We are heading west across the continent of Australia. Australia is paranoid about anyone bringing in invasive species: animals, flowers, trees... anything non-native (except people). And understandably so. In the past anything that was brought in, flourished and took off with a vengeance. Cats. Rabbits. Blackberries. They’re all out to conquer a world of native plants and animals. I was utterly amazed when, upon landing at Sydney Airport, we were told to remain seated with our seat belts securely fastened. Then the flight attendants opened all overhead compartments and proceeded to spray the entire inside of the plane with pesticide. My mouth had dropped open in disbelief but I quickly closed it and actually huddled under my scarf and tried not to breathe. The smell reminded me of the long banned Flit sprays my parents used in mosquito season. I come from Salt Spring Island where, if you so much as whisper the words “Round Up” people gasp and stare at you. I wanted to ask what I was being sprayed with but did not get a chance.
Having now been in Australia for a while, I am slightly more sympathetic. Think of it the other way. What if we, inadvertently, brought back Australian flies? Heaven help us. The buggers could easily come aboard airplanes inside our nostrils or riding inside our ears. Whereas Canadian flies are polite, almost apologetic if they land on your arm, Australians flies insist on a close personal relationship. They like your mouth. The closer the better. Your eyeballs are fine too. So if there is a chance of importing Australian flies to other parts of the world, perhaps we should spray all airplanes...

Last night we crossed the border between Northern Territories and Western Australia. And there we met the Cucumber Police! They have a real border station and uniformed guards who are out to get your veggies. I’m not sure what exactly they are looking for, but they seem to live in fear of your potatoes. I surrendered two wrinkled oranges and some limp lettuce. But that wasn’t enough. The guard boarded our camper and proceeded to go through all cupboards. Two blushing tomatoes were caught in the act and arrested. An innocent zucchini was hauled off as a common criminal. A cold, baked potato was handcuffed and contained. Even the banana peels from the garbage got a life sentence.
Those guards do a good job protecting their state, I’m sure. But I’d hate to spend my life confiscating carrots.
Come to think of it, perhaps they should train all those rabbits that were introduced to the continent. I’m sure they’d sniff out every last carrot from every passing camper van.

We finally crossed the entire continent and arrived in Broome, WA. I had read about a touristy, crowded town but on Saturday afternoon most things were closed and the streets were half empty. Strolled through a tiny Chinatown at 37º. Finally found something I wasn’t able to buy anywhere in the Outback: knitting needles. I had made due with a pair of chopsticks but now I can make more proper sleeves for the sweater I’m knitting. Campground is very close to the white sands of Cable Beach, supposedly one of the top 5 best beaches in the world.
“Can I swim here?” I ask in the campground office. “Sure,” says the lady at the counter. “Is it safe?” I want to make sure because I’m starting to learn that these Aussies are sometimes just too laid back.
“Sure,” she repeats.. Then adds, “Just the odd hammerhead shark and a croc last week.”
I decide not to swim.

Aussies are such wonderful, lacksadaisy characters! Most men in the Outback are rugged cowboys. Stopping at a roadhouse, hundreds of miles from anywhere, you see families buying an ice cream, roadtrain drivers going for a meal and everyone else just getting petrol. One guy get out of his car. Must have been 65, 70 years old. Standard bush clothing: rugged hiking boots with wool socks. Sleeveless vest showing heavy biceps. Suntanned face in the shade of a leather cowboy hat (called a bush hat). This one had a long thin, white ponytail and instead of the standard dusty shorts he was wearing a long purple sari wrapped around his waist.

On our second day in Broome we got up at 5 AM for a long, 8 KM, walk on the beach before it got too hot.
Spent the rest of the day doing laundry and cleaning the camper. Beat lots of red dust from the pillows and even mopped the floor.
But soon it’s time to continue our drive south. Kind of a bummer - no sooner have you made it to the gorgeous beaches of the coast or you need to go back into the desert. More than 500 KM from Broome to the next town. Same long straight roads through shrub and red earth. Even knowing that the coast is about 15 KM on your right, doesn’t help much if you can’t see it. The distances here are amazing. It kind of reminds me of Nunavut, Canada’s Arctic region. If those remote, isolated villages had roads connecting them, it would be similar to here. Hundreds of kms to the next town. And it’s easy to miss the one roadhouse in between where you can get gas. Often it literally is one building. But some places on the map turn out to be one shed with the name spray painted on it. Have even seen several places that show on the map and are one big truck tire on the side of the road with the name spray painted on it. Perhaps there’s a cattle station somewhere off in the bush. But you can’t see it from the road.

We follow the bright red track into the bush. It leads to brilliant blue sky and a pure white beach: Eighty Mile Beach. They sure could use more surveyors in Australia. Not once have the distances on the maps and on the signs and on our odometer been the same.

Eighty Mile Beach. Life doesn’t get much better than this. White sand and an amazing array of shells. Turquoise waters. Little white waves to play in. Not really swim because of sharks, but still nice. We took a long walk, searched for and found gorgeous sea shells. Watched the sun set with a glass of wine in the sand.