Letter from Queensland

Ben Wildsmith

The plan is simple but daunting. My dad and I are driving from Port Douglas on the Great Inland Highway before cutting back towards the coast and visiting my brother in Byron Bay.

It’s not the scenic treat offered by the coast road, but we fancy a hard road trip. We don’t see each other all that often so 1300 miles of outback will provide space for conversation.

Before we leave, I find myself stood alone on the beach at Cape Tribulation. Dad is in the car making a phone call and I’m the lone visitor to this pristine, curved bay where Captain Cook had to repair his reef-damaged ship or perish.

Saltwater crocs

It’s punishingly hot for my Rhondda-bleached skin and silent, except for the gentle ripple of clear, turquoise water that invites and tempts on behalf of the saltwater crocs that own it.

The road up through the hills towards Mareeba is winding, shady and green. People are farming everything from mangoes to barramundi fish.

It’s a long way from my dusty preconceptions of Australia: a tropical gift box of nature’s wonders that gives way to endless green pastures as you descend and head south.

Here, cattle laze under trees amidst two-metre termite hills, overlooked by wedge-tailed eagles.

We can drive for an hour without seeing anyone, then a three-waggon road train will approach at speed, hauled by the sort of gleaming, engine-forward cab you see in American road movies.

There are more cars wrecked and left on the side of the road than driving on it by the time things sparsen out to scrubland.

Roadhouses are on the map every 200km or so. Mom and Pop affairs, they sort you out for fuel, coffee, a sandwich and a chat.

‘Where are youse from then, fellas?’ the husband grins, joining his wife who’s been bantering with my dad for ten minutes. I’m all UK stutter and murmur, completely missing the pitch of the place.

‘He’s from Wales, I’m from Sydney, mate. You know, civilisation,’ Dad grins.

‘Fuckin’ ‘ell,’ the owner replies, as he slumps down on a couch. ‘I could tell you were fuckin’ trouble the moment you pulled up in that.’ Pointing to our enormous, gleaming white hire car, he stretches out his long, sunburned legs and takes a load off from whatever has left his singlet, shorts, and boots caked in red dust.

‘I went to Sydney once,’ he begins. A car pulls out on to the highway at speed and his wife is action stations.

‘That was Chip, wonder what he’s after in a hurry! I’m fuckin’ callin’ him, eh?’ She disappears on her mobile.

‘Chip’s the local cop,’ an elderly waitress explains. ‘He isn’t allowed to do anything exciting without his Deputy there finding out about it.’

Before we leave, they’ve rung ahead to Charters Towers and sorted us a motel room.

Cyclone Alfred

Thanks to Elon Musk’s satellites, there was internet in the roadhouse and the news is worrying. Cyclone Alfred is heading towards the coast and seems to be zeroing in on Byron Bay. Dad messages my brother: yes, he’s ok, don’t worry, they are busy filling sandbags. He’s like that, though, never worries anyone.

He lives in spitting distance of the river.

We continue down the road and discuss other, more universal news. Trump’s putting tariffs on Canada and Mexico. The EU are going into arms production for Ukraine. At the roadhouse we learned that thousands of surrounding acres have been purchased by Singapore as a training ground for its military.

From every possible direction, something seems to be approaching. We put some shitkicking country music on and sink into the road.

After dumping our bags at the motel, we head into town. Charters Towers used to be a gold mining town, and its architecture is singular.

Every few yards, a faded, ornate building bears a 19^th century date and the name of a now-defunct bank.

There was once a stock exchange here. Now there are a lot of thrift stores, and peeling paint, and ‘For Sale’ signs.

There’s museums too. They always leave us that, eh?

Cynicism

In the pub, the barmaid is a one-woman riot of acerbic humour, warmth, and hard-bitten cynicism.

She has to stand in a particular spot so she can see both bars. Thieves can come in either way and the police won’t do anything.

Just today, the government has put up tax on her favourite tipple, rum, to 69% for fuck’s sake! The council won’t fix the potholes on her street but then the cars they drive are so fuckin’ expensive they probably don’t notice them. Yeah, the Chinese over the road is OK but order fresh off the menu, not from the all-you-can-eat ‘chew and spew’ trough or you’ll be here for a week recovering.

We get her a rum; she gets us a beer. I tell her about the Rhondda, we nod at each other in deep, deep empathy.

The next morning, as we set out for Emerald, rain starts to spit on the windscreen. We’re 900 miles from where the cyclone is predicted to hit in around 16 hours’ time.

Dad messages my brother again: yes, he’s fine, we may need to think about rerouting though, eh? I download some more Waylon Jennings tunes from Musk’s satellites and we press on.