A Town Called Katherine

Katherine is a girl’s name. I know two people called Katherine, although one is called Kathy and the other is Catherine (with a C), usually called Cathy, or sometimes, by family members, Cate; so maybe they don’t count. And this story isn’t about Katherine, Kathy, Catherine, Cathy or Cate, it’s about a town called Katherine – a very hot, sunny place in Australia’s Northern Territory, 320km south-east of Darwin.

Ahead of my visit there in July as part of the 5,500km road trip my friend Leanne and I undertook, from Melbourne to Darwin, I’d been told it was a great place to base yourself for a few days.

“There’s plenty to see and do around there,” an exceptionally fit and adventurous rock climber told me.

I took a mental note and booked two night’s accommodation on the strength of his recommendation, hoping Leanne would be as unlikely as me, to want to go rock climbing.

So there we were, on Monday July 9, 2018, three hours after leaving Daly Waters, driving into Katherine on its wide approach, sweltering in 25-degrees. This was mid-winter remember and with its lush vegetation everywhere, it was easy to see why it’s often known as the place where the outback meets the tropics. The air felt different, much more humid; and I knew I was going to feel sticky and uncomfortable for the duration of my stay. I knew immediately there would be no rock climbing – in any way, shape or form – and that I would be actively seeking out the town’s best air conditioned retreats.

As it turned out, there weren’t a lot of those about, so with sunscreen, dark glasses and an old straw hat, I walked the streets of Katherine (it doesn’t take long), hoping I wouldn’t meet anyone I knew. You get a feel for a town that way – at street level, getting amongst it. You get to see how the locals go about the business of daily life – in this case, with hundreds of black kites (birds), circling overhead like starving vultures. The sky above the supermarket carpark in particular, was spotted black with hovering birds of prey. They’d obviously learned that human beings could be pigs when it came to throwing edible litter about.

When I think back to those two days, there isn’t much about the town itself that has lodged itself firmly in my memory – just a general sense of relaxed tropical living and the pleasure of being able to leave out bags unpacked for longer than 6 hours. I recall a few things strongly – the Aboriginal street art, the fish and chip shop topped with a large shark and the large numbers of Aboriginal people walking the streets, or sitting in friendly huddles on street corners or in the town’s parks.

 Katherine had a population of 6,300 in the 2016 Census but its first inhabitants were the Dagoman people, the Jawoyn and the Wardaman peoples. It remains a place of convergence for Aboriginal mobs and today the Walpiri People from the Victoria River District and Tanami Desert areas now have a dedicated community based at Katherine East.

I’m intrigued by Aboriginal culture – the ancientness of it and how after 40,000, 60,000 or 80,000 years in Australia (depending on which research paper you read), the indigenous people are still working hard to maintain strong ties to that culture. There’s no doubting that that has been an uphill battle since the arrival of the first Europeans here and I was saddened, not only in Katherine but also in Alice Springs, to witness a distressing amount of overt racism from white locals. When you remember that many indigenous people speak multiple languages and have survived in this sometimes savage climate for thousands of years without the aid of air conditioning, western medicine, vehicles or food retailers, I wonder why so many white Australians consider themselves superior.

Blue-Winged Kookaburra

Top of most people’s To See list in this area – and ours too – was the Katherine Gorge in Nitmiluk National Park.

 Everyone tells you the place is swarming with crocodiles – Leanne even got a text from her aunt in New York, warning us to keep our hands and bags well within the boat –and while “swarming with” may be an exaggeration, it is home to both freshwater and saltwater crocodiles; and when encountering any killer creatures with big teeth, I always like to err on the side of caution. I was more than willing to obey all the warning signs.

A convoy of tourist boats set off up the river and if you kept looking up at the amazing 1,650 million-year-old sandstone cliffs, you could pretend the others weren’t there. The tour explores the first three of the 13 gorges that run up the river. With rocky escarpments separating each of the gorges (except when the river is in flood), there’s a chance to disembark and walk to the next boat along well-maintained walkways, and to see a section of Aboriginal cliff art that has been estimated to be between 8,000 to 10,000 years old.

Nitmiluk means ‘Cicada Country’ for the Jawoyn people, who own the land in this area, and Nitmiluk Tourism, which runs the boating operation (which also includes helicopters, planes and a tourist lodge).

I learned a lot that day. That freshwater crocodiles (freshies to the locals) are light green and saltwater crocodiles (salties) are black; that freshies will swim away and salties will attack; that 46 different fish species call the gorge home and that the deepest part of the gorge is up to 30-metres and is home to the Rainbow Serpent.

It rains a lot in Katherine too apparently. A whole lot. And in 1998, the Katherine River came right up to the bottom of the railway bridge (above). The whole town was under 3metres of water, 1,200 people were evacuated and the military were called in to clean up after what was declared a state of emergency. That Australia Day (January 26, 1998), 220.8mm of rain fell in 24 hours, the river rose by 20.4 metres and more than 1,000 square kilometres was inundated, as torrential floodwaters hit the area, when the tail end of Cyclone Less fell in the Katherine River headwaters. Standing on that railway bridge, looking down into the deep ravine to the river below, it was a scary prospect to imagine.

Blue-Faced Honeyeater

When I’m travelling, getting photographs of the things that make an impact me –for all kinds of reasons – is one of my key goals. Not only does it help retain memories, photos also act as visual prompts for my writing and painting. So, after travelling over 4,100km by the time we got to Katherine, and passing thousands of green ants’ nests in the roadside foliage along the way and not getting a photo of a single one, I was unreasonably excited that in Katherine I finally committed these fascinating little insect creations to film. 

Then there were the pet wallabies that we held and fed (slices of fresh sweet potato) at an Aboriginal art gallery; the Katherine Museum that still had its open signs out but was apparently closed, with an officious lady owner who was determined that we would not get in. There were walks to several other art galleries; a leisurely amble up the main street; the memorable purchase of ‘the bird dress,’ and finally, our last hurray to Katherine - dinner at the local RSL- another new Aussie experience for me that came with a giant’s serving of lamb shanks and potato mash (and a menu filled with numerous schnitzel options).

Food for thought.

The Road to Daly Waters

When I look back on the hundreds of photographs I took on a recent road trip, from Melbourne to Darwin (up the Stuart Highway), I’m impressed by the huge numbers of shots I have of blurry vegetation taken from a moving car window. It says something I think, about my determination to try and capture the essence of this vast, unending Australian outback landscape.

That was back in July – just four months ago – but still, the images of stark white tree trunks, dry creek beds, sage green saltbush, termite mounds, burnt-out roadsides and a very particular kind of solitary vastness, are stuck fast in my memory. I have painted a good number of paintings since the trip (www.bluetumb.com.au/adrienne-rewi), inspired by my lasting impressions; but words have been harder to channel. Some places have been easier to write about than others. One of those is Daly Waters.

Devil's Marbles

Devil's Marbles

My Australian friend Leanne (who lives in Christchurch, New Zealand), flew across to do this trip with me. We hired a new, crazy orange Holden Commodore and we hit the road. One of her express wishes was, that we stay at least one night in a classic Aussie pub. Daly Waters Historic Pub seemed ‘on paper,’ to fit that bill. So on Day Nine of our trip, we left Devil’s Marbles at around 8am after a dawn walk around those magnificent boulders and headed north, bound for Daly Waters, which sits 916km north of Alice Springs in the Northern Territory and 620km south of Darwin.

Daly Waters Historic Pub

 As we were to discover, calling Daly Waters a town is something of a stretch. The 2016 Census listed just 9 permanent inhabitants and essentially ‘town’ is just a fancy name for the roadhouse, which in turn, is just a fancy name for the Daly Waters Historic Pub, which was originally built as a supply point for drovers and (according to the sign), holds the longest continuous liquor licence in Northern Territory, dating back to 1893. The current building was built in the late 1920s.

I talk a lot about the vast emptiness of the outback and that is certainly a lasting impression. But in truth, these wide-open spaces are filled with a minutiae of detail. When I read back on the detailed, illustrated journal I kept throughout the trip, I read about roadside trees filled with flocks of zebra finches; fast trucks and slow camper vans; the sobering remains of crashed cars; the sad looking Brahmin cattle herds hanging around dry creek beds lined with red rocks and white gums; large mesa away in the distance, still huge despite the distance.

I recall the vast array of roadkill, struck down by passing road trains and tourist vehicles – the dehydrated cattle carcasses, kangaroo, birds of prey; and the ever-changing parade of road signs for places like Tennant Creek, Threeways Roadhouse, Banka Banka Station, Bootu Creek, Attack Creek and Churchill’s Head Rock. And I’m reminded of the weird little roadhouse settlements we passed every few hundred kilometres, which set us to wondering why anyone would want to live in such an unforgiving landscape.

 I remember Elliott, population 350, which was established during WWII as a staging camp for troops heading north. It distinguished itself in my memory for its tumbles of pink and white bougainvillea, it scattering of unkempt houses and its For Sale advertisement for a black leather couch, $500 and its “large range of tyres.” We topped up the petrol tank there – as we did at almost every roadhouse along the way – and we noted the large flock of red-tailed black cockatoo in nearby trees.

It was almost 2.30pm before we finally drove in to Daly Waters. It was 25-degrees (in mid-winter) and I was instantly captivated by the huge scarf of pink bougainvillea cascading over the pub roof and verandah. Every man and his dog seemed to be enjoying its shade as they swigged back their cool drinks and icecreams.

Forget the dusty red ‘main road’ and all the filth that comes with that, I homed straight in on the bunches of bananas hanging off the palms by the pub’s main door, the pink and white flowering frangipani, the giant jacaranda pods hanging off trees, the giant cacti and the rowdy crowds of people and apostle birds.

The pub staff were an unexpected treat – all handsome young men from foreign countries – Poland, Brazil, Germany and the like - young backpackers paying their way I guess; and the pub’s now-famous interior was packed with memorabilia and a somewhat shabby collection of women’s bras hanging off the ceiling. Apparently women have been hanging up their bras here since the 1980s. It doesn’t bear thinking about really and at no point during our stay did I feel quite frivolous enough to add to the collection.

One of the most fascinating aspects of Daly Waters for me, was the camping ground – packed to the gills with expensive camping vehicles. The Grey Nomads as they’re called here in Australia – (often but not always) retired couples who have cashed up and taken to the roads of Australia. You see them in their thousands on the outback highways during the Australian winter, which quite frankly, is the ONLY time you’d want to visit Central Australia. The temperatures here in summer (40-degrees C plus), make the idea of travelling too appalling to even think about.

Some seem to settle in for weeks at a time. The ‘hairdresser’ for instance, worked her hair magic during the day then appeared to have a part-time job at the pub at nights, serving customers their dinners. I could think of worse ways to travel a country.

We chatted with a young couple from Melbourne, who were sitting in the cool evening air outside their elaborate camper van.

“We’ve been on the road for two weeks, so we’re only just cracking into it,” announced the man, proudly, perching his beer can on his large, black-singleted belly.

I could relate to that. We’d only been on the road for nine days and it felt like we were “just cracking into it” too.

I still feel rather fondly towards Daly Waters. There was a certain quirky ‘holiday magic’ about the place that drew me in. The mad array of people, the live country music night, the Beef’n’Barri (Barrimundi) barbecue (with salads and the schnitzels that Aussies seem to be particularly fond of), the tropical plants, the variety of bird life – and all the other things we never even got o explore in the interests of an early night and an early start for Katherine the next morning. But that’s a whole other story.