Rusting, faded dreams

The wear and tear of travel if wreaking as much havoc on my lower back as it is on the tyres of the car. We seem to have put a lot of miles in lately. With annual holidays (3 weeks), returning home (2 days) and now an overnight trip to Warburton for a birthday party, it's been a long time sitting contemplating. A few blog posts have come to mind over that time, but the most prominent has been the cars.

Blackstone dump

Quite frankly, they're everywhere. Burnt out or rusting wrecks, strewn by the side of the road, marking significant points in the lives of people we mostly do not know. The longer I live out here, the more the wrecks take on a significance in my journey. An old truck just before the Patjarr turnoff, on the road to Warburton, always reminds me of an early Council meeting I attended, where I sat puzzled, listening to 'other business'. At the time, I thought 'other business' would be the usual stuff associated with governance meetings, perhaps requests to use a small portion of profits for a community enterprise or to raise a concern about infrastructure. In fact, this section of the meeting is for anyone to say anything that needs to be said publicly. The 'other business' agenda item provides the whitefella pass to allow this to happen. In this case, a Warburton man stood up and talked passionately about the significance of this truck in their history and the vital importance of retrieving it from an ignominious resting place. The Council coordinator managed to deflect the passion by saying he'd look into it. This truck conjures up for me a multitude of thoughts - my naivety, the untold story of the truck, the logistics of moving it, possibilities of doing this without outside support, and the ways of Council staff to evade and deflect.

The car heading east

Camel shooter's truck

A more recent marker is a double prang, 35 k west of Blackstone. This one marks our return home, heading east, sighing as we go past 'nearly there'. So close to town that, on the day after if happened, we hopped in our car and went out for a look-see. The full story of the prang was told and retold, all drama, by the camel shooter and his family. The broken-down truck loaded with dead camels, station wagon sailing through the night sky loaded with groceries from Warburton, the children lucky to survive. One broken leg, two medivacs to Alice Springs. We made macaroni and cheese for the kids, still shaken and at home with an injured father who refused to leave the community. Every time we pass, I notice how quickly the cars have turned from smashed to ruins. Just over one year on, rust seems to have colonised all of the truck. The station wagon is now burnt out, its wheels long gone. Picked over by passing travellers. Spare parts are always in demand.

On the road to Linton Bore Community (now abandoned)

Other wrecks, on back tracks less travelled, remind me that once there were thriving oustations in empty communities. The age of the cars tell a story of hope, generations past, of establishing a little community for tiny number of families. Significant sites too small to sustain a shop or live beyond the few years it took to establish them. Without a reliable shop, without a good road, the risk and problems of living off the main road start to creep in and crowd out. Family members come back to larger communities. Roads don't get graded. Houses empty. And the wrecks stand like sentinels to faded dreams.