Northern Territory

Left Coober Pedy first thing after I'd realised last night that the place is little more than a tourist trap. Almost every shop was selling opal jewellery and other touristy tat. Also felt a bit uneasy if I'm honest, about the number of clearly drunk Aboriginal folk milling about, hanging around on street corners, by the town's only cash machine, and outside the bar. Clearly there is some kind of unsaid apartheid system running here.

I know with no work, there's not much else for the indiginous people to do, and drink is a recognised problem within the community. No native people were in the bar when I went for a well-earned beer, and I didn't see any signs, but just 'felt' they weren't allowed in. One oldish Aborigine spoke to me outside bar, though I didn't really understand what he'd said. I smiled and apologised, then a middle aged white Australian shooed the man away. Clearly he did it for my benefit, thinking I might be being hassled or intimidated. But as I say, the whole vibe of the place made me feel uncomfortable.

Anyway, it was good to get back on two wheels and before long I was crossing another state line and into the Northern Territory, and closer to my date with my own Dreamtime. Speaking of two wheels, JD tells me Russell Crowe is affectionately known as Rusty on these shores. Well, today, he and I had our first falling out. In other words, I dropped him. Happened while virtually stationary, turning onto a gravel side road. I wasn't hurt, but Rusty got more scratches to add to those caused by previous riders. I'm hoping another war wound won't cost me some of my deposit when I drop him off. After that though I'm resolved NOT to go off road at all, as he's bloody heavy to lift back off the deck.

So, onwards and upwards, and after about 1,300 kilometres on the virtually straight Stuart Highway, it was finally time to turn left! Onto the Lasseter Highway, which leads to the Red Centre. Still virtually no traffic on the roads. So different to home. With just 250km left to ride, I could have pressed on, but decided to stop at a re-fuelling site in the middle of nowhere, called Mount Ebeneezer. Appropriately named, it also appealed to my Scrooge nature when I saw that camping there cost just five bucks - about three pounds fifty. I realsed why AFTER I'd paid. It was, in effect, a gravelly car park behind the roadhouse. Camping for travelling caravans, not really for tents. Did my best to pitch mine, still wet from the last place I'd camped. But one bash of a tent peg and it buckled, the ground being rock hard! So, thinking on my feet I got some boulders and wrapped the guy ropes round them. Looked ok, and I wandered into the nearby bar for a drink and to chat to locals, including a biker cop, Andy, who excitedly told me about the new BMW bike he was having delivered in a few days' time.

On the bar itself they had a range of jars, featuring pickled examples of the snakes, spiders and other nasties native to the area. All had apparently been found and killed IN the bar. Not at all weird, or off-putting to campsite guests :0s As it got dark, I wandered back outside to see flashes of lightning on the far horizon. Found the tent in the blackness - flat and flapping! With the wind getting up, and the bar now closed I had a ponder of my options... And the rain started to fall! With that, I gathered everything up, and moved lock, stock and barrel, into the Gents! It was warm and dry, and as I was the only mug, ahem, 'camping' there that night, I had the place to myself. I used my boulder trick again to re-erect the tent under the row of sinks and opposite the urinal trough. And as I type, I'm preparing to spend a night on the tiles!