Truckin' Time

Setting out from Carnarvon, I discovered that my walkie talkies are compatible with CB radio. It started off as a sensible communication system between our two vehicles but I soon discovered my inner truckie and quickly grasped the knack of efficient roadway comms:

A:    Breaker breaker Bulldog this heyere's Sizzlin' Senorita we are Hotel Oscar Tango coming up y'all's back passage on   the flyby, ETA thirty seconds you copy?

 I:     What's that babe?

A:    Yeah roger wilco Bulldog that's a big ten four we are rollin' fer gold, jest pullin' over to read the bible, over.

I:      Eh? Something something kilometres mumble.

A:    Yo no comprende there Bulldog you all wanna repeatamundo that one hombre?

I:      Babe I said flargle blargh zzzt something eh?

A:    What?

We passed a road crew who were listening in & having fits of laughter & got lots of honks from some of the trucks passing by. Ian was just rolling his eyes as I radioed in with various handles like "Red Hot Mama" and came up with ridiculous code words for stopping for toilet breaks ("reading the bible", "blowing the horn" etc, really mature).

This was fun for about fifteen minutes and then the Nullarbor-like tedium of the endless dirt track set in. First stop: Gascoyne Junction ("Where No One Knows Why It's Here"). At two am we discovered that we have brought most of the mice from the caravan park with us and leaped out of bed screaming WHAT WAS THAT then went back to sleep.

Honey proudly buries a bone in the outback - why?

Road tedium relieved by the excitement of a fleeing cow