What Happens When You Break Down in the Middle of the Desert?

On the road between their old life in Alice Springs and new life in Perth, Rory and Em unexpectedly found themselves lying on red dirt, swatting flies, in the middle of nowhere – for six days straight.

Warakurna is a town that not many will have heard of let alone visited. Really, it’s a stretch calling it a town. Warakurna is an Aboriginal Community with a weather station and roadhouse guarding its entrance.

About 1300km north-east of Kalgoorlie or 900km south-west of Alice Springs, it sits off the Rawlinson Range and for travellers, it’s a fuel stop; an overnight stop if you’re desperate or love meteorology.

Sunday

My partner and I stopped in on a Sunday afternoon just before the roadhouse closed to get the mandatory iced coffee, stretch the legs and ask after a resident named Sydney. Sydney is a Traditional Owner I’d met through work and I told him I’d say g’day when I made it to his home.

We didn’t need fuel and were aiming to camp another few hundred kilometres down the Outback Way, part of the road known as ‘Australia’s Biggest Shortcut’.

I didn’t push it, knowing it wasn’t their place to pass on that information.

We had a look at the art gallery attached to the roadhouse. We both love Western Desert art styles and it’s always great to see artworks at their source. I purchased an artwork and we hit the road.

The road was in good shape and we were keen to make good time because later in the week there was a lot of rain forecast and rain on outback roads can lead to dangerous and impassable conditions. Em put on Shania Twain or Celine Dion radio (I always confuse the two) and was singing along to the 90s hits when I looked down and noticed the battery light on the dashboard.

I hoped the bumpy road had just knocked a wire or something. Em turned off the music and checked the manual to learn that the light meant an issue with the alternator.

I wrestled the car to a stop and popped the bonnet over to see if I could spot anything obvious, without really knowing what to look for. I kept the car running because I was afraid that if the alternator wasn’t getting power to the battery and I turned the engine off, it wouldn’t start again.

I searched in vain for any loose wires and the battery seemed fine. We’d come about 50km from Warakurna and our last phone service.

We sat pensively in the car and mulled naïvely over our choices, which were basically; backwards, forwards, or stay where we were.

Considering our location, the time of day and that neither of us knew how long the car would keep moving, we opted for the perceived safety of turning around and getting back to Warakurna. Waiting on the side of the dirt track in 40°C in one of the most isolated parts of the country was not an appealing option.

We rolled down the windows and the hot air rushed in as we slowly rolled back east, all our senses strained to perceive any further changes in the car. Each corner was an effort to steer around and the final turn into the community was no different. Storm clouds were building to the north.

By the time we returned to Warakurna, the roadhouse had closed, so we drove round the back and found a campsite. Now in reception, we deduced that the serpentine belt was the likely culprit and I levered the cover forward to see some frayed material underneath. Guilty.

We were fortunate in our ignorance that a VW Amarok water pump isn’t powered by the serpentine belt. If it had been (as it is in many vehicles) we would’ve cooked the engine on the way back.

It was too late on a Sunday to organise any replacements, so the time was spent diagnosing and working out what we’d do the next day.

Monday

Monday morning began with putting out calls and texts back to Alice for people who knew anyone heading west. Fortunately, the roadhouse was open for a few hours long enough for us to learn that an airline flew supplies in on a Tuesday and if we could get parts to them by the early afternoon it’d come out the next day.

The roadhouse was run by a family of Islander women who looked to be Papuan and two young men. They were always smiling. One of the guys came to fill our car with diesel the day we departed. He told us ‘dad jokes’ as he did it.

The fuel bowsers are caged and locked when not in use.

This may have been implemented in times when unleaded petrol was prevalent and petrol sniffing became a big problem. Nowadays fuel theft would be more of a concern with prices exorbitant, unemployment the standard, and regard for consequences low.

There are passionate people trying to bridge that gap but there are no simple fixes. Respect for each other and ourselves is one small thing we can all give to help these worlds grow together.

​Mid-morning saw old Sydney wander over from the roadhouse. Word had travelled that someone was asking after him and that someone was now broken down out the back of the roadhouse.

He was barefoot, wore faded black shorts and shirt and was followed faithfully by two little camp dogs. He extended his hand for a shake, but not being a typical gesture in Aboriginal culture it is more of a brief handhold.

He nodded at Em and said ‘Kungka’ (woman) in acknowledgment.

We leaned on the front of the car and spoke broken sentences. His English was reasonable for a man of his age and status, but his voice was very soft and slow. He couldn’t provide any assistance and was shortly heading into Uluru Kata-Tjuta National Park for meetings. I asked him to say g’day to some people and he and his dogs hopped in a beat up Rav 4 and left us to it.

Ringing the mechanic shop who’d serviced our cars just three days earlier, a bloke called Rabbit answered, and without much sympathy in his voice explained that he could have the belt ready at his workshop within an hour for someone to pick up.

He also knew where we were driving and the current kilometres on the vehicle, so I wish he’d suggested we take spares – especially if they’d not had time to inspect them. Huge lesson learned to gain some more mechanical knowledge, to ask more of and/or rely less on professionals.

Tuesday

Tuesday morning a Landcruiser pulled up beside the car and we met Greg who would be nothing short of a saviour to us over the coming days. Greg is the MSO at Warakurna – I still don’t know what MSO means but it’s something services officer I believe.

He wears glasses that make his eyes look like they’re bulging from his head and is missing his two front teeth; the bottom ones. He’s been in Warakurna for two years and Central Australia for more than ten; still he calls the First Nations people here the locals, though not necessarily in an endearing way.

Greg and I had a bit of a look at the car and began the dismantling process before it was time to go and meet the mail plane.

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The part made the journey from mechanic to the airport thanks to our friends. From there it made the flight from community to community until the plane circled over Warakurna and touched down in a red dirt cloud on the gravel runway.

Greg told me how a couple of times they’d have to shoot camels that had entered the runway and wouldn’t leave before the plane came in to land.

Camels are the rabbits of Australia’s arid centre. The weekly mail plane was the most convivial gathering I saw in the almost week we were there. Representatives from the council, art centre, health clinic, roadhouse all showed up for one reason or another.

A few passengers just got out to stretch their legs, their destination another community on the flight path.

Driving back in Greg’s ute we passed what I came to call the Warakurna Car Graveyard. A place where dozens of vehicles have found their resting place after breaking down on the Great Central Road and deemed too expensive to remove. Over half were deposited on their roofs and I pondered why as Greg chatted about his concerns around fitting the fan belt.

I returned and wandered around the cars another day and noticed that 4WDs were most common but all vehicle types were represented, from hatchbacks to trucks.

Sometimes a relic of their past life would catch my eye. Decaying pages of a book or manual, cutlery, old clothes. I thought of the Amarok filled with most of our belongings and what would be jettisoned if the car had to be dumped in this metal graveyard out the back of beyond.

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Cutting the details, Greg’s fears were confirmed when we managed to pull the alternator, fan and covers out and inspect the belt tensioners. One of them was broken and was the reason for the belt shredding. This was a huge blow to our plans as it meant we needed another part and there wasn’t another mail plane for a week.

Surely the cursed mechanic could’ve advised us to get the tensioner when we called and told him about the belt! Morale was at an all-time low. I remember the heat and the flies conspiring to compound our misery.

At one stage I just lay on the ground and hoped that if enough flies landed on me they might pick me up and fly me away.

The country was covered in a bruised sky, with patches of rain visible on all horizons. It wasn’t torrential but the weather was closing in. I trotted back to the camp kitchen.

The camp kitchen at the Warakurna Roadhouse had become our home. It’s built of besser blocks, like everything in Aboriginal communities. Cheap, tough, and easy. The besser ran halfway to the roof where it was replaced by a heavy-duty steel fly mesh that ran up to the gutterless tin roof.

It was a blessing to escape the flies, even if it meant being out of the cooling breeze. To be out with the flies was to be constantly moving. Swishing and twitching. Waving emu bush in front of your face to keep them off your eyes.

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In the waiting periods we drank cups of tea, read, and went walking up to the Giles Weather Station to kill time.

Mostly we talked about the difficult decision we faced. After driving about 600km to get into Western Australia, we’d have to backtrack most of those kilometres and then add so much more driving down the Stuart Highway and along the Nullabor.

It was a tough pill to swallow and we were investigating every possibility to avoid having to do it. We were asking any car or truck drivers that came in to the roadhouse if they had any intelligence to deduce whether there was a chance we’d make it west. Everything relied on the increasing rain.

Thursday

Thursday morning was Chippa’s birthday. I’d hoped to take her out for a nice birthday dinner in Fremantle as I had big plans. Instead we woke to the patter of desert rain on the roof with some dripping through onto our faces, still, in Warakurna. I knew the time was right so first thing I did was ask, ‘Would you like your birthday present now?’.

Chippa rolled her barely open eyes assuming this was a euphemism but when she realised I was holding something she perked up.

She didn’t respond, but don’t worry the reaction spoke louder than words.

​That day Greg and I spent putting the car back together and even though it went as smoothly as mechanical work can, with all the delays the rain had arrived, and the roads west were closed. (They remained closed for at least six weeks after!) When we were done, Greg and I stood by the car and chatted.

Characters of the Centre

Greg’s ready to semi-retire and leave what he calls ‘the lands’ (a derivative of homelands as a way of describing Indigenous land). Him and his Mrs will head down south where they own a property sitting in wait for them.

He showed me the live feed to the security cameras at his ‘home’ on the Murray River, thousands of kilometres from there. He swiped his greasy fingers across and displayed pictures of his houseboat, which impressively doubles as a caravan, and told me of his plans to travel the country ‘sticking to the bitumen’ and doing underwater metal detecting. ‘Just a bit of fun’, Greg reckons.

Like many people who live a long time in remote areas, the money is always the obvious motivator. Some are socially motivated, devoting their lives to improving the lives of ‘the locals’.

My feeling is that people like Greg find it difficult to admit that they’ve grown to love the country.

In truth, I think Greg will miss this forgotten country. The space, the colour, the smells. I don’t think he’ll ever admit or even recognise it but he’ll keep coming back, saying, ‘the money is too good’, when really he means, ‘I’ve spilled too much blood and sweat into that Mulga and red dirt for my heart not to yearn for it occasionally’.

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We shared the camp kitchen with a couple of special mentions over the journey. Chris and Margaret rolled into town in their khaki Troopy one day, awaiting a convoy to the Surveyor Generals Corner. They were both tough but sympathetic women who’d been all over the country and shared many good tips with us.

On our final evening, we shared the space with Christian from Switzerland who’d hired a 4WD and driven out to inspect the Giles Weather Station. He was a detective back home who introduced himself and identified as a pilot.

He wore his Garmin GPS hanging from his belt and had every mapping and weather app on the two phones he carried with him. He was staunchly proud of not visiting typical tourist routes.

The Road Out of Nowhere

We convoyed with Christian the next day as he’d been intimidated by the roads on the way in and said he’d appreciate driving with us. The road was soaked in places and a couple of trucks had created some big ruts, but we had no trouble getting back to the pavement near Kata Tjuta. Our only cause to stop was to take a Thorny Devil off the road.

Our time there was testing and beautiful all at once. When you travel overland you come to expect some challenges, and when you overcome them it can enrich and even provide meaning to the meandering.

We’re both very grateful for the people who helped us practically and emotionally. Would I choose to do it all again…thanks, but no thanks!