Flying Solo

Well, I made it to Perth. Sadly, Gigi, our 1983 Mitsubishi L300 van with the cracked head, did not.

It can only be by divine providence that we made it 2500 km across the Nullarbor desert only to break down in Esperance - the first "city" (pop. 13,000) we came to. Our intention was to wake up early on Saturday morning and drive 450 km to Albany, but when we checked the oil and water it was obvious that Gigi had finally shit the bed. I'll never forget the last time I saw the luminescent green liquid shooting out of her radiator - it was graceful, pathetic and heartwrenchingly final.

There was simply nothing to discuss. We all knew that repairing the crack in the head would have cost more than Michael and Laetitia had paid for the van in the first place. With heavy hearts we recruited the help of a friendly Australian and towed Gigi to a wrecker who forked over a measly $275 for our not-so-trusty steed. That night we drank more than a few drinks to her memory, and the next morning I caught a bus to Perth.

It's almost impossibly anti-climactic to cross a continent with two good friends only to arrive at our final destination alone. We sat three across the front seat all the way across the desert talking about how we were absolutely positive Gigi was going to make it. However, as George W. Bush has proven time and time again - it is possible to be both certain and wrong.

It's not the first time I've been alone in a city and most likely it won't be the last, but this time my sense of solitude is especially acute because of the long, hot road I've come by. I miss my desert posse, I miss my family, and I miss my wife, but I've come this far and I'll be damned if I'm going to miss Perth.

So I'm off. A full report is sure to follow.

Posted by flow Frazao on February 5, 2005 at 08:43 PM in Australia | Permalink