Songs For The Deaf

The distances between towns are growing and the towns themselves doen't have much to offer tourists. In the past two days we've passed through places such as Karatha and Port Hedland and although the trains and ships are pretty cool, it's not holiday material. Most of our time is spent riding the long straight highways in the blistering heat, bleak scenery whizzing past, and I'm fed up with the sameness of it all. However today things are looking up because we're going to a resort at 80 Mile Beach.

80 Mile Beach is literally off the beaten track; there's a dirt road, covered in obligatory sandy patches, that leads from the highway to the coast. It takes me ages to complete the distance, sweltering the whole time inside my black jacket and helmet. I'm overjoyed when I reach the resort, my bike still scratch-free, so I overlook the fact that the "resort" is a second rate caravan park. It's an oasis in the desert insofar as I'm concerned.

The sun is setting when I arrive so it's a dash to the beach to watch the sunset over the ocean. The beach is huge and spaced every 20 metres are motionless fishermen, standing on the shore, fishing rods in hand. For some reason they remind me of the Easter Island statues. The sun disappears beneath the horizon and the sky glows a fiery red. As if on cue the fishermen all pack up their gear and shuffle silently back to the caravan park. What a bizarre hobby!

The gray nomads have organised night time entertainment for themselves. They have a mixing deck, speakers, mikes, and they're singing songs from their youth, apparently from the Baroque period. Not only do I not recognise the songs, the singing is awful; off-key and distorted badly by the tone deaf lady operating the mixing deck. I hide inside my cabin, earplugs inserted, pillow over my head, and try to get some sleep.