 That is the Gulf of Carpentaria top left |
Karumba:   and Karumba Point, with views of the Gulf of Carpentaria (which the Burke and Wills expedition failed to reach in 1861):   Normanton Railway Station:   Barbecue at the Gallaghers:      |
Around Normanton and Karumba
We started early. Bruce took the van to the local service station for
advice. I sought the shade of the park’s swimming pool awning, hoping to
make a few ‘phone calls and do some reading. Alas, we were too far out of
mobile range for my ‘el cheapo’ mobile to function and I had hardly begun to
read when Bruce returned with the news that nothing could be done in the
short time available to replace the windscreen, but that we should simply
patch the cracks with sticky tape and keep going.
We had time enough to take a stroll into the nearby stores, buy some sticky
tape and ice creams and sit in a small nearby park while eating and taking a
slow look around. It was already very hot and dry. A number of Aborigines
passed, neatly dressed and cheerful. They nodded and smiled to us. A couple
of the women had babies in strollers. A number of school age Aboriginal
children passed by. It was a school day and I was to learn later that the
Aboriginal children frequently skipped school and parents did not force the
issue.
Back at the van, Bruce washed and dried the windscreen carefully and I cut
bits of sticky tape and handed them to him. Before long the passenger side
of the windscreen was plastered like the accident victim it was and we were
on our way for the easy 70 km drive to Karumba on the Gulf. The glorious
late winter sunshine beamed over miles and miles of flat flood plain which
is the Gulf Country. Many water birds gathered around remaining pools and
puddles of water. There were few cattle in sight and few trees, just miles
and miles of grass. The vast size of our country was inescapable. From
time to time, posts marked in metres projecting skywards from the roadside
reminded us of the height cyclonic floods could reach. There had been a
58 inch fall the previous year! The sandy nature of the soil eventually
absorbs all the water, leaving only the tough grasses in its place. We
rattled our way in to Karumba, relieved that the windscreen was still
intact. The hot, dry day seemed to have sapped the life from the town as
there were few cars and even fewer people around.
Karumba is famous for its barramundi and its prawns, both of which are
exported from here along with cattle, cement and other goods. Along the bay
to our right as we drove slowly through the small town, industrial
warehouses and shipping facilities were apparent. We noticed signs saying
‘King Prawns $12 per kilo.’ This decided me immediately to try them and at
that moment, Bruce noticed perhaps the only somewhat rustic restaurant in
town. We parked the van, sat in the large covered verandah observing white
sulphur-crested cockatoos screeching loudly overhead, a few palms and a lone
Poinciana tree adding shade and some softness to the otherwise bare and arid
surroundings and waited. No-one came to us but the fact that another couple
was contentedly waiting encouraged us to keep waiting a little longer.
Eventually, raising our eyebrows to each other ruefully, we stood up to
leave, and at that moment caught the eye of the proprietor who hurried out
from the kitchen, clearly keen to keep us there if he could.
‘You don’t want to eat here?’ he asked, not smiling. He was youngish and
had not shaved for a day or two. His blue eyes almost burned from his
sun-tanned olive complexioned face and his frustration was obvious. I said,
‘It looks as though you must be very busy and we’re really hungry. We
thought we’d better find somewhere else.’
‘I won’t be very long,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring you a menu. What would you
like to drink?’
Resuming our seats, we perused the menu. Bruce selected Barramundi,
reasoning that when in Karumba, that was virtually mandatory. I ordered a
prawn Caesar salad. While we waited, I borrowed Bruce’s trusty i-phone and
called my friend Liz just to make this occasion and let someone know we’d
reached the waters of the ‘Top End.’ When our meals finally arrived, we
found them truly superb. We ate in silence, taking in more of the stillness
and the few trees and vines that softened the otherwise barren environment.
As we stood to leave, the man approached me. ‘Was it worth paying for?’ he
asked brusquely. By now I could only feel sorry for him as it was obvious
he’d had a bad day. We paid and left, climbing back into the van and driving a
short distance to the water’s edge at Karumba Point. We gazed out over the flat, green
waters where the Norman River flows into the Gulf. Bruce took photos of two men
in a very small fishing canoe some distance out. We visited the nearby pub,
all its doors open to the sea to catch any passing breeze, looking
unsuccessfully for a cappuccino. We kept walking to another store, the
local tourist information centre and browse among the bric-a-brac before
buying ice creams and eating them outside on the covered verandah. A number
of people were there enjoying respite from the heat.
Back in the van, we began our return journey. I noticed the local primary
school built in the Queensland style with classrooms on the first floor.
The open space underneath them provided a shady haven for the children to
play out of the baking heat. They were there now.
The return journey was over in a flash. Up here, 70 kms is nothing. We
hunted for the only ‘supermarket’ in Normanton for we needed more supplies
and found ‘Traders,’ an unprepossessing store selling tourist mementos,
newspapers and sports equipment as well as food. It was not glamorous as
are city supermarkets, but had the recognisable country board floors, dim
lighting and somewhat higgledy-piggledy shelves.
Still with time to spare, we drove to Normanton Railway Station, one of the
historic places of the area. The heat was now simply baking as we sought
shade indoors. Out of the van and walking on the way in to the station, we
encountered a couple of friendly brolgas, not worried in any way by our
presence. Bruce took photos before we entered the tourist shop to buy
souvenirs for family and friends. Back at the van, I grunted with the
effort of climbing back in once more, wondering if I’d have large calf
muscles by the end of our trip. . .
Back at the caravan park, we showered and freshened up for dinner with
Bruce’s second cousin, Nola Gallagher, his local ‘family tree’ correspondent. It did not take us long to find her home
in a street just behind the main road through town. Dusk was now gathering
as we pulled up and Nola, a very suntanned casually dressed and friendly
woman came out to welcome us.
I was at first taken aback by the dozen or so cattle dogs lying like logs in
the shadow of their home, another Queenslander building. Nola, Michael her
husband, and their three adult sons, all there to meet us, are cattle people
from way back and had all been out mustering this very day. The dogs were
too tired to move more than their eyelids as we passed. Chairs were set up
in a wide circle in the front garden and a huge barbecue was already fired
up. I inspected a cluster of potted tropical plants carefully set up in a
shady spot below the flight of open stairs into the house. Nola joined me,
apologising for the somewhat ragged appearance of the plants. ‘It’s hard to
keep them going up here,’ she said.
The young cattlemen’s partners along with seven delightful young daughters
soon joined us for the barbecue dinner. We were immensely touched by their
courtesy in coming after their busy day. The sons, Ashley, Colin and Troy all
work on the family property and one of them, Colin, already a qualified
mechanical engineer, is the local butcher as well. I chatted to him as he
roasted chopped beef ribs on the hot plate of the barbecue and discovered
his many business schemes for the future as he spoke. He loves the hot, dry
country and would not consider living elsewhere. I talked to Michael, Nola’s
husband, also devoted still to life on the land, though not as strong as he
once was. He talked wistfully of his droving days, though accepting that
the use of cattle-trains is the better option these days.
The little girls played happily together, mostly ignoring us. But one,
Colin’s eldest named Matilda, a very significant name in this part of the
country, and called Tilly by everyone, delighted us with her spontaneous
chatter about riding and caring for horses and what one should and shouldn’t
do. Even at her tender years, she seems clear about what she loves.
The evening wore on and all the young families had to leave, ready for
another busy day ahead. But Nola was eager to talk further with Bruce on
family matters so we climbed the stairs and entered the house, a truly
typical country house inside which could have been lifted straight off the
property and parked in town. It was cavernous, but not glamorous in any way.
In the kitchen/living area, family clutter was everywhere. I sat quietly
taking it all in as Bruce and Nola shared family photos and information
together. We sipped mugs of tea to help us keep going, but Michael, now very
weary himself, excused himself and went to bed.
I could see plastic cake and biscuit boxes piled high on top of kitchen
cupboards and commented that Nola must have done a fair bit of baking in her
time. She laughed. ‘Michael would be away from home droving for days and
weeks at a time. I had to prepare plenty of food to keep him going. In the
old days, I used to go with him . . .’ She trailed off, wistful . . .
Having reached the end of the photo talk, Nola was keen to show us computer
pictures of life in the Top Country. We were astonished at pictures of the
flooding that occurs regularly and her matter-of-fact attitude to the
hardships of flood-time living. She showed pictures of cloud formations,
long, long rolls of cloud in parallel lines, the like of which we had not
seen before. At first I thought they were white wave crests rolling in to
shore somewhere, and yet they were clearly not that. We were all enjoying
ourselves immensely in this relaxed time, but Bruce knew we had a long day
coming up and we were aware that Nola, too, had much to do. Regretfully, we
made our farewells, really grateful for her hospitality. She came out to
wave us off.