Beyond the Tropic of Capricorn

Outback Memories by Sharonlee Goodhand

All Photography by Sharonlee Goodhand

Beyond the Tropic of Capricorn

So my childhood had been that of gypsy traveler, following my family around Australia; exploring the wild rugged coastline, the immense silence of convoluted red deserts, the lush tangle of undamaged bush, and musical rainforests dripping with birdsong. 
I experienced it all, drought, flood, fire, fury, entwined with raw beauty, natural wonders and the rhythmic hum of the earth’s spirit. I enjoyed the bounty of a seasonal smorgasbord; I did home school, learnt about the history of Australia, and loved the gypsy life-style.

Traveling around Australia in the early 70’s was an adventure that rivaled the exploits of early explorers, or at least the venturesome Leyland Brothers, if only we had a video camera. We lived in the company of crocodiles, buffalos, camels and other wild animals; we camped in the middle of no-where with no sign of human existence for hundreds of kilometers, except of course it was miles back then, and crossed flooded rivers in places so remote there were no police stations or rescue services.

There were only choices- travel on, stay put or go back. My father was not a ‘go back’ type of fellow, nor was he inclined to ‘stay put’. So we usually traveled on, fording flooded rivers, out-maneuvering bushfires, and out running cyclones. The year we left the ‘big smoke’ to visit my Aunt and her family in far north Queensland was the year my life changed. I was ten and had called the coast of NSW home for as long as I could remember. Little did I know, but I was in for a culture shock of un-foretold proportions and embarking on a journey that never ended.

After dodging cyclones all the way up the coast we headed inland over rutted roads that rarely saw a roadwork’s truck, through dusty bush and past animals I had only seen at the zoo and wildlife park. I never grew tired of gazing at the passing scenery wondering what I’d see next, kangaroos grazing on the dew wet grass, emus racing across distant plains, brolga’s, goannas, donkeys and even camels. We arrived at a town called Normanton under threat of massive storm clouds and were told by locals that the river was rising. It would be wise to go back or we would have to stay put for a few days, maybe weeks. More rains comin’ the locals informed us. There was no going back, we had traveled almost the entire length of Australia to visit family and were not going back now.

At the time we were living in a flat-tray truck that my father had built a mobile home on, it was a big rig but he knew how to handle it and expertly parked it in the small quaint caravan park.  After further discussions with the locals he decided it was too risky to stay put, we would end up trapped in Normanton with floodwaters cutting us off on all sides. We had to leave, immediately.  My mother was in the middle of cooking a stew for tea when she was informed of the change of plans; she turned her attention to readying the kitchenette for traveling while my father checked over the exhaust and motor.

I watched over my younger brother who was five, with mounting excitement. I had seen the river with its swollen brown waters that seemed to flow with hypnotizing fluidity. On the far side of the river an assortment of stranded travelers gazed longingly at the town, not willing to risk the crossing they remained tantalizingly close, yet unable to get closer. When word got out that we were attempting the crossing a crowd of townspeople and other stranded travelers gathered along the road and at the edge of the surging waters. Locals gave my father last minute advice before we climbed into the single cabin truck.

My father was at the wheel, my mother beside him, my brother next to her and yours truly at the passenger side door, with a hot pot of stew gripped between my feet.

A silence fell over the onlookers as the truck sliced through the floodwaters, edging closer to the middle where the power of the surging water was at its peak. At one stage I stretched my ten-year-old arm out of the window and swished my fingertips in the cold gritty water. The force of the flood pushed against the weight of the truck, a dangerous battle of power, but the truck held its place until we emerged triumphantly on the other side to a round of cheers from the spectators.

Here we learnt that while the road ahead was no longer flooded it had been washed out in places making it difficult to tell road from saltpan flats, and with more rain already misting in the distance water levels would surely rise. But we had a destination and my father was not one to be easily swayed in another direction. Although in this case there was only one way to go, the river we had just crossed was already rising and the only road led to Karumba in the Gulf of Carpentaria. So we traveled on over barely visible tracks, past obscure landmarks and washed out gullies. My Aunt, Uncle and four cousins waited for us and although none of us realized at the time, so did a new lifestyle beyond our wildest imaginings.

**

Karumba was where I discovered the true country of my birth, a land of surging oceans and rich vibrant earth; a prehistoric wilderness that teemed with nature’s extraordinary gifts and harbored hidden wonders that I had never known existed. In the early 70’s Karumba was a wild untamed outpost that boasted creatures I had never dreamed of. It paled in comparison to the shallow swamps and mountain playground of my early childhood.

Karumba was filled with endless days that ran to the timetable of the shifting sun; it was home to giant grasshoppers, centipedes, scorpions, goannas, crabs, sharks, and crocodiles. I remember seeing my first hammerhead shark and investigating the beach at low tide; collecting huge shells and fish bones and canvassing the salt encrusted sand for other treasures that delight a child’s heart. I witnessed natural events that I had never experienced before- tropical thunderstorms, raging tides, cyclones, and the spectacular beauty of the setting sun. I saw dugongs and turtles perform graceful dances in their natural habitat. I felt invigorated by this land; it was Australia in the raw.

 My Aunt & Uncle had a ‘camp’ set up out of town, where the bush met the sand-dunes…   but in truth they were just squatting. They had lived there in a caravan, with my four cousins for some years now and we stayed for almost a year.

While we had access to the oceans bounty, giant prawns, tropical fish, and fresh crab, other provisions were hard to come by. There were no shops, power, or running water and sometimes I missed things like ice cream and hot baths. I knew that as a ten/eleven year old child I had at first resisted the change of pace and scenery. It came as quite a culture shock to the mindset of an urban offspring, but my heart and mind retained all that I experienced and even now I often feel a longing deep inside for those days of untamed exploration when I first encountered the true spirit of the Australian wilderness.   

Once I was chased by a huge goanna that I had inadvertently startled as it lay sun baking in the salt stunted bush and many times hermit crabs had nipped me when I picked them up for a closer look. Everything in Karumba had seemed bigger than normal, even the mosquitoes that swarmed in at sunset. It was a place of limitless extremes with prehistoric links to an ancient past. The sand dunes blocked the view of the ocean but we could hear its roar from the camp, the sound of waves crashing a temptation we children could not resist. Whole days passed to sound of waves, the sun as our timepiece as we explored rock pools and watery grottos.  Mudskippers would flip away from our scurrying feet and hermit crabs retreated into their shells when our shadows fell over them. At full tide when the ocean was calm and sluggish we’d see dugongs and dolphins, and huge-finned sharks. At night if we went down with a torch we would sometimes see the eerie glowing eyes of salt-water crocs.

At the time my child-mind had not known why I often felt a contented sigh tightening in my young chest, I did not know why the surging oceans or the glorious colors of the sunset made me feel as if I had come home after a long absence. It was many years before I understood that the offspring of the city suburbs really belonged to heart of the earth.

Sharon Lee Goodhand

1999