People's Page... Mike Callaghan.

What is an effigy of a Welsh rugby forward is doing in a Pandanus Palm in far North Queensland.  Well, his name is Teddy Taff-scrum (or TTS) a gift from my mother when I left Wales to come Australia and with  my ears ringing with Welsh mother logic” don’t you dare forget where you’re from our Michael and this is to remind you that wherever you go a little bit of Wales goes with you.”  So back to TTS - every night when outback traveling I would place him in a strategic viewing position as if to keep guard and out of the way of my dogs that had this idea that I gave too much attention to him.

 We are stopped for the night on the east side of Cape York which is Australia’s most northern point.  A very lonely and mostly uninhabited region apart from the Aboriginals or Islanders and the occasional White who are mostly crims or nutter’s on the run, so we always keep a low profile at night and leave the dogs hungry and my short barreled   pump action shotgun primed and handy.

As it happened, previously that day we had met some Aboriginal folk near the sea shore and we stopped off to have a bit of a natter and the bloke had his leg strapped up, so I asked what was the problem.  “Rugby injury” he replied apparently he played rugby league and had duffed his leg. “Where are you from”? He asked.  “Wales” I replied.  His face lit up into one huge grin and did I know Gareth Edwards or JPR Williams and every Welshman that had ever played? he asked.  His knowledge of these players must have been gleaned from the mission school and his time as a player down south because at that time news was usually passed on by someone had gone to the smoke.

They offered us cooked fish the same as they were eating and had just caught off the rocks down on the seashore.  We graciously declined as we had to push on, there were other things on the fire and we could only guess at its origin.  Snake is eaten as are Lizards and many insects and other creatures of the wild.  There was no booze evident which was good as grog can be quite a problem with the locals and anyhow if they didn’t drink I didn’t have to share mine

Going back to Cape York - it used to be quite an adventure prior to the GPS and adventure tours, which now provide a more civilized way of traveling with more information than you can poke a stick at and sitting back in air conditioned comfort with all meals provided. But I honestly think that a little bit has been lost with these modern facilities though we use them also, but there was something frightening and yet exciting when you worked with a map and compass, the uncertainty and then the relief when your judgment proved correct..

 We were going to Cape York and we had chosen to go along the old abandoned telegraph line and after two days in I was beginning think that perhaps we had bitten of more than we could chew as the river crossings were deep and wide.  On reflection I think we were traveling about two weeks early as water runoff from the wet season was still running strong.  Timing can be critical in this region regarding water flow in the rivers, some of the track washouts were deep enough to swallow a Mini and being on your own you have to live by your decisions and with snakes and wild pigs you were kept you on your toes.

 One night in particular we stopped at a billabong as a overnight stop and the ranger at a local station told us he thought there might still be a couple of crocs about so keep your eyes open and don’t hang around the edges of the water; anyhow we set ourselves up, lit a small fire and had some tucker, and as the evening drew in and darkness fell it suddenly becomes very lonely and exposed and you find yourself looking over your shoulder at all the little sounds of the bush.  

We have slept in swags and tents but being a resourceful couple we had some months earlier manufactured a full roof rack mosquito net tent

and it seemed the ideal time to use it as the mozzies are big and hungry and crocs or wild pigs are not known for their climbing ability, so up there you are relatively safe

Eventually we must have dropped off to sleep because we both sat bolt upright as the most bloodcurdling screams filled the night air followed by splashing then silence.  We both wished at that moment we were back in Wales or anywhere but here we sat there as dawn broke and the sun rose over the tree tops.  Daylight brought its own brand of courage and allowed us to climb down to the ground, light the fire make the obligatory cup of tea before packing up and moving on. What was the noise? No idea, probably somewhere under the banks of the billabong is a very contented croc   who had dined on pork.

Eventually we met up with another couple as daft as ourselves journeying the same route on their own.  We came across them at a place called Gunshot Creek, a notoriously steep water way where they had been stuck for four hours.  I think Gunshot was the first time that I had seen the water level halfway up the windscreen of my Rover as it is such a deep descent that the bonnet and half the car are immersed in water until you start to level out before climbing out the other side.  It’s certainly a bowel movement occasion and when we stopped on the exit side these folk asked could they accompany us until we got to civilization. We reluctantly agreed as you get used to being on your own and people joining  you tend to get on your nerves a little as then you have people who have different perceptions of what they want which is not necessarily the same as yours  on a trip like this

Anyhow all worked out ok and we parted company on the banks of the Cape’s widest river the Jardine, an ominous looking river deep, slow moving and chock full of Crocs.  This had to be crossed and as is my custom I will wade into the water to judge a course for my Landrover.  I slung my gun over my shoulder and started to wade out while my wife kept lookout for the beasties of the deep.  The water was really shallow,  roughly knee  height for about twenty metres then it dropped off into a deep dark green area and peeping out of the water was the top of a Toyota land- cruiser which had obviously tried to cross  and a little further to the left another vehicle completely submerged.  As I turned  my wife was shouting and waving her arms “you can come back now we’re are not crossing there”  she was still a bit cranky after bailing out the day before when we had water come through the cab as we were crossing Cannibal creek.  Anyhow,  we moved on up river to where a fee paying ferry was operated by the Aboriginal community  and after some gesticulating and calling a ferryman appeared out of a house on the other side and brought over the ferry boat . We then traveled north until we came to the Aboriginal town of Bamega where we stocked up on provisions.  From there it was an easy uneventful run to the top of the Cape for rest, recreation and all the coconuts you could eat in a lifetime.  We found it quite novel seeing coconuts on trees and it was really hard work trying to get the nut out of the husk casing: as my wife said it’s a good job we don’t have to rely on these for food as we would be dead in a week.

Anyhow we lounged around for a week on rest and recreation, sightseeing and making acquaintances.  One bloke was a failed business man who decided he would take his family on the road for a year until he could recapture his zest for work and he used take his tinny (aluminum boat) out fishing every morning to catch the days supply of seafood.  He would ask us what fish we wanted, how many and what size.  We really ate well with oysters in plentiful supply on the rocks and fresh fish and prawns; what else could you want?  With fruit available we were eating until it was time to go back to Cooktown. There was also a small lagoon suitable for wading and it was used in preference to the sea, as the Torres Strait has more than its fair share of sharks, crocs and the highly venomous sea snakes.  The crocs would sometimes come up onto the beach to lounge about.  I struck a deal with them,  I would not swim in their sea if they didn’t come near my campsite,  although one morning this bloke called Joe - a local bloke -arrived in his 4 cylinder Landrover that ran on three cylinders.  Apparently he had a problem with it and decided to take one piston and crank out  and run on three until he could find time to go down to the smoke for a new piston and crank( Australia has its fair share of bush mechanics who show no reverence to conventional engineering) “ Be careful” he said “ there’s a croc sun-baking on the beach, its a big bugger about 14ft long. Its funny you suddenly feel more energetic with that news.  Eventually all good things must come to an end and we reluctantly packed our gear, loaded every available space with coconuts and started the long uneventful trek back to civilization via the sissy road straight through the middle back to Cooktown.

Cooktown would not have been on everyone’s must see list as it’s a bit like a cowboy town as seen in the movies with more watering holes(Pubs) than you could poke a stick at, and you get a fight at any one of them for the asking but I liked it.  Just mind your own business and keep your nose clean and you’re ok, Cattle men Gold miners and local Aboriginals make a rather feisty bunch with a couple of jugs of ale in them and night time was quite interesting though I must say I never felt threatened at any time.’ After that it was about a week or so to get back home and try to readjust to domesticity, before planning to cross the Simpson Desert East to West on another occasion.

                                                                                                                                                       Mike Callaghan