MY 'OLD' LIFE has well and truly slipped behind me now.   I have lost track of time and place.   All I know is that the dreaded Nullabor Plain is behind me and I'm enjoying feeling grass under my feet again at Esperance in Western Australia.

How long has it been since I last wrote to you all?   I would say Streaky Bay.   After that I spent about ten days at a great little surfer's camp at Cactus, near Penong.   As I drove the 21 kms off the highway, down the dirt road to Cactus, I wondered whether a surfer I'd known many, many years ago when I was a hippy living on the beach at Noosa Heads in Queensland would be there.   I just love it when there is a serendipitious connection and this time there was.   Yes, Bushy did use to live at Cactus and in fact, had managed it for a time for the owner, Ron.   But some months ago, Bushy had bought a boat and shipped out to the Solomon Islands.

I felt safe at Cactus, even though I felt quite alone there.   Every night there were at least 30 or 40 people in the camp - some permanents and some passing through.   Tara from Toolangi and her lovely little four year son, Jasper.   Chris, (who I found out was the nephew of a very good friend of mine, Lyn Cawcutt) travelling through to Perth.   Emmanuele from Quebec.   The lovely couple who I met one night down at Port Le Hunt.   The very good-looking Martin, a veteran surfer who invited me back to his van for a cup of milo and a joint.   And of course, the owner of Cactus, Ron, who toured the camping area morning and night - cleaning the toilets and collecting rent.   Even though people were friendly enough, they were all just passing through or satisfactorily involved with their own group of friends and didn't feel a need to include anyone else.

Never mind.   I made friends with a rather large group of stumpy-tailed (or shingle-backed) lizards that would appear from underneath the caravan each morning.   Marlo was so relaxed around them, that she would momentarily lift her head and then sag back into sleeping postion.   There were also a couple of appreciative seagulls who would visit from time to time, and I would always find a piece of fruit or bread to throw out to them.

While Ron has owned Cactus (or Point Sinclair as it is more properly known) for around 30 years, he says he receives phone calls, emails and letters all the time from people all over the world either wanting to buy the property or publicise it on television shows, newspaper stories, magazines etc.   He refuses them all.   "They'd only bugger it up," he said to me.   And I know he's right.   After all, who would pay around a million dollars for a property and then take on the job of going out each morning to clean up other people's toilet-leavings?   He has built these series toilets himself, from stone, which are really just four foot high cubicles without a roof.   When you're seated, you're out of sight, but when you stand out, everyone can see your head poking above the parapet.   The whole arrangement consists of an old-fashioned thunderbox metal can which is lined with a black rubbish bin liner and he empties these each day.   Each person who goes to the toilet just throws in a cupful of lime to keep the toilets sweet-smelling and fly free.   And it works!   Even though they're out in the bush and open to the elements, the toilets were always clean and not smelly.   

When I left Cactus, I fuelled up at Penong, bought some groceries etc., and noticed a hitch hiker by the side of the road.    An hour later he was still there, when I was ready to leave town and while it would never be my usual habit to do so, I decided to check him out as I drove past before I made a decision whether or not to pick him up.   I decided he looked okay and pulled over.   He ran to the car and crammed himself into the front seat, squeezing in beside the big container of water I had on the front floor.   We'd only got ten kilometres down the road when I heard a strange sound.   "What was that?!" I gasped.   Then, when I looked into the rear vision mirror, the van had lurched over dangerously to the left.   I braked as quickly as I could without fishtailing the van and when I got out, I was absolutely shocked to see I'd had a blow out on the tyre.   The rubber was gashed and filleted like a tinsel Christmas decoration.

I really was shocked.   "How could this have happened?" I asked Corey, the hitch hiker.   Of course he couldn't tell me, but he set to - asking if I had a jack, tyre lever etc.   I just kept thinking to myself, "I am SOOOOO glad I picked this guy up!"   While I know I could have changed the tyre, it would have taken me hours and I know I would have been crying and distressed.   Corey had no sooner got the new tyre on (I had two spare caravan tyres on the back of the van) and we'd realised that the spare was quite low on tyre pressure than a couple pulled up in 'a big rig' with a huge four wheel drive and huge van asking if we needed help.   This guy was so organised he even had a compressor on board, so he was able to pump up the newly-fitted spare tyre.   I was just so grateful I felt like kissing everyone!

When you start travelling, people tell you that those who travel the road DO look out for one another.   Not everyone is in a position to set themselves up with the latest and greatest in equipment, machinery, technology etc.   But those who do have it, are more than willing to share it with you.   I'm so eternally grateful for that.

Since I started on this journey, I've regarded myself, Marlo, my car and the caravan as a team - a unit - we go through it all together.   With the addition of Corey, I felt much safer crossing the Nullabor.   But I'd had enough of a fright that I decided I wasn't going to linger - I wanted to across that relentless 'desert' as quickly as we could manage it.   I was pleased to have Corey along and he, in turn, was happy to have a lift 'to the other side'.   (He was on his way back to Geraldton).   We spent two days and two nights together.   Despite my offer to clear out the back of the station wagon so he could sleep there, he preferred sleeping in the bush, so each night after I'd given him dinner, he would wander off into the dark to find a safe sleeping spot.   And each morning, when I let Marlo out, she would wake him up with a sloppy lick.

My heart leapt with joy, ten kilometres from Norseman when I heard that familiar little 'ting-ting' which signalled that my mobile phone had FINALLY come into reception.   "Hallelujah!   Civilisation at last!"   I SMS'd to family and friends.   As we pulled up in front of the tourist info office, both Corey and I were busy texting and listening to phone messages.   We bade each other farewell then as he was going north to Kalgoorlie and I was headed down south to Esperance.   I'd very much enjoyed his company - it was such a delight to have someone to talk to for those two days and nights and it certainly made the Nullabor a less arduous stretch.   

I had a bit of a laugh because it occurred to me that I'd gone from places where I was constantly saying, "Wow!" at the landscape, to an area where I gave a huge "Whew!" that I was through it!   

One thing that I couldn't get over was the number of dead kangaroos along the Nullabor - hundreds and hundreds of them!    The memory card on my digital camera got full and I missed the shot that really tickled my fancy - a warning to look out for Camels, Emus and Kangaroos. 

So ... to civilisation ... Norseman.   As I walked through the town with Marlo, I kept pondering what it was about the town that made it look like a slum.   Walls had been kicked in, fences knocked down, rocks through windows (in buildings that had windows! - most had metal shutters) and it hit me - no love!   Norseman is a town being kicked to death.

It's always been a paradox to me that aborigines are said to have such a strong connection to the earth and yet everywhere I've been where aborigines have lived in any great numbers, the town looks like a shit hole.   Wrecked cars in the front yard; engine parts in the drive; toys littered throughout the yard; windows, doors and walls smashed in; chairs thrown into the street etc.   I know they don't put the same importance on possessions that we 'white men' do but it surprises me that they have no sense of the aesthetic - i.e. you think they would prefer their environment to look natural (not littered with crap).

Many years ago I stayed several days at Seisia (right up the top of Cape York, just past Bamaga) and there was rubbish everywhere - cigarette packs, broken bottles, empty potato chip packs, plastic shopping bags - and I said to one of the local aboriginal girls, "I've always thought that aborigines respected the land, so I can't understand why they just throw their rubbish out of the car" and she said, "Oh, you've just caught us out of season and we're a bit lazy about picking up our rubbish."    My reply was, "But why throw it out in the first place?"

Maybe one day I'll discover why they have such different attitudes.

Despite all the moaning and groaning I feel I do, I AM enjoying this journey.   It's hard work and sometimes brings me to tears, but I hope I'm becoming a better person.   

I'm used to being on my own, but sometimes the loneliness does get very hard to bear.   I've never been too shy to go up to strangers and start a conversation and I do this all the time I'm on the road.   You can't imagine the excitement I feel when I hear another van pull into wherever I'm camped.   "Oh goodie, someone else is here!"   It doesn't matter how far away they camp, or who they are, it's always reassuring that someone else is around.    

It's a harsh country Australia.   It tests you in so many different ways.   One lady I met from Penong said, "You have to enjoy your own company if you live in a place like Penong.   If there's trouble, people do band together, but for the most part, you're on your own."   On top of the psychological challenges that Australia's huge landscape throws at you, I'm constantly on the alert for snakes, scorpions, ticks etc.   I have to buy Marlo a muzzle because a lot of areas have poisonous baits laid for rabbits and foxes and of course, in warmer areas, I have to protect her against heartworm etc.   But still, Australia has incredible beauty.   A fair exchange I suppose.