Here We Go Again - Chapter 52 - Barkley Road House to Banka Banka Station

Apparently the internet works now and again during the night. There are messages on our phones and the messages are all about our daughter. Being a leader in science communication she had been entered into a competition where the winner was to have a Snowy Mountains tunnelling machine named in their honour.

The criteria for entry was to be female, a scientist and win a vote. Our daughter won the vote. It didn’t hurt she was first on the list of options, nor that her family enlisted lots of votes in a concerted Facebook push. But win she did, polling more votes than the other potential options in their entirety. 

Now when people suggest she is boring she can agree, pointing them in the direction of the machine immortalising her name, doing its job boring through the Snowy Mountains. We call he and she is suitable chuffed with the honour.

.

Its early, early enough to catch the sunrise. The sun rises over the yards and highway. Mumma Nature puts on a show and I collect the spectacular with a set of photos. Playing with the lighting options I lighten and darken the panorama She is presenting. Oranges drained towards purple for some time until the sun passes over the line where the white light of the day becomes dominant.

Leftovers are the order of the day and I have a lovely piece of steak, left in the fridge after a previous barbecue but not consumed, now sizzled on the stove creating aromas, making the mouth water even before it is on the plate ready to be eaten. Sitting at the table in the van, looking out at the rest of the menagerie of vans I start to hear the awakening of the bush.

Being in a far corner of the park, we are not far from the area where those travelling with stock (read here horses) are allowed to camp. The horses are rugged and wandering free inside a large yard with their float parked alongside. 

We have been following the country show circuit for some time now. These campers are on their way to the next one.

The scream of a Whistling Kite breaks the bush quiet as does the noise of a flock of birds, congregating together for safety, dashing and darting about in unison, the budgerigars drink from the dam. Blobs of synchronised movement, the birds move close, away, then back for many of their number to drink. There are several flocks in view. They appear and disappear right in front of you as they meander across the sky, then seeking out the water and away again.

They disappear very quickly when the Whistling Kite changes its perch to the fence housing the dam. Their skittish nature of the birds keeping them safe from the predator, showing there is safety in numbers.

Like the budgerigars, the park empties quickly as campers head off into the bush looking for the next day of their adventure. We are not in a hurry today – we have only a short distance to travel. 

Robyn manages a short burst of internet. She finds her emails revealing more work presented to her while we wend our way around the country. I am not so lucky and I vent my frustration at the inability to check on any of the communications. Again the marketed Wifi is non evident as far as I am concerned.  

Out on the road and for the first time there is a sameness to the entire day on the road. The monotony of the road is one that can see you counting down the kilometres in lots of 10 as the signposts, they are the only apparent changes of note, drag you towards your destination.

Three Ways gives us a break. We fill up and take a moment to refresh ourselves. Here there is a mural of note. A Road Train painted on a wall, two dimensional until the bull bar of the prime mover protrudes off the wall. There have been renovations here since we visited in 2019. At the mural end of the truck stop there is a sitting area. The other end where once a museum of sorts housed a couple of old cars, there is now an extension of the shop.

But we cannot stay here all day. We have a remaining hop to our destination.

We rejoin the highway, having turned right from our morning trek. The landscape changes immediately and there is an expectation of it bringing us to the end of the day’s drive.

Banka Banka Station is an interesting concept of giving back to the Original Occupiers of this land. We pull into the station and are met by the attendant. Being in the lead I am directed to the head of the queue and stopped where I can lower the window and talk to him.

I get the full story of the transfer of the operations to the “Original Owners”. He talks fo four families and how rather than leaving them to their own devices a management team headed by a man named Salty is overseeing the transition.

If something needs to be spent, rather than simply giving the families the money, they arrange for the work to be done and make the payment on their behalf.  My story teller has been here for in excess of ten years and has as much Indigenous blood coursing through his veins as I do. This place is his life, and as we are to find out during our stay here, the passion extends far beyond any employer/employee relationship.

There is a minor stuff up with the parking which is handled with a jovial nature by my new friend who, being misled, has parked us in an unpowered site. He rectifies his error and we are settled into suitable sites worthy of our booking. Phone reception and internet are not marketed here and there is no expectation differing from that. Like the Joker from The Dark Knight (2008 Warner) correctly acknowledges, as long as there’s a plan, no matter how awful it might seem, it is much easier and less frustrating when the lines of expectation are met.

While waiting to be parked, I hear radio conversations of passersby. They are less than understanding as to the need to stop here. Experience as opposed to being lost again. The derogatory nature of the conversation annoys me, but I refrain from giving them a piece of my  mind, and in any event they fade out of range very quickly.

Banka Banka Station, just the name conjures mystique. 

We set up and open all the windows to allow the movement of the air through the van. Silver Leader and Rose in contrast, lock their van up, close all the windows and turn on the air conditioning up high. 

Setup completed, its time for investigation of what is here. The park is nestled beneath an escarpment, not a particularly tall one, but one which allows a perch to view the landscape. The viewing area is a short walk from the congregation of vans. As you head up the land presents itself, inviting pictures to be taken.

At the top you expect to see a similar view “over the hill” but there is minor disappointment, because to the west you are on the same level as the rest of the bush. The suggestion is this vantage point is one where sunset shots can be taken worthy of the walk. I suspect the shots from the lower area of the car park might be even better.

The movement of the breeze, albeit nothing more than a zephyr, is enough to remove the radiant heat while I pursue the trek to the top of the escarpment. Out of the breeze though is a much different matter with the sun beating me into submission very quickly and returning me to the van.

Walking back into the park proper, the others have decided its time for adventure. Having been to the top already, a return does not interest me. Rose suggests a walk to the water hole. That sounds like a plan.

Still wearing thongs, and without a water bottle, I join them, heading in the direction of the hole. We reach a gate. The sign suggests its a 4.5 kilometre round trip. The track is more like a road carved through the wilderness making the decision to continue easy. But Rose its 4.5 kilometres – are you sure you are up for this, asks Silver Leader? Not to be denied she heads off in defiance.

The early part of the track the girls stride ahead. Quickly into view comes a couple of “retired” vehicles. They are in various states of rusting away but are clearly identifiable as what might have been termed “classics”.

We pass other walkers and enquire of the effort/reward computation. They offer advice as to ensuring we get the fullest experience. The road part of the track ends where busses appear to turn around still having something like 400 metres to go on a less than road like track but still anm easy walk a little up the escarpment.

We walk into a billabong. Towering cliff like gouges, dam the stagnant water here of the billabong. In the wet season the levels of water through here are mind boggling given the closeness to the edge of the escarpment. The picturesqueness of our present locale would simply be a wash of torrents looking to find a level where gravity stops its movement. 

There are fish in the water – gudgeons. Small fish spending their lives in a world of contrast. Now they are wandering around an ever shrinking lake, waiting for replenishment, either by a storm or a return of the wet season.

We walk back. I see a termite mound with a memorial to Forbsy. Midway up the mound is a rock, apparently either stacked by a Forbsy mentored passerby or having simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It makes for an interesting photo.

The walk back seems to take much less time than the push to the water hole. Its amazing how this seems to occur.

On our return, we see many more campers have arrived, streaming into the park.

Silver Leader breaks out the barbeque for dinner cooking and our own “Manu” takes to his culinary duties. 

While dinner is cooked a tour bus enters the compound and disappears in the direction of the water hole. The bus is full and we wonder where they are going to fit them all. Silver Leader remembers there is a specific area for them with their own kitchen and quarters away from the main area.

There is music happening on the other side of a strange building. 

This building has signs at every access point urging people to duck. The eaves are at about 1.5 metres, low enough to catch even the shortest person. There is an open area behind it where a huge fire pit and a temporary stage is set up and a singer is performing. The songs are very country in nature and those here are enjoying his efforts.

The low roofed building houses what you could only term a hole in the wall bar. With enough room for a fridge, a barman and one customer, it serves its purpose. Given the area of the performer is designated “licensed”, drinks need to be purchased from here if you are wanting to enjoy an alcoholic beverage with your music. They sell a selection of Banka Banka wine here as well as the “normal” beverages one might suggest.

The rest of the building must be storage in nature, but in its heyday I suspect it was the camp kitchen or cool room. The mudbrick walls are the give away.

We settle into the entertainment. I liken the performance to something my oldest son might provide to his audience, playing to their requests, losing lines from time to time but having the audience totally enthralled in the entertainment. 

A family cooks damper in the fire. My attendant friend keeps the fire going and rolls coals over the camp ovens. Its now 9.00pm, does this “energiser bunny” ever stop? Once cooked they offer pieces of the food to everyone at the show. Not something the management encourage, we are to find out but, what they dont know wont hurt them will it?

The performance done, we congregate around the fire for a while. The performer joins us. He is an older gent, who outside the comfort zone of the stage struggles to string words together. His nerves wane a little and he talks more freely. He is upset at his performance errors. Many times in his view he forgot or improvised lines. I suggest to him that is poetic licence and the effect on the audience was minimal. But like the perfectionist he obviously is, it makes him no more comfortable in his performance.

Its late and we have travels to undertake tomorrow so we head back to the van and bed.