Operation Desert Storm

Weds 23 September, Day 12.

In the morning no more rain, but windy, Windy. Wisely we decided to let the road dry out a full day before carrying on.
We went back to the waterhole for Darren to have a swim. I chickened out – too cold. He just stripped off, completely, to my horror, and dived in. Is he 12? I do wonder. Still, happy to hold his towel and hope no one else arrives.
As we drove back along the dirt road, strange waves of red dust were intermittently snaking their way across the road. They looked like creeping metaphysical Harbingers of Doom. It reminded me of the ‘smoke’ that comes out of the Lost Ark when the Germans open it,
"Shut your eyes Marion, don’t look at it. Whatever happens don’t look at it…".
Harbingers of doom indeed: by the time we reached the camping site there was a curtain of dust on the horizon, and the wind was up. I started to write outside, and could feel rain coming down on me. It wasn’t until I looked down at my white top and saw spatters of red all over it I realised it was raining mud. It looked like I had murdered someone. ( Hmm, I wonder who?)
Darren remembered the dust storm in Melbourne in the 80’s and warned me it was going to be messy. Sensibly we shut up the caravan after we had moved it from under the tree – safety, people, safety - then, surrounded by dust, we headed for the pub.

1 hour later… outside was orange
Another hour later… outside was red.

We couldn’t see the other side of the street. A car coming through the red fog was eery, it’s headlights illuminating the dust and creating a strange glow. It reminded me of that stupid Stephen King book, ‘The Fog’ (Don’t see the film, what a waste of time that was).
When the locals start talking about the weather you know you are experiencing something. The pub got busier and busier. The two bikies, JUah and Rod, whom we had seen travelling the day before away from Wanaaring, were there. They had to turn back yesterday in the wet as they kept spilling off their tour bikes. These guys were hardened bike riders, but clearly no Ewan McGregor.
Rather a festive atmosphere developed in the pub, as clearly none of us were going anywhere. We and the locals alike wandered in and out of the pub to look at the weird ‘end of the world’ scenery, feeling grit in our mouths, only to be quenched periodically by a big slurp of beer (or wine), or practised writing our names in the dust on the bar itself.
We had to partake of a counter meal there which was a real treat (Mmmmm, Schnitzel…) and SO delicious. Sharee behind the bar could not believe how much I put away, leaving only the orange piece with which she had decorated the meal.
Afterwards R…. brushed down the pool table of dust – which took a while because it was right by the door and window. Then Darren, I, Dan from Salt Lake Station, and R , the publican’s son, played pool. Amazingly, Dan and I beat the others soundly, mainly due to the fact Dan was a master at pool, and I managed to flourishingly sink a couple of balls in true flukey fashion.
One glass of wine and suddenly I’m The Hustler.

Got back to the caravan about 10.30, even the night is blood red. Found more red dust in the caravan than out.