I come to Australia, as many people do
To see the old koala, hitch a ride on a kangaroo
John Denver

 

Extra gas and spare tires stowed, we climb aboard Sab's Land Cruiser. With a grinding of gears, a couple of bucks, and a lively but unintended salute of the windshield wipers, we are off, drawing a bead on Kakadu National Park, a World Heritage Site of the Top End.

Sab is Australian through and through, with the leathery skin, akubra hat, and safari shorts to prove it. In the first 10 minutes he says mate and bloke so many times I lose count. I assume it's a show for the tourist. (time would prove me wrong-they really do talk like Aussies in Australia).

These mates of the outback look as if they spend every day doing tough stuff and every night drinking, which is pretty much what they do. They're the kind of blokes you might choose to start a colony somewhere, and for whom a bit scared is the maximum allowed. Sab and company have their own proud 200 year history and worldview, and no longer consider themselves England's bucolic cousins. Nor are they inclined to kowtow to pushy Americans.

After a morning of paved roads we finally encounter reality, the washboard dirt track of the outback. So begins nonstop axle action sufficient to rattle teeth and scatter bowel gas as well as nearby wallabies. Every few hours we zip by an oncoming vehicle with a whoosh and a cloud of dust. Occasionally a kangaroo bounces by on his way to somewhere. Neatly arranged termite mounds are the dominant landscape feature, like so many headstones, commemorating eons of wind, fire, and flood. (next photo)