The cat on the roof

38 degrees Celsius (100.4 Fahrenheit): just below bearable, measured in the shade, with me fully wrapped in motorcycle clothes. My brain held exactly one thought: air-conditioning. Minutes after checking the accommodation list at the tourist information, I stood in front of an old building that perfectly matched my image of a house in the wild, wild outback. Two blocks away, in the heart of Broken Hill, the wooden construction dates back to 1888, shortly after the town was founded, and was formerly known as “The Pig and Whistle Pub”. Today it’s called Klingy’s Place, or “The Outback Pub With No Beer! What?”, because it is a guest house and the pub fittings are mere decoration, used only by Wendy and Des, the owners, and their guests. Or rather their guest: I was the only one. Once again I’m perfectly between the seasons – too late for the summer holidays, too early for the cooler winter months when most tourists come. If there were a world championship in bad timing, I would arrive at it a week late.

A couple of hundred kilometres further south I had started to sense that something was wrong. Riding through a green wilderness, I asked myself: “Where’s that bloody outback? Where is that vast, dusty, reddish nothing I know from pictures?” Aware that there wouldn’t be a sign saying “Welcome to the outback”, I rode for hours and hours, waiting for the picture in my memory and the picture from my eyes to merge into one. But no, not this year. Proof once again that an average is often closer to a lie than to the truth. Average precipitation is ridiculously low here, even in the wet season we are in now. But no, not this year. The opposite of an average is the extreme value, and to cut it short: the famous salt lake Eyre holds as much water as it did when last seen full in 1974. Once I learned that, my disappointment turned into a feeling of being privileged. Yes, yes, happiness is a matter of perspective. Mine needed a newspaper to adjust.

Broken Hill taught me more. An elderly man started explaining to me in detail how a mining shaft used to work as I stood in front of an exhibit in the town’s central park. He had been the shaft driver for many years, then worked underground for over two decades. I didn’t understand every word of his fast, strong Aussie accent, but I didn’t interrupt – I didn’t want him to stop. His words filled that dead construction of wood and metal with life. The mining boom in Broken Hill is over. Over, too, is his company’s lifetime guarantee of free dental treatment, because the dentist has left town. As suddenly as he had appeared, he went off for lunch. No free dental work for him anymore. A lifetime guarantee, I learned, lasts exactly as long as the dentist.

One evening dark clouds gathered – perfect for pictures, I thought, passing the train station. Those powerful clouds and the raw charisma of the cargo trains pulled me in. Sometimes my memory leaks are so blatant that I can no longer interpret a simple stop sign. I blame the temperature. So I found myself right next to a cargo train, its two linked locomotives drumming low in front of the wagons. A guy walked towards me, and I prepared my apology. But he just said: “Train spotter?” Quickly I said: “Yes! Yes!” He smiled and went into the service building. Meanwhile the storm had arrived, rain poured down and lightning hit a pole maybe 50 metres away from me! I took that as my signal to shelter under the roof of the service building too. A minute later the guy came out with his mate. We chatted about the engines – how far, how fast – the very questions people ask me when they spot the foreign plates on my motorcycle. Then came what I had secretly been hoping for: “Do you want to see the engine?” YES! They took me inside the locomotive and showed me everything. I took pictures like a madman – but I was a train spotter now, and a train spotter has his professional standards. And the finale: you could see and feel how proud the two guys were, admired by an unenlightened rasta guy from overseas who had never seen such a big train. They drove me about 200 metres to the next junction. A childhood dream come true, if only for 200 metres. 8,000 horsepower pulling over 3,500 tonnes. Wow! When they dropped me off and I opened the door, the rain had moved on and the evening sun painted a rainbow into the clouds ahead of us. Perfect. Sometimes the shortest rides are the ones you remember longest.

Des and I sipped a beer in the shady backyard, the radio reporting Gold Coast United FC beating Adelaide United 3-2. Trooper, the overweight German shepherd, thoroughly protects the property against non-existent threats. Chief, Trooper’s young but immensely big companion, joins his leader – always a few seconds late, always at a safe distance. What he loves most is being petted by us humans. I suspect he follows Trooper to save what is left of his reputation as a strong male dog, not out of any passion for defending the territory. A big guy pretending to be braver than he is – I won’t judge. As a puppy, Chief once played with Percie, carrying him around the lawn in his mouth. Ever since, Percie has lived on the roof of Klingy’s Place. Every day for the last three years, Wendy has climbed onto a chair and put Percie’s food on the tin roof until he stops complaining. Perfect.