablaze with another set of lights.  Slowing to a stop was a three trailer road train lit up like a Christmas tree.

Help had arrived in the form of Darren and his mate (also Darren) in the next truck.  Our knights in Stubbie shorts and singlet tops jumped from their cabs and within no time had our bus hooked up and on the move again.  Our tour driver at the wheel of the bus had a hairy ride ensuring the bus stayed on track behind the road train, as four us were up front in the cab of the truck with Darren laughing about our experience.  We pulled into the “blink and you’d miss it” service station town of Marla a while later we were met by scorpions and the welcome sight of a motel bed.

Breaking down in the middle of the desert is a thing of horror stories.  We could have cried about how unlucky we were, but stopping to look at the situation, we were actually incredibly lucky.

This wasn’t in the itinerary, but it became one of the highlights of our trip.

* Emma James is  freelance journalist and photographer.

Mike Jones and Susan Merrell welcome her as a colleague and friend of the Pig’s Arms.

Manne's trusty Nokia does it again !

The trip down the Hume from Sydney and across on the Federal Highway to Canberra was uneventful except that the traffic was doing it’s best to play speedway aces in the pouring rain.  The scariest thing was a young woman with two kids in a clapped out old Barina tailgating other cars in the pouring rain.  I was thinking of calling the cops on the mobile and getting the highway patrol to pull her up for her own safety.  But she didn’t look like the kind of person likely to respond well to advice.  And there are always the Darwin Awards to consider….

Anyway, we stopped at Goulburn Maccas on the way and the crowd on Jan 2 was eight deep.  The carpark was almost overflowing.  We gave it a miss and fell back on the Express kebab shop where the trade was brisk but not ridiculous and the service was friendly and civil.  But the food was, well, edible.

We met up with our mates and really enjoyed the Paris Exhibition at the National Gallery.  Do book an earlybird session.  You pay an extra ten bucks and gain entry at 9:00 – an hour before the hoi polloi which gives you a fighting chance at a really good squizz without the three mile queue.  Book it through the web if you like.  We had breakfast before the Sunday early session and we complained about the crappy food break situation going from Sydney to Canberra on the highway.  One of the crew told us to stop at Marulan on the way back.  There’s a huge roadhouse there.  We did, and we didn’t.  We decided to pull off the highway at Marulan and survey the town (avoiding yet another Hume monster roadhouse).

And this is what we found.  A three generation tea place – Nan, Mum and preschool daughter, serving soup, light lunch and tea.  No crowds, hearty soup and toasty bread, reasonable prices and personal service.  Delightful stop.  Try it.

This is what a bypass does to a little town.

The last servo before the monster roadhouse....out the back of the truck weigh station.

Well beyond Reuben's wildest dreams.....

By Reuben Brand

Walking out of the airport in Dubai was like walking into a hot cup of tea – hot, sticky and a tad uncomfortable. It was late, I was tired and all I wanted was a shower and a decent bed to rest my weary head, so I jumped into the nearest cab and was on my way.

As we pulled up the taxi driver assured me that this was the ONLY hotel in Dubai with vacancies, “sure of course it is” I said, too tired to dispute the blatant lie.

“Dreamland Hotel… This place seems OK” I thought as I checked in. Despite the name reminding me of a dodgy mini golf centre, or a David Lynch film – I was just thankful I had found somewhere to stay. It wasn’t the Hilton but it had clean sheets, hot water, TV with movies in English (bonus) and super cold aircon.

A quick wash and I was ready for a walk around the neighbourhood.

As I walked the streets beneath the giant skyscrapers a voice, now quickly approaching me from behind, darted out of the darkness, “Hello, what’s your name?” I turned to find a young man smiling and smoking a cigarette. “My name is Ahmed, are you lost? Let me show you around” he said.

I walked with Ahmed for a while; he was from Lebanon and seemed strangely interested in just about everything, it was a tad creepy and the conversation soon degenerated. “So, are you circumcised? It’s much better when you’re making sexing to be circumcised,” he said, completely out of the blue.

Slightly taken a back I tried to steer the conversation away from my nether regions, “what an odd thing to ask” I said. “What about when you’re alone… do you…” continued Ahmed. My God! Where the hell was this guy from? I had a fair idea of where he was headed with these questions and really didn’t want to go there. We turned a corner and I was just about to use the nearest shop as an excuse to end our charming chat, but to my dismay it was a darkish empty street.

Ahmed’s voice suddenly went up a few octaves and became a camp, nasal twang, his hand gesture became overtly animated and he giggled like a school girl as he flamboyantly strutted alongside me.

“So, you look tired, do you want a massage? Let’s party, I studied special massage techniques you know… Just come back to my place, it’s so relaxing, do you like partying? I love partying, it’s so much fun, do you want a massage? I’m really good.” He said in almost one breath.

Oh great… The last thing I needed was to be hit on by a sexually frustrated Lebanese guy who wanted to prod me in all the wrong places. OK, strange city, extremely creepy guy, dark alley, very bad mix. Had to think of something to say and fast… “I have to re-arrange my sock draw, go watch paint dry, cut myself and bathe in vinegar, learn the Dewy Decimal system” Anything! Sheesh, quickly Reuben think of something! “Oh wow, look at the time, I really must go check my emails… Thanks but no thanks mate.”

“I really must go check my emails?” That was my great escape sentence? Oh brother, I must have been tired – but it worked a treat and I was off like a Jewish foreskin. (I was going to say “off like a bride’s nighty.” Or “off like a bucket of prawns in the hot Aussie sun,” but this, untasteful as it is, seemed to fit the previous paragraphs perfectly.)

It can’t get much worse than that I thought, as I scampered unscathed back to the safety of Dreamland Hotel.

The first few days at Dreamland were nice and quite as it was still Ramadan, everyone was lovely, I even got to know the girls at the front desk, “hello Mr Reuben”  they would say as I clambered through the door, in a sweaty mess after a long day in the hot sun.

Finally I could get some work done – or so I thought.

On the last day of Ramadan one of the porters came and asked if I was ready to disco, “all the discos start tonight, Ramadan is over so we can party,” he said with a grin.

“That’s nice” I thought, “good for you.” Little did I realise that what he was trying to tell me was that the hotel had its very own nightclub. Not one but three. And my room just happened to be above two of them. Fantastic, there goes my peaceful sleep.

The first club was called “Wild Indian Girls” Presumably for the Indian clientele, the second was an Arabic club “Arabic Dreams” or some such name and the third, which was right under my room, was for Pakistanis. I can’t remember what it was called; only that it was extremely loud. That night was like trying to sleep in a bad Bollywood flick, as the distorted bass rattled everything in my room, including my now frayed nerves.

On the second night curiosity got the better of me and I just had to see what all the fuss was about.

I tentatively ventured into the Pakistani club – I was half expecting to find a dimly lit room, perhaps a smoke machine and disco ball and of course some badly dressed Pakistanis wearing their jeans pulled right up under their armpits, pressed cotton shirts (unbuttoned half way) and bouffant hairdos all busting a “Bollywood meets disco fever” move on the dance floor. Oh how I was wrong.

To my surprise the room was full of tables and chairs, no dance floor, no disco ball and only a few bad hairdos. In the centre of the room was a stage, on the stage was a long bench and on the long bench sat a row of thoroughly unimpressed young girls. “Something is very wrong with this picture” I thought to myself. The room was packed with incredibly drunk men sitting around the tables, all shouting and cheering – having a great old time. Then the music started and one of the girls got up and did a total Bollywood dance number, then another song and another girl. It seemed they all had particular songs that they would mime away to as they flitted nimbly around the stage.

It was all very cute and amusing until I noticed some of the girls on the bench having what looked to me like an elaborate conversation in sign language with some of the patrons. Hand signals were flying all over the shop, numbers, thumbs up, thumbs down, the international rubbing of thumb and pointer together “money, money, money” waving fingers back and forth in a “No! No! No! I don’t think so” kind of way, pointing upstairs and giggling all the while – “are they bargaining for something? What on earth is going on?”

My suspicions were confirmed as I watched these covert transactions take place and one or two girls silently slipped away only to reappear some time later looking slightly ruffled.

After just about as much bad Bollywood music as I could bear I made for the sanctuary of my room, stuffed napkins in my ears and tried to get some sleep.

The next morning on my way out I was stopped by the man who sat at the door. “So… Did you have some fun last night?” He asked. “Did you like… the girls? You can take them up to your room you know…” He was an elderly Pakistani man, very pleasant in appearance, if not a tad strange in manner. “But don’t bother with these girls, they’re too expensive,” he continued, as he looked at me through his 70’s style glasses (original vintage) with his thick locks of grey hair blowing in the warm breeze. He was 65 years old, but didn’t look a day over 40, “what’s his secret?” I wondered.

“I will take you to a place where there are good cheap girls…very, very cheap… But they’re only available in the mornings.” He said with a slightly disturbing grin. What is this? A red spot special at woolies? Early bird gets the worm I guess…

“Oh gee… that’s um, well that’s… good, great, yeah thanks… that’s ah, good to know… very informative… thanks it’s a very ah… kind offer, I’ll um… I’ll… yeah thanks.” I spluttered.

If “very, very cheap” prostitutes was this guy’s secret to staying youthful, I think I’ll just have to age gracefully.

That night I had a quick peek through the door of “Wild Indian Girls.” It was much the same as the Pakistani club, although more subdued – Pakistanis really know how to let loose and party. I wasn’t too sure about the name though, as the girls didn’t look all that wild – possibly “uninterested, depressed Indian girls” would have been more fitting.

They say that curiosity killed the cat – but mine had died years ago, so my next port of call was definitely the Arabic club. I was informed that just to enter the club there was an exuberant cover charge, “try before you buy” was my excuse and so I slipped in for a minute or two. As far as dodgy clubs in even dodgier hotels go, this was not so bad – plates of hummus and nibbles were being served, the air was filled with the sweet smell of flavoured tobacco, as just about everyone in the room hubble bubbled away on their sheesha pipes whilst three or four largish Arabic woman all performed some kind of pseudo belly dance come two step shuffle on stage. I didn’t stay long enough to see if any covert hand signals were being given as I’d had just about enough Twin Peaks entertainment for one night.

The same rules applied for all three clubs – a few hand signals and it’s into the express elevator to the elusive “upstairs.” So I was staying in an illegal brothel – out of all the hotels in Dubai I ended up at Dreamland or “Wet-dreamland” as it should be renamed. There has to be a first for everything I guess.

I decided to take a quick stroll to the shops – I had only made it to the end of the street when a young black girl approached me. “You looking for some brown sugar?” she said in a tired voice. “I have a place we can go to.” “No thank you – just looking for some cigarettes” I said in as polite a voice as possible and decided to take a short cut through a nearby car park. I had apparently now stumbled into the African girls pick up section – girls, young and old were hanging around under dimly lit street lights, all waiting for a John Doe to take them home.

Nervous young men pretending to talk on their mobiles stalked the car park, all waiting for a quiet moment to make their move and pounce on their prey. I almost expected to hear David Attenborough start narrating as this national geographic style dance was performed.

Quickly leaving the shadows of the car park I headed straight for the shops, only to be faced with a giant Russian lady who looked like Vladimir Putin’s sparring partner. Bright blue eye liner, thick red lipstick that looked like it had been applied by a blind man with Parkinson’s and a horrendously short skirt displaying thighs that would have made Phar Lap whimper – she looked me up and down in a very menacing way, turned and continued smoking her cigarette.

“Phew!” I obviously didn’t look worth it, which was great as no amount of polite “no thank you” would have appeased this giant lady of the night, who more than likely ate baby kittens, little children and dolphins for breakfast.

I was nearly there, just a few more metres and that packet of $1.50 cigarettes was mine!

All of a sudden a slim arm slipped itself around my waist and a young Asian girl made herself quite comfortable by my side. “Do you want massage? Special price for you…” What on earth is going on? I quickly checked to make sure there wasn’t a huge flashing neon sign above my head that said “Young white male: Quick, offer him unusual sexual services!”

Well at least she wasn’t a hairy Lebanese guy, but never the less, the answer remained the same. “No thanks – I just want a packet of cigarettes.” I thought choosing cancer over possible herpes or HIV was a rather good move.

Finally I had made it to the shops – their glowing fluorescent lights were like a beacon of hope, a sanctuary of safety. I stepped into the light and took refuge in the isles of frozen goods and cleaning products, but it wasn’t long until I had to brave the elements once more.

I sat, smoking a much needed cigarette, on a nearby bench pondering the bizarre nature of the past few days when a voice quietly whispered something in my ear that would make your average lady of the night blush like a school girl – I turned to find another Asian lady sitting beside me. “Where on earth am I?” I wondered – it was like I had somehow crossed into a parallel universe where Kings Cross, minus the toothless junkies and crack whores, was having a really bad Arabian Nights theme party.

As flattering as it all was, the only thing I really wanted to do was watch daggy 80’s re runs on the movie channel in the comfort of my room.

I returned to the hotel and as I walked up the stairs to my room I stopped to chat to the security guard standing at the door of the Pakistani club – he was from Ethiopia and always had a tale to tell. “Tomorrow you should go to the Ethiopian section of town, they have special cafes where you can take part in a traditional coffee ceremony,” he said. Hallelujah! Finally, someone was talking about something that didn’t involve cheap prostitutes or massages! What a lovely idea, good coffee, a new experience, should be fantastic. “The ceremony is performed by beautiful Ethiopian woman,” he continued, “and afterwards, you can have all kinds of fun with them, if you know what I mean – Ethiopian woman are the best in the world…” Oh God… I just can’t escape.

Moscow Metro

At the arrival at Moscow airport we were met by our Russian guide and went through customs with some strange requests. We had to declare all our money and jewellery, including our watch and were given a receipt of both money and jewellery. We had to be able to show receipts of any money spent during our stay and also show the jewellery again before departure. We were told that one could get good money for any western type of clothes, especially western jeans etc. We were at the middle of Russia’s perestroika period and the freeing up was already having its effect whereby I did not get asked for any items of clothing and in fact so many young people wearing the same sort of fashion as in the west. Shops were almost nonexistent though. We were taken to a market place where women were queuing up and selling clothing or perhaps trading them for other items. I bought some apples that cost about five times as much as in Australia. We had a couple of Australian girls loaded up with enormous bags that everyone took turns with hauling to and from buses and trains. They told me they wanted mainly to go ‘shopping’. Shopping in Russia!

I loved everything about those two weeks. I know Stalin was not the most benevolent leader but has anyone experienced the Moscow subways? The hotel we stayed in had been used for foreign journalists during the Moscow Olympics in 1980 and we all had a room each with television that would show a screen that flickered somewhat. It was an enormous hotel with lifts and many floors. Underneath was a post office that sold stamps if they bothered opening up which they did most times after 1pm, but was usually delayed till 2.30pm. Each floor employed a lady at the end of the corridor who would just sit on a chair and watch televisions that would miraculously work. They watched comedy and much laughter would well across the corridor which gave the hotel a certain ambience and an air of easy going bonhomie. It seemed that Russia in transit with perestroika in full flight did still have ‘full employment’, especially of ladies that would just sit on a chair and watch television. Of course, that did not stay once western style capitalism became established. Watching from my window at the Moscow street scene below, I noticed men busy stirring things in a drum which was burning something. This they did all day, just standing around a smouldering drum.

lovely toilet.

My bathroom had of course all the necessities including a toilet that was erratic in its flushing habits. I suspect that water was in short supply and flushing could not be achieved when the cistern did not fill with water. From the sound of rushing water into the cistern I worked out the times when water was ‘on’ and saved this water for only the essential part of ablutions. Another architectural oddity was that the toilet’s waste pipe did not have an S bend; it just had a terracotta pipe going straight down but at an angle so absurd that one had to sit sideways, so that you could close the bathroom door and not be with knees pushing against the door.  All in all, it gave me a good example how things can be different and this is what I mainly look for when elsewhere, a total difference.

My fellow travellers apart from the Moscow Library union man were doing the typical tourist thing of forever comparing how things were in Australia, and that by and large, Australia was far freer and superior and better in this and better in that. It started to grate me severely and I rebuked a couple when it came to having dinner at a restaurant connected to this Hotel. There were the usual complaints about how in Australia we cooked this and that, and had bigger steaks and what not else. There was a wedding going on and our food was the same as the wedding party which I thought was not only delicious but also genuinely Russian fare.  There was borscht and piroshky and the wedding table was having such a good time that the moaning of my fellow travellers again about the food just made the bucket run over and I made the remark about the awfulness of dribbling meat pies and those brown streaked vegemite pieces of toast to our Russian guide. The horror of Australian food fortunately does not get a run in overseas restaurants except perhaps in some below pavement and well hidden dives in London’s Kangaroo court.

We went to see, of all composers, the folk opera/ballet of Porgy and Bess by George Gershwin at The Bolshoi Theatre. It was an unforgettable experience and the encores and applause went on forever. Nothing casual of the theatre goers though, everyone dressed up and obviously out for a good night. Our travel guide had dressed up for the occasion in a splendidly looking dress with golden little applications to hems and collar. Her name of Natasha was all in style as well.

Patrick White.

There were sometimes fellow Russian students amongst us who were interested in Australian literature and to my surprise were much better informed than my Aussie travellers were in Russian writers. Of course they were also students; even so, I felt that the average Russian student had a keen interest in things away from materialism. Of course that long suffering society steeped for centuries in so much tragedy and misfortune with leaders imposing their murderous campaigns over and over again, could hardly be expected to contemplate the dribble of average weekly earnings or the state of cricket. While the Russian students knew Patrick White and even the recent P.Carey, they had not heard of Boris Pasternak and even Alexander Solzhenitsyn.