In the Tropics

Traveller beware: the free-camps are infrequent along this section of the highway, and caravans pack tightly like sardines before mid afternoon, at which point, space runs out. These free-stops resemble small caravan parks perched precariously on the side of the road and the gathering of glittering silver roofs can often be spotted from kilometres away. We insert ourselves into the fray, crack open a beer, and watch with glee the rigs that arrive after us, as they search in vain for the last free spot before being forced to move on. At night, people gather over a bottle of wine, compare travelling stories, and relax before the following day’s drive.

Three days and 1000km later, and we have crossed the Tropic of Capricorn.



Long vines hang from tall thin trees. The land is littered with termite mounds, some as tall as Jase, and coloured to match the soil below. Vast tracts of land are burned black by aboriginals who are in charge of maintaining the land in the old ways, and much of the vegetation seems to return quickly, presumably after the first sign of rain. It is much warmer here, as warm as 30 or so, but there is little humidity so you drink gallons of water to stay hydrated.

Birds that call out “chick me-ow...chick me-ow” are audible at dawn, and in the afternoon we are greeted by flocks of apostle-birds – large carnivorous birds that scamper erratically across the ground with their hefty feet and legs, and communicate with a sound that I best acquaint with small dinosaurs (but which Jase says reminds him of the Wicked Witch’s flying monkeys).

Water rushes constantly in the nearby Roper River, reminding us that we are now in northern Australia and no longer amidst arid desert. Swarms of central Australian field mice have given way to northern Australian toads, which plop along the ground during the night in search of damp ground.