HOBART TO CHIOS

HOBART TO CHIOS

(via Doha, Istanbul, Ayvalik and Mytilini)

Hagia Sophia, Christian Church then Muslim Mosque now Museum

As the title to this post suggests, the Prop and Mrs P have covered a considerable amount of ground since the last post. To be precise, they have traveled from Hobart to Melbourne (via Qantaslink) From Melbourne to Doha (via Qatar Airways).  From Doha to Istanbul (via Qatar Airways) [In fact we landed about 30 km from central Istanbul at Sabiha Gocken Airport but Istanbul is so flamin' big that even that airport is still within what might be called a built up area.]  From Sabiha Gocken to Balat/Fener in old Istanbul (via Efendi Travel airport transfers - cost 60 Euros or A$90!!).  From Istanbul to Ayvalik (via Metro Turizm bus - 8 hours including a ferry crossing across the Sea of Marmara).  From Ayvalik to Mytilini on the Greek island of Lesvos (a.k.a. Lesbos) (via Turyol Ferries) and from Mytilini to Chios on the Greek island of Chios (via Blue Star Ferries).

Why then (the avid reader may well ask) has the Prop taken so long to put up - if that is the right word - his first post of the Grand Tour proper?

Good question.  Very good question.

It is not because - as in past peregrinations - the Prop has not had ready access to "le wee-fee".  It is not because censorship restrictions in Turkey are such that the Prop's idiosyncratic neo-Gonzo style of journalism puts him at risk of arrest.

No, the truth is, as Mr Paul Turner might say, rather more prosaic.

The truth is that the Prop and Mrs P have been flat out absorbing "kultcha" in the region and the Prop has simply been far too enervated (i.e., buggered) to put pen to paper- or to be more accurate, finger to keyboard.

In fact it is only because the desperately unlucky Pommies were shaded a day early in the second test at Lords that the Prop has, at last, found time to answer his reader's (sic) plaintive cries for news from abroad.

As adumbrated earlier, the tour commenced with a quite uneventful series of flights from Hobart to Istanbul.  There was the customary lack of leg room, swollen ankles and unidentifiable food and drink.  And, of course, there was also the wistful contemplation - somewhere over the Bay of Bengal - of whether it would have been worth the extra $6,000 each to fly Business Class. But ringing in the Prop's ears were the sage words of Peter Lyons Senior to his son of the same name (except for the "Senior") "So let me get this straight, you paid $7,000 for one night's accommodation?"

ISTANBUL

SOME GENERAL OBSERVATIONS

Its a bit hard to know where to start with Istanbul!  Its not at all like Moonah or Glenorchy and nothing at all like New Town!  More like South Hobart but with lots of mosques.... and about 18.98 million more people! 

Old Istanbul Stay Studio - not much room but good accoustic!

The Prop had secured lodgings at the keenly-priced and rather oddly-named "Old Istanbul Stay Studio"  The use of the word "studio" in this context is, perhaps, misleading.  If it was intended to convey that there was no separate bedroom then it was perfectly accurate.  If it was intended to convey the idea of some spacious upper-story loft, then it was not at all accurate.  In truth, the "studio" was a nicely renovated basement room in a traditional Turkish terraced building in Balat - the Jewish quarter of Old Istanbul.  The area is among the poorest in Istanbul with many buildings having fallen into serious disrepair.  However, as the economists dictate, they are is now undergoing "gentrification" (the buildings, not the economists) and are gradually being repaired and occupied by upwardly mobile middle-class types.

Crime is quite a serious problem in Istanbul.  All these men had their motorbikes stolen from underneath them as they waited at a red light!

"BALAT-Y-WOOD"

The same sort of thing happened in the Rocks in Sydney 40 years ago but with one evident difference: Ever since the area featured in the James Bond movie "Skyfall", Balat is now, almost daily, the scene of movie crews moving in to shoot thriller-type fillums.

Location, Location, Location. The house used in "Skyfall" that started it all.

 In the few days that the Prop was there there were crews from Germany and China.  The German movie is tentatively titled "Nick - Off Duty" (It could have been "Nick-off, Duty" but that doesn't make much sense -  still, German movies don't make that much sense.)  It is due for release early next year.  It looks like a "Beverly Hills Cop meets Inspector Rex in Istanbul" type of fillum, and so, probably not worth watching  - even with subtitles!

On location with the crew of "Nick- Off Duty" or was it "Nick off Judy".  Who cares?

The Chinese fillum appeared to be altogether more complex.  A lot of exaggerated fear and running about, leaning on buildings and looking bewildered followed by meaningful glances passing between the male and female leads.  Even though the Prop and Mrs P were granted unprecedented access to the Director (in fact the Prop and Mrs P got a bollocking from the Director after accidentally walking into a scene and were made to stand next to him during the next "take") his artistic intentions were not made clear.  There was no dialogue - not even in Chinese, so the Prop predicts that this one may be a bit of a stinker.  Still, in a place like China, if only 1% of people like it, it will probably be a big hit!

Our local green grocer

THE INCDENT AT GALATA TOWER 

The Galata Tower (centre of pic). Scene of the Incident

On Suday 12 July, 2015, the Prop and Mrs P, like many millions before them, decided to climb to the top of the Galata Tower to take advantage of the stunning views of Istanbul and the Golden Horn.  The Galata Tower is situated in the Galata/Karakoy area of Istanbul  - and this is almost certainly how it got the name.

Originally built in about 1203 at the time of the Fourth Crusade, the tower burnt down and was re-built by the Genoese in 1348.  Given this history, the Prop was surprised to find that the tower is equipped with two lifts which, for the princely sum of 25 Turkish Lira (A$12.50) will take visitors almost to the top of the tower........when they are working properly!

On this day, one of those lifts was not working properly!!

Oblivious to the danger that lay ahead of them, the Prop and Mrs P were ushered into lift No. 2 with a Chinese couple and a young Turk and his somewhat overdressed and over-made-up female companion.  The lift doors closed and lift No. 2 began its gradual ascent.  Then, without warning, the the lights went out, the ventilation fan stopped...and so did the lift! (I say "without warning" but when you think about it, it would have been very strange if there had been an announcement to the effect that the lift was about to lose all electrical power and to stay calm until power could be restored.  Still, such an announcement may have been of some benefit given the events which followed.)

So, two Chinamen (not the preferred nomenclature, Dude), two Turks and two Australians walk into a lift..... and the shit hits the fan, which as I said earlier, had stopped working.  There we stood in stifling heat (it was 33 degrees outside and a good many more inside the lift compartment) and complete darkness - until the Young Turk turned on the light on his mobile phone.  Thereupon he reached past the Prop and began banging randomly on the lift buttons none of which was illuminated and none of which responded - save for the "Emergency" button which gave out a barely-audible and pathetic buzzing sound.

The Prop sought to assure the Young Turk that there was no point to his continuing to thrash the lift buttons as they operated on electricity and that was the one thing which they presently did not have. Besides, it was already hot enough without the Turk using up excess energy by pressing buttons and shouting loudly!  Alas! The Young Turk spoke no English and the Prop spoke no Turkish, or at any rate none which would be useful in the circumstances then prevailing.  

It emerged, by the light of the Young Turk's phone, that his companion was waving a large hand-fan to cool herself which, incidentally, also helped move the air for the rest of us. 

Perhaps 10 or 15 minutes passed with the Young Turk renewing his attack on the lift buttons every minute or so sometimes with the aid of the light from his phone and sometimes without - but always with the shrill vocal encouragement of his meretricious companion.

The stoic Chinaman and his friend remained mostly silent  Occasionally he said "fuck" to himself under his breath - but little else.  What power that word continues to have, even for those whose first language is not English!

After perhaps 15 minutes - by which time things were becoming increasingly humid and fraught inside lift No. 2, the lights came on and the ventilation fan whirred back to life, the lift shuddered momentarily and then all was darkness again!  

His hopes fleetingly raised and then cruelly dashed, the Young Turk became enraged.  He gave up on the lift buttons and began kicking the lift doors and shouting, in what sounded like rather threatening terms, to persons unknown whom the Prop supposes the Turk thought must be out there somewhere and doing nothing to help him.

Meanwhile the Prop, Mrs P and the Chinamen (sic) tried to remain calm with darkness, sweat and the mad Turks all around.

Two or three minutes passed and again the lights came on and the fan whirred, the lift juddered and failed.  We were all plunged back into darkness for a third time!

There was a grille in the roof of the compartment which seemed to be providing some ventilation so the Prop was reasonably confident that oxygen depletion would not be a serious problem.  However, it was getting ever hotter and we all were all now wringing wet with sweat.  None of this was helped by the the Turks who were, by now, like whirling Dervishes, in a trance-like state shouting and kicking the lift doors. 

The Chinaman could take it no longer.  "Shut up!" he exclaimed so loudly that the Turks were brought back to reality in an instant - and for an instant or two did shut up.  But not for long.

Again more shouting and kicking.

Then the Turk hit upon the idea of forcing open the lift doors.  Applying considerable force and after several unsuccessful attempts, he finally managed to force open the doors to reveal.....a sold concrete wall!

Meanwhile the Prop had discovered that it was possible to force the perspex sheet covering the ceiling light upwards and so allow an increased flow of air into the compartment.  This provided some minor relief...but it was not enough to placate the Turk!

Maybe 2 or 3 more times over the next 15 minutes the lift suddenly came back to life - only to die again just as quickly.

Finally we could hear voices above us.  They struck up a conversation with the Turk.  Then the lights and the ventilation fan came back on.  Our Turkish bath was over! But the lift was still stuck!

Although the Prop could not understand what was being said it became pretty clear that the problem now was that the lift would not move because the doors had been forced open!!!!!

The Young Turk set about reversing what he had earlier done and, at length, managed to get the doors to close.  Then, almost instantly, the lift began to descend.  A few seconds later the doors opened and we were back on the ground floor.  As we tumbled out of that little stainless steel cell a man offered each of us a paper towel - but no apology nor any refund nor consolation nor anything!

The Turk and his companion ran out of the tower never to be seen again.

The Chinaman weighed up the situation and together he and his companion left without ever getting to the top of the Galata Tower.

The Prop looked at Mrs P and said "Bugger it - we paid good money to get to the top - Let's take lift No. 1".

And so we did.  

And it was well and truly worth it - 25 Lira that is, not the time stuck in the lift! 

The view from Galata Tower- worth the money

The New Mosque from Galata Tower

In the aftermath of the Galata Tower incident, and after time for mature reflection, Mrs P who had remained admirably calm and collected - if not cool - throughout, was moved to observe that it was a good thing that we had not perished in that lift.  "It would never do", she explained, "for the boys to have to tell people that their parents died in a lift in Istanbul."


Two days later and the Prop and Mrs P are on an 8 hour bus trip from Istanbul to Ayvalik on the western coast of Turkey to catch a ferry to Lesvos the following day.  No, the bus was't hijacked and it didn't break down.  In fact it was a very enjoyable journey.  The bus was fitted with satellite TV and free wi-fi  as well as free tea, coffee, soft drinks and snacks - and all for 75 Lira (about A$35.00)

Istanbul Otogari - 6,000 buses come and go each day

Overnight in Ayvalik which is pleasant enough but nothing to write home (i.e., blog) about.

The Ayvalik to Mytilini Ferry - Not as safe as it looks!

Then by ferry to Mytilini

More soon(ish) 

    

"Even the longest journey begins with the first Blog post"

ISTANBUL 

TO  INVERNESS

(WITH A LITTLE BIT OF RUGGER IN BETWEEN)

...IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF MARCO POLO...*

[*Well, not really.  Marco pretty much went in the other direction - and didn't play Rugby. ] 

"Even the longest journey begins with the first Blog post"

(Recent Chinese proverb)

PROLOGUE

The not a few avid readers of The Peregrinations will have noticed that last year's "Journey to the Centre of the Earth" appeared to end rather abruptly somewhere between Uluru and King's Canyon.
Some readers feared that the Prop may have fallen foul of those itinerant Maricahi desperadoes, the so-called "Ess Gees" (See KULGERA to YULARA (ULURU [AYERS ROCK]).

Other readers assumed other things.

All of them were wrong!

Unless they assumed that the Prop, having made it to the halfway mark of the journey, more or less ran out of steam.

But now is not the time to dwell upon past failures nor for the Prop to publicly flagellate himself for his all-too-obvious literary shortcomings. No!

Now is to time to look forward! For the "wanderlust" (and Rugby World Cup) have come upon us again. On, on!

In a matter of a few days the Prop and Mrs P (both of whose wrists are now fully functional: See PAMBULA BEACH TO BERMAGUI TO BEGA TO BERMAGUI TO BEGA TO BERMAGUI TO BEGA etc...) will immerse themselves in the byzantine pleasures of  Byzantium...Constantinople..Stamboul...Istanbul.  Call it what you like, this dazzling cosmopolitan metropolis of the Near East sets the imagination afire.

Then on to Greece! This dazzling cosmopolitan country has set the European Monetary system afire!

The Prop has reason to expect that he may soon be contacted by the IMF/World Bank/ EU/ Angela Merkel/Alexis Tspiras et al. to mediate the "Greek Debt Crisis".

Yet another working holiday looms!

Despite tough talk from both sides, the Prop is confident that he will restore stability and prosperity to the EuroZone. However, and against the possibility that he may be completely wrong on this score, the Prop has made arrangements for ready access to vast quantities of the spondooliks (which, paradoxically [which is a Greek word] is possibly a Greek word?).  The Prop estimates that, with a 10 o'clock start and time off for a siesta each day, this should take about a week.

Then on to Serbia, Montengro, Croatia, Hungary, Austria, France, Spain (leaving no Euro unspent) and thence to the United Kingdom where the Prop will take up a position at Oxford.  (Actually a rented house in Woodstock - about 10 miles out of Oxford - which has several chairs but no professorships.)

At length, the Prop and Mrs P will reach Inverness and attempt to discover whether any of the "four and twenty virgins" from that famous town ever made it back alive after Rugby World Cup 2015.

So, dear reader, strap yourself in (or get some one else to do it for you if you are that way inclined) and watch the rich tapestry of "Istanbul to Inverness" unfold before your eyes.

On the other hand, if the Prop runs out of steam yet again or the Greeks run out of  currency, the Blog may, like the Serbian Railways so often do, grind to a halt somewhere east of Bar.          

NEXT: The Doha Round - Like Qantas, Qatar Airways does not need U!

     

   

KULGERA to YULARA (ULURU [AYERS ROCK])

After the excitement of the previous evening, the Prop was keen to get under way as early as possible -  and in any event before the "Dancing Deutschers" had a chance to locate him and again attempt to persuade him to "cut the rug a bit" in their lewd and inimitable style.

However, before departing, the Prop thought it prudent to check the level of hydraulic fluid in the Troll - just to make sure that the $10.00 repair effected in Coober Pedy the previous morning was holding fast.... Alas! You get (as they say) what you pay for, and in Coober Pedy $10.00 does not pay for that much.  It most certainly does not pay for adequately repairing a leak in the power steering! 

Still, things might have been much worse - it only required about 200ml of fluid to completely re-fill the reservoir, from which it could be inferred that the leak was slow and/or only occurred when the pressure in the system was at its maximum (e.g., when turning the wheels to full lock whilst stationary)

Power steering resevoir replenished and dancing German backpackers successfully avoided, we set off for Yulara.

The turnoff from the Stuart Highway on to the Lasseter Highway at Erldunda was heralded by a brief period of manic activity by the Prop's mobile telephone which, having come within range of a mobile telephone repeater for the first time in 48 hours, suddenly and very noisily, sprang to life.

Taking time to read the plethora of urgent messages informing the Prop of any number of unmissable bargains in the wine, camera, motor vehicle, underwear, power tool and marital aids (I wonder why I get those?) departments, the Prop cleared his inbox and his mind and set the Rig on course for Yulara - the very centre of the Earth and a mere 500km there and back.

(In fact, the Prop is reliably informed that the dead centre of Australia lies not in or around Uluru but over 100 km west at a remarkable geological feature known as Mt Conner (pictured).  Apart from its centrality to (and in) the Australian continent, Mt Conner is also notable for being regularly mis-identified by excited Japanese tourists as being Uluru itself.)

    Mount Conner - the geographical dead centre of Australia.  Sometimes mistaken for Uluru with a "flat-top".

On arrival at Uluru, the Prop sought out further (and importantly qualified) advice concerning "the power steering problem".  

   Uluru - a very big rock indeed.  Like an iceberg, more than 2/3rds of the rock is underground.  Of course, icebergs are not found in the desert - the bit of icebergs that you can't see is under the water - not under the ground.  In this respect (among many others) Uluru is quite unlike an iceberg.

Some way out of town and not that far from the communal "dump point" (For those who dont know what a "dump point is, just say it out loud and think about it.  The answer will almost certainly come to you.) lies the one and only mechanical repair shop in Yulara - indeed between Coober Pedy and Alice Springs, it would seem.     

After dealing with a group of indigenous motorists who had, unaccountably, lost most of the rear quarter or so of their station wagon somewhere down the track, Kurt (who was anything but curt) then turned his attention to another form of vehicle being driven by a small and very excited man.  This took quite a while as Kurt was unable to get the small man to accept that the fact that his vehicle had no brakes and one wheel missing made it ineligible for re-registration.  But as Kurt is the only man in town who can issue "pink slips" it really only ever was a matter of time.

Kurt then turned his attention to the Troll.  

Using massive quantities of degreaser and a large mop drenched in soapy water, Kurt washed away all trace of petrochemicals from under the bonnet before instructing the Prop to rotate the steering wheel this way and that.  At length, Kurt exclaimed that he had found the problem:  

"Your A- Frame's busted! Its gonna cost you a million bucks.... plus labour"     

As many readers may know, this is mechancical jargon meaning " You've got a pinhole leak in the high pressure hose.  I can't fix it here but I know a bloke in Alice Springs who can.  You'll be right to get to Alice as long as you keep it topped up with fluid."

This was not great news but, just as when one is suffering from a suite of apparently random sypmtoms one always feels better after they are given a name by a diagnosing doctor, so the Prop felt relieved to know what the problem was and that it could be fixed - at a price.

In retrospect, it may be that it was the comfort of this knowlegde which caused the Prop and Mrs P to drop their respective guards and which allowed then to fall into, what was by any measure, some very fast and loose company.  

As it happened a semi-professional troupe of itinerant mariachi musicians had arrived in Uluru that very same day.  

   Some of "Los Ess-Gees" a depraved band of fake mariachi musicians whose dissolute antics momentarily depraved the Prop and Mrs P. 

Plausible, charming and showing more aptitude for drinking than playing music, "Los Ess-Gees" (as they are semi-professionally known) invited the Prop and Mrs P into their depraved fold. 

Spellbound by their wicked, wicked ways, we quickly and completely fell into disolution.  Those of you who have seen "Wake in Fright" (d. Nicolas Roeg) will have some idea of the extent and rapidity of our descent into Hell (aka "the 'Yabba").  

Fortunately, we were abruptly brought to our senses when, at an al fresco desert diner, the enormity of "Los Ess-Gees" deception was exposed - none of them could play guitar and only the tall grey-haired one was able to say "Areeba, Areeba!" with anthing like a convincing Mexican accent.

   "Los Ess-Gees", exposed at last.  Dining al fresco in the desert and not an instrument in sight! Not musicians at all but a band of dissolute desperadoes!

    One of the unscrupulous "Ess-Gees" : note the ring of confidence!

   "Areeba, areeba!" Miguel (right) the ringleader of this band of mendacious mariachis. What IS he doing with his left hand? 

We were lucky to escape to Kings Canyon.......        

           

COOBER PEDY TO KULGERA

With the power steering fixed (well sort of) the Rig rolled out of Coober Pedy. Both the Prop and Mrs P were filled with a renewed optimism dampened only by the somewhat tragic events of the preceding day.  We realise that we never even knew his name.

Th Rig arrived at Kulgera Roadhouse about mid afternoon. 

Flies, flies and more flies.  

When the Prop politely pointed out to the manager of the establishment that there were too many flies the manager nonchalantly replied, 

"Is that so?  How many should we have?"

That evening, as the Prop dined in style at the Roadhouse on a legendary Kulgera Burger washed down with a couple of Coopers Stouts, his attention was grabbed by two female German backpackers - Gerda und Brünhilda by name.  It transpires that these frauleins were afficiondoes of Country & Western music and, in particular, of the ancient art of line dancing (Siegfried-Line dancing the Prop somewhat churlishly thought to himself). As the night progressed, their energetic exposition of the rustic Terpsichorean art became increasingly wanton, to the point where the Prop was constrained to intervene and call for a bit of decorum.  This act of attempted moderation did not go down well with the local culture-starved patrons or the Germanic gyrators, all of whom requested the Prop to depart (or words to that general effect).  

Discretion being the better part of valour, the Prop wisely decamped.

  Gerda and Brünhilda - the energetic line-dancing German backpackers.  Their erotic re-interpretation of Billy Ray Cyrus' "Achy Breaky Heart" had to be seen to be dis-believed. 

The campground at the Kulgera campground featuring an authentic picnic area. 

Pity about the flies!

                                Sunset at Kulgera - at last the flies go home!

Next - KULGERA to YULARA

MILDURA TO BURRA TO WOOMERA TO COOBER PEDY

As the title to this post implies, it has been some time since the Prop has condescended to slake his reader's (sic) thirst for for more details of the Journey to the Centre of the Earth.  This is deplorable, it is true, but when the reader has digested the full moment of what follows, he (or she) will say,

"Strewth! No wonder the Prop was unable to write of his travails. No man man could endure what he has and still blog" (or words to that general effect).

MILDURA TO BURRA

Westwards from Mildura on the A20 for a distance of about 110 klms and the State of Victoria mercifully comes to an end and the State of South Australia commences.  At Remarkable Renmark where the mighty Murray begins to head south, the Rig begins to head North, or, more precisely, in a general West North Westerly direction on the B64 thereby missing the opportunity to visit Berri (and the Berri Ferry) and Waikerie (and the Waikerie Bakery).  

    The Berri Ferry - or one very much like it, can be found at Morgan

A short stop at Morgan (the Prop checked every church but there was no organ in any of them. However, a lady at the post office said that the Prop had misapprehended the nature of the Organ in question).  Undeterred the Prop did manage to locate the Morgan Morgue, which, to be fair, nearly rhymes.

The Morgan Morgue - a splendid place to be accommodated after life has ceased.

  Detail of the sign shown in the preceding picture (just in case the cynics thought that the Prop had fabricated the "morgue" story.

The post-luncheon session proved to be the most arduous yet. Driving into a persistent force 6 gale (on the Beaufort scale) the Rig struggled to stay in top gear - even when going downhill!  

It is no exaggeration to say that had the Prop taken his foot off the accelerator, the Rig would have begun to move backwards!  Fuel consumption, already an alarmingly low 20l per 100 plummeted to around 30l per 100 (or about 60 cents a kilometre!!!)

Made Burra in a maelstrom of Shakesperean proportions about mid afternoon.

For those not in the know, the little-known former mining town of Burra is the place at which the Charter of the same name was adopted.  Not quite the Magna Carta of King John or the Bill of Rights of 1689, the Burra Charter sets out the principles relating to the conservation of Australia's built heritage.  The town itself is something of a heritage hot spot.  As with many buildings in South Australia the lack of naturally available building timber (there being so few big trees) resulted in their being constructed from rock or stone. (This same lack of trees resulted in the invention by a governent engineer named Stobie, of the steel and concrete telegraph pole, commonly known as the Stobie pole) Although now well over 100 years old, most of the buildings look like they might have been built 6 months ago.

Brilliant Burra - home of the Bura Charter, an ageing gentleman who makes fake antiquarian maps 

    The Burra Bridge - O! O! O!

BURRA TO WOOMERA

 The Joe Hockey-designed wind farm just west of Burra, South Australia.

Like Joe, the Prop would prefer to see large clouds of cancer-causing coal smoke belching into the atmosphere or piles of million-year hazardous radioactive waste, than these dark satanic mills!  

      

Just west of Burra lies an extensive "wind farm" of the kind so recently admired by Federal Treasurer, Joe Hockey.  The tempest of the preceding day had well and truly abated.  So much so that the wind turbines depicted above were barely in motion.

At Winnowie where the B56 joins the A1 (The Princess Highway) the pleasant green of Burra gradually begins to give way to a harsher landscape.  North of Port Augusta it begins to become very barren indeed, saltbush and gibber plains as far as the eye can see.

More of a ghost town than an oasis, Woomera lies about 180 km north west of Port Augusta. Curiously, for a place with almost no permanent residents, Woomera has a very large and impressive sports complex, a theatre and a very well-tended and luxuriant oval.  It is not clear when the "O'Donoghue Oval" was last used but it stands ready to host even the most demanding first-class fixture. Perhaps a new AFL franchise will be established there in time - the Woomera Weapons!

The O'Donoghue Oval at Woomera - the MCG of the mid-north of South Australai and the only green grass for 100 miles.  There is grass on the pitch but no-one to play!

 Some of the impressive array of state-of-the-art thermonuclear devices which stand sentinel over Wommera - and indeed, the whole of Australia.  Only Tony Abbott, George Brandis and Erich Abetz have the launch codes. Sleep peacefully Australia!

 

WOOMERA TO COOBER PEDY

Have been driving north for days and the Rig is still in South Australia!  

At Port Augusta Mrs P reported having heard a "popping sound" under the bonnet of the Troll.  Thereafter the Prop begins to hear an ever louder whirring noise emanating from the same general region of the vehicle.  The Prop''s concerns reach fever pitch on arrival at Coober pedy when he discovers that, in the course of manouvering the Rig into its assigned site, the Troll has traced a series of more or less perfect arcs in oil on the ground!!!

Mrs P rings the RAC (in fact the RAA) who, pursuant to some mysterious national reciprocal agreement attend within minutes.  An Indian gentleman who claims to be both an electrician and a motor mechanic (but whose main preoccupation seems to be filling out reams and reams of forms for the Prop to sign) at length proclaims; "Your A-frame's busted.  Gonna cost a milliion bucks to fix - and that's without labour!"  That's not what the man says, but it is what the Prop hears!  In fact he mumbles something about power steering pumps and high pressure hoses and pinholes, so the million bucks bit is looking like a pretty accurate translation.  It is Saturday afternoon. He does not work on Saturday afternoons - other than to answer emergency calls for which he is handsomely rewarded by the RAA - hence the paperwork. He tells me to bring the Troll to his employer's premises at 8.00 am on the followiing Monday morning so someone can look at it.  He explains that it won't be him because he is in charge of windseceens. So, the Prop thinks, we have a qualified electrician and motor mechanic who specialises in windscreens!

Long story short (which is how the Amercians like to say "in summary") the next day the Prop spots a van saying "24 hour hydraulic hose service - we come to you" parked outside the local pub which is imaginatively named "The Oasis".  Loitering a while, the Prop intrecepts the driver who says he can't do anything today (Sunday) as he has aother job on (one that required him to have a few drinks first it seems) but that he will visit the Rig on site at 7.30 the next morning.  Off he toddles.

Later that day the Prop enters the "facilities" at the "Oasis" caravan park (anywhere in Coober Pedy where fluid is avaialble - other than service stations - is an "oasis") only to find a man and a woman peering under one of the dunny doors.  The Prop quickly establishes that in fact the husband of the woman has collapsed in a shower cubicle and is unconscious (or worse) and the door canot be opened from the outside.  The Prop "runs" to reception to call an ambulance and to try to get a ladder so we can climb into the cubicle.  

Upon returning to the scene, the Prop finds that a third man has dragooned a 12 year old Dutch tourist and lifted him into the cubicle in order to open the door.  Something which the young man duly does despite the somewhat nightmarish sight that would have confronted him.

Thereupon with the assistance by telephone of the 000 lady, the Prop and two others take it in turns to administer CPR and mouth to mouth to the apprently lifeless bather pending the arrival of the ambulance.  Maybe 15 or 20 minutes later (it seemd a good deal longer) the Ambos arrived but after another 15 or 20 minutes of unsuccessful recussitation attempts, the bather is pronounced dead. His wife - now quite suddenly and unexpectedly, his widow - is stranded in Coober Pedy in a caravan park miles from her home and family in Melbourne.  

The Prop's problem with the power steering can now be viewed from a rather different perspective.    

    

Next morning, more in hope than expectation, the Prop arose early ready to greet the hose man.  7.30 - no sign.  7.45 - no sign.  But at 7.50 on the dot the hose man appears in company with two other men.  One looks surprisingly tired and emotional for the time of day and sayys and does nothing.  The other, apparently quite sober, is complaining of the cold.  The word "Geoff" is embridered on his windcheater.  After the briefest of inspections Geoff says "Your A-frame is fine. I can fix this with a screwdriver"  

And he does! (well sort of) and charges me $10.00.  Having only a 5 a 10 and a 50 in his wallett, the Prop offers $15.  Geoff says $10 is fine.  Perhaps he is insulted by the Prop's paltry attempt to show his gratitude.  Half a litre of power steering fluid later the whirring noise is gone and the Rig is back in business (well sort of).

Next - COOBER PEDY TO KULGERA     

    

ALBURY TO HAY TO MILDURA

As the Rig rolled out of Albury, Mrs P bade a fond farewell to her childhood home.

    Sackville Street,  Albury - many happy memories but now under new management.

Leaving NSW we briefly entered Victoria at Wodonga before realizing what we had done and hastily retuned to NSW via Howlong singing the old Mark Knopfler standard "How long baby, how long has it been?...." and headed west towards "Denny" (Deniliquin) then through Finley and the tiny settlement of Blighty where Mrs P's aged aunt (qv) and her family once lived.

The Prop fondly recalled a hot January afternoon in 1976 when he and Ms A ( as Mrs P then was) spent several slaking hours at the Blighty pub where a close relative of Ms A was working behind the bar and plied us (and herself) with an abundance of fizz at well below AHA recommended prices. This was just as well because the day in question was so hot that every time we left the pub to go home we had to go back inside to get a cool drink!  It hardly needs to be said that the day did not end in sobriety.

Forty years on, the Blighty Pub is showing its undoubted age but the Prop noticed that a very attractive "beer garden" has been added.  Not sure how much beer they manage to grow there, but it looks like it could do with a tonne or two of compost!

The Blighty Pub with "new" beer garden. Just the spot for those who may be new to the 'Yabba.

Beyond Blighty one enters the Hay Plains - seemingly endless saltbush plains that have a surreal and, eventually, a soporific quality.  The interesting thing about the Hay Plains is that they are so very uninteresting. Paradoxically, this makes them something of a novelty!

The Hay Plains - lots of saltbush but no hay to speak of. (This picture would have looked the same no matter which direction the photographer was facing)

Spent Tuesday night in Hay  - justly known locally as the Paris of the South, although the Murrumbidgee looks nothing like the Seine and the Telstra tower looks nothing like the Eiffel.

The Telstra Tower at Hay. Nothing like the Eiffel Tower!

Westward ho towards Mildura and more Hay Plains!!!

               The Hay Plains  - note the road sign in the near distance, a local point of interest.

Arrived at Mildura or, more accurately at the riverside caravan park at Buronga which lies on the NSW banks of the Murray River directly across the river from Mildura.  This is a very pleasant establishment but most importantly it is not in Victoria!  The park is populated by a variety of wildlife.  There is also quite a bit of native fauna!

A NSW native hen.  Rather more attractive than its Tasmanian cousins - perhaps tastier too.

A view of one of the southernmost parts of the State of New South Wales.  Some of Victoria can be seen in the distance, if you can be bothered looking.

To be continued......

BERMAGUI TO ULLADULLA TO GUNDAGAI TO ALBURY

Preoccupied  by domestic matters and the health of Mrs P, the Prop has not attended to the Blog as assiduously as some readers would, apparently, have liked.

The good news is that, Mrs P, true to her robust disposition and "never-say-fractured" ethos has insisted that the "Peregrination to the Centre of the Earth" (as the current expedition is now commonly called by the travel cognoscenti) should continue apace and unabated.

                                 Beer can be purchased at this place in Bermagui

The bad news is that "continentality" is an undoubted fact of meteorological life.  Put more simply, it is colder inland at night than it is on the coast. This accounts for the fact that the minimum temperatures experienced by Hobart are almost always higher than those experienced by Launceston - for although Hobart is not located on the coast as such, it does lie adjacent to a considerable body of water (i.e., the Derwent estuary) whereas Launceston is in a hole in the ground miles from anywhere and, more particularly, miles from any water (if you don,t count the so-called Tamar River which is, in truth, a water mudslide and not a river at all. This temperature differential is due to the fact that water both absorbs and retains heat from the sun more efficiently than does dry land - which also explains sea-breezes which are no more than giant convection currents.

But the Prop once again digresses.

The short point is that by staying on the coast we might have enjoyed the moderating influence of the maritime provinces.  We might have continued to enjoy the ample delights of Bermagui (despite the unpleasant memories) and of Ulladulla and Nowra and other coastal settlements too numerous to mention by name.

                 Tremendous Tuross Head - a very nice place for a swim in warm weather

                                    Unbelievable  Ulladulla - more than meets the eye!

                  Gracious Gundagai - the dog and tucker box are not shown

Instead, we are now in Albury. 

[TIP: Never call Albury "Albury-Wodonga" in the presence of a denizen of Albury.  Should you do so you may be the subject of a violent physical attack - if you are lucky! The people of Albury (NSW) do not, as a rule, like the people of Wodonga (Vic) and not just because they are Victorians.  There also other very good reasons)

Instead we now thrill to daytime maxima of 12 and sometimes 13 and overnight minima approaching 0 degrees Kelvin!! For the moment we have the benenft of mains electricity and an air conditioner and fan heater in the Spinnaker  - unlike in Campbell Town (q.v.)

"Why Albury?" the Prop hears his readers ask.  

Well, Albury happens to be the family seat and hometown of Mrs P - not that any of her relatives live here any longer and not that the place looks much like it did in the 1960's.  Nevertheless the family home is still standing (despite having been gentrified by some well-meaning but tasteless "Gardening Australia" viewer) and so is the primary school and the hated  Scottish "ladies college" that passed for a high school in those days.

Westward Ho!  And hope it doesn't get too much colder 

By the way, Germany won the FIFA World Cup.  Daft game soccer!  At least the final was decided by two teams playing soccer instead of by playing a completely different game (i.e., a penalty shootout)        

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