Super Pit

The poor old Kombi didn’t want to get out of bed this morning either. She coughed, spluttered, and backfired away, trying hard to clear the phlegm. Daph was proud of Ern, as he didn’t panic even though the old girl had the death rattle going on. With the pedal to the metal, we had a top speed of fifty kilometres an hour and were kangaroo-hopping down the road. Ern limped us into the next town to find a mechanic.

The mechanic said there was no room at the inn, and added, “I know three-fifths of f**k all about Kombis, anyway.”

Ern: “OK. What’s the plan now?”

Daph: “Limp it to the next town. She’ll be right.”

Daph faced the warming sun, closed her eyes, and channelled the Universal energy via positive vibes to the engine...

Kombi: “Putt, Putt, BANG!”

Smooth as silk. Running like a dream now. Magic.

We stopped in Kalgoorlie for a picnic lunch in the back of the Kombi. We did a drive-by photo-shooting of the Quesa Casa, Australia's oldest-running brothel. We were too early for the 3.00 p.m. daily tour of the establishment! We checked out the Super Pit instead, a five-square-kilometre gold pit. There’s even an ice cream truck here to accommodate all the people that come to marvel at a massive man-made hole in the ground.

Tonight, we check into another motel room in Norseman, ready to start our Nullarbor crossing tomorrow. Daph feels bad on the Kombi, leaving her alone out in the cold after she’s had such a rough day. But there’s no camping here. And it’s bloody freezing again.

This motel is positively four stars. Oh, the joys of a shower that doesn’t have homicidal tendencies.