(prompt: 'journey' 20/12/2019)

A burning impatience to reunite with our loved ones saw our 'maiden' road trek across the famous Nullarbor Plain begin. Only an astonishing 37 hours near-constant driving for 1,674 miles (2694km). An appalling 468 miles of this journey was an unsealed stretch of the infamous Eyre Highway. That IS what they called it. With no way around that desert, the only choice was to grit teeth and manoeuvre right through the middle... in December, the hottest time of the Australian year.

Despite a wealth of vigour and good health in abundance, bodies finally weakened—and exhaustion changed our plans as serious hunger developed for something more substantial than the snack food we had munched on for so many miles. Dried fruit and nuts, cheeses and biscuits had all done their job—kept us awake and fortified in strength and spirit—but now body and soul and taste buds too, demanded more. Despite the hour and being in the middle of the desert, answer to our unspoken prayer emanated as a distant glow on the horizon.

"It's only a dot on the map," I said, "but Nundroo must be a substantial town."

Kanute nodded, eyes brightening as he said, "Don't expect it's quite like Las Vegas, Nevada's oasis in the desert, but it sure looks good from here." He still chuckles at the remembered quip.

The closer we came, the larger our dismay grew. A solitary roadhouse-cum-petrol station (with a house and a few dilapidated sheds) comprised the sum of that misleading brilliance. Despite the rows of cheery coloured lights and small Christmas tree bravely glowing in the window, our hearts sank to an all-time low; stomachs growling ominously, having been fully awakened by fertile imaginings.

Stretching cramped and exhausted muscles and straightening spines as tingling returned to numb bottoms, we wandered inside, blinking blearily at the sudden brightness. The owner emerged from a back room, where loud and inebriated sounds issued from a group of men sitting and standing around a table laden with beer bottles, jugs and glasses. They were the road workers.

"Wot can I do you for?" the small fat owner asked, with the cheeriest grin in forever. "Anything you like - mixed grill maybe?" We seriously felt we'd died and gone to Heaven.

In the shortest time, as I waited for Kanute's return from outside to get his wallet, I savoured the first delicious cooking smells wafting out of the kitchen. Bizarre, I thought. Because of their party, the owner is still awake, half-tanked, and happy... and we're going to get a cooked meal in the middle of the night. Unbelievable! Who'd have thought to find this kind of hospitality out here in the— A thud and slop-over of a jug of beer being clunked down in front of me jerked me back into real-time. The jug was closely followed by two glasses—delivered by extremely dark-skinned hands.

"G'dday." The deep slurry voice belonged to a tall aboriginal, arms spread out wide as he leaned on his knuckles on the opposite edge of the table. Rocking back and forth, he all but blocked out the light, nearly knocking me off my chair with his boozy breath.

My voice went into instant quiver mode. "H-h-h-a-ll-o-o," I squeaked.

"... 'ere's a beer for yer, luv. Enjoy... OK?" He nearly fell over my table as he spoke. "And 'appy Crismuss! OK?"

I stammered a "thank you" before he lurched away. Good Samaritans come in strange guises sometimes. Nothing in 22 years of city living had prepared me for an encounter like this. In the late 1960s, my knowledge of our native people was from emotive media reports of aboriginal drunkenness, violence and robbery. My timid response was the result. I had much growing up to do—a vast broadening of knowledge and value judgements to develop.

Life took care of that.

Author's Note: Luckily, the word count police are already on holidays and so nobody else will notice that I've gone 155 words overboard. I pruned... truly I did, but the story lost it's 'bloom'. Already staggering around (more than usual, that is!)