The wet centre

Getting on for twenty years ago, I piggy-backed a holiday on a friend who made work visits to Ghana. We flew from Accra up to Tamale in the north to spend Christmas in Mole National Park. Through my friend’s connections we got offered a ride in a jeep for the return journey involving several hundred kilometres on dirt roads. I said that it would be great to have an adventure.

About 50 kilometers into the journey, the fan belt broke. We spent the rest of the journey stopping at regular intervals to improvise a replacement out of anything and everything that we had with us. (Disgracefully, neither friend nor I had the traditional pair of tights with us.) Instead of making Accra by nightfall, we limped into Kumasi as the light failed, luckily found a hotel, and got the fan belt fixed the following morning. I was stonily reminded that I had wanted an adventure.

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The campervan had to be back in Alice by three in the afternoon. I had planned my route so that there would be no problem in getting back on time - the earlier parts of my tour of the Red Centre being on dirt, where the weather or my relatively inexperienced driving off asphalt might delay things, and the return journey on good roads: the first 250 km from Yulara (the resort near Uluru) on the Lasseter Highway to the Roadhouse at Erlunda at the junction with the Stuart Highway, which would then take me the last 200 km to Alice. Four hundred and fifty km on good roads: four and a half hours driving – no problem. So I even had time for a second shot at watching the sun rise on Uluru.

Since completing the Mereenie loop three days before, it had been trying to rain: a few spots now and then, and even enough to put up the umbrella for a few minutes, but nothing significant. So I thought nothing of it when it was raining lightly as I went to sleep. The alarm went at 4.30 and it was raining: persistently, but not cats and dogs. I switched off the alarm and went back to sleep, woke again at 7 and was ready to leave by 8. There was quite a lot of water in the campsite: this was the main road through the site and a couple of vans on their sites (I’d been high and dry), but standing water’s expected on packed ground:

I called in at the campsite reception to check if there was more detailed weather information, and heard the receptionist informing the man in front that no, there would be no trouble in reaching Alice. I hope he had a 4WD and left straight away.

It was still just raining steadily when I left. There was plenty of standing water alongside the road, but the road was clear of water. The rain picked up a bit. The visibility dropped. I caught up with a petrol tanker that was doing about 80 kph, and got stuck behind it, because I couldn’t see far enough ahead to overtake: the first you could see of an oncoming car was its headlights – if it had them on. Signs started for Curtin Springs – 85 km out from Yulara, and the only Roadhouse before the Stuart Highway, another 165 km away. I decided that if the tanker didn’t stop, I would (to let it get a bit ahead again), and that if it stopped, I wouldn’t. Luckily it did, and I didn’t.

A little later I hit the first puddle on the road – maybe 10 meters of it. Then it started raining harder, and the road was so wet it was impossible to see where the puddles were. I took comfort in the fact that at least there would only be puddles on the flat parts of the road or dips – and promptly hit an unseen puddle on an incline (the water was simply crossing the road on its route downhill).

The next puddle was deeper and about 100 meters long. I was followed through by a 4WD pulling a large caravan, who overtook as soon as we were clear. The next puddle was about 300 meters of water and caravan man went through with a spray of water to either side. Madman, I thought. At the next one I caught up with the caravan madman, who was stopped in mid puddle, just short of a patch where water flowing across the road was creating small standing waves. Well that’ll teach him, thought I. Then he reappeared from in front of his vehicle – he’d been walking the water washing across the road -, gave me a thumbs-up, climbed in, and was off again. So was I.

When you’re in a tricky situation, and have reached the limit of your experience, the only thing to do is to decide who does know what they’re doing and stick to them. So I stuck to my poisson pilote. I figured that, in a land cruiser with a snorkel air intake, the vehicle I was in would go anywhere that his would. When he overtook, I overtook. When someone was stopped just before some water and he drove round them, I drove round them. One time he drove through the water with his nearside wheels over the white line along the edge of the road. I followed as exactly as I could. It was only when I was level with it, that I realised that there was a swirling whirlpool just to our right which indicated where the flowing water had dug a deep pothole in the tarmac maybe three or four feet across.

In between the patches of water, the poisson pilote sped along at 110 kph or more. It was still raining heavily, and the conditions could only get worse. I wondered whether he was trying to get through before it became impassable. We passed a sedan that had just been towed out of the water by a 4WD. And then we reached a patch of water where three or four cars and buses pulled over onto the verge on the far side. The turbulence of the water ‘falling’ off the side of the asphalt had dug out about a 30 cm drop, and was beginning to undermine the edge of the asphalt. My poisson pilote stopped on the far side and spoke to one of the drivers. I just followed.

I could tell from my satnav that we were almost to the Roadhouse at Erdlunda on the Stuart Highway, and considered what to do if my poisson pilote continued in the direction of Alice without stopping. We had covered 165 km in just over two hours, and crossed maybe 30-40 patches of water of more than just puddle depth. In the event, he pulled in. I went over to thank him. No problems, and then, without a trace of irony, I wasn’t going too fast for you in between? No, it was fine. I wanted to get though before it got worse. Yes, I’d guessed that.

I asked if he was going on to Alice, and, if so, how long he was stopping for. He said they were stopping for lunch, but that he thought I’d be fine from there on.

There was an awful lot of water around.

Inside the roadhouse, a small group of people were milling around. A couple who had got through in a sedan had finally lost their nerve and booked a room. Two policemen were hanging around talking to travellers and quietly, politely and professionally giving advice. No, they hadn’t closed the road to Yulara – yet, but their official advice was that only 4WDs should attempt to get through now. If it stopped raining now, the road would be passable again in about 24 hours.

 I got myself a chicken and chips take away in the shop, and walked into the bar, where a large sign proclaimed that no take aways were to be eaten there, to get a coffee. There was no one else in there, so I asked if it was OK if I ate my takeaway. Yes, fine, so long as I ate at the table that the last group of people had eaten at, which hadn’t been cleared yet. The woman chatted amicably about the road conditions while she made my regular flat white.

The rain continued on and off all the way to Alice, but the Stuart Highway has culverts and bridges, and the few puddles were just that – just a few cm deep. And so I got the campervan back in time, and caught my flight to Cairns. And this time I hadn’t even wished for an adventure.