We managed to sleep long enough this morning to miss the frost thankfully, although the thermometer was still showing the current temperature as being in the single digits. Cold enough we thought, to see us donning thick wooly jumpers for our morning promenade with the dogs. It actually turned out to feel somewhat warmer than indicated, the sun streaming down, giving the morning a delicious balminess.

It was not long after our awakening that we were firing up ‘The Beast’ for the short drive into the centre of Alice Springs, where the allure of the Sunday Todd Mall Market beckoned. Avid market goers, we lapped up the atmosphere of the bustling thoroughfare, crowded with jostling shoppers all trying to get a look at the wares on offer, each side of the mall was resplendent with trestle tables, gaudy gazebos and diminutive caravans, selling all manner of craftily fashioned goods. If it was a beady trinket, a hand knitted beanie, a sparkly piece of costume jewelry you were after, it was all here. Then there was the food. From all corners of the globe, every cuisine you could imagine was being prepared in the miniscule kitchens in the tiny little caravans, right before your very eyes. The smells wafting through the mall were enough to set our tummies growling, our mouths watering.

Off To…

…Market.

We spent about an hour, wandering slowly up and down the street, taking it all in. We did try to purchase a heavy loaf of home made bread, but were out of luck, as the last loaf was sold almost right from under our noses.

On the way back to the caravan, as well as stopping at the shopping centre where an alternate loaf of leavened dough was sourced, we called in at the Araluen Cultural Centre, where there is a co-operative craft store that Bec has seen advertised on the television. Despite their promise of being open on a Sunday, we were once again stymied in our desires, as today they were most positively closed. Until later this afternoon at least that is. We will make the trip back tomorrow instead.

I then dropped Bec off at the caravan park. She had given me the afternoon to do whatever it was that I wanted. I was sure that there was an ulterior motive behind this, but who was I to complain. So, with a pocket full of cash and a leave pass from the missus, I did what any good red-blooded male would do when in Alice Springs. I went looking for a truck. And I got more than I bargained for. At the Alice Springs Transport Hall of Fame, a museum dedicated to all things trucking, where as the advert says, “Come for the day, leave with a lifetime of memories”. Well I can tell you, I left with a lifetime of memories for sure, spread across four different cameras just so there was no chance of missing a thing.

I wandered around for a couple of hours, marveling at the Kenworth Dealers Hall of Fame, where there was hulking big Kenworths from the very first Australian built rig to carry the ‘KW’ logo, the one of only 50 special edition models released just last year. As I looked on agog, an old timer wearing the patch of a museum volunteer gruffly coughed “You wanna see a nice truck son? Come with me.” I followed him towards the end of the hall, where the very first Aussie Kenworth proudly held court, me thinking ‘Yep, I know all about that one’. But no, we bypassed it, moving past, towards a small access door plastered with warning signs to ‘keep out’. The old timer slid a key into the lock and threw the door open for me. A giant warehouse opened up beyond the portal, spotlessly clean, the fresh paint still smelled wet. Lit by banks of bright overhead lights a sterile feel fell over the wide open space. It was another 50 yard walk to reach the sole denizen, a new acquisition by the museum, this truck had not even officially gone on display yet. A grimy old red and white Kenworth cab over cattle truck. With dual steers, it was the epitome of lavishness in its day, capable of hauling 41 head of cattle on the rigid tray, as well as dragging three trailers of similar bulk. While not my favourite display, I couldn’t get over the reverence with which the old-timer spoke of the rig, his pride of his position evident.

The Road Transport Hall Of Fame.

After being led back out into the main display, I continued fawning over the rigs, big and small, old and new, restored and unrestored, spread out over what felt like acres. A lifetime of memories indeed, sat right here in these yards and buildings in various states of disrepair, I was thankful for a change that Bec had decided against accompanying me. She would have been bored before we got past the entrance hall.

I finally bid farewell to the depository of trucking memorabilia, hurtling back to the caravan in ‘The Beast’, pretending like a small child that I was at the wheel of a colossal Kenworth, the four lengthy trailers of a road train trailing along behind me.

Upon my return to the caravan, I found that Bec did indeed had an ulteria motive in sending me off on my lonesome, as she had given the inside of the van a clean, from top to bottom. All of the hard surfaces had been scrubbed. The soft had been brushed (including the now sleek looking dogs). Wet laundry was strung up outside in the sun to dry, while all the dishes had been scoured and put back in their rightful places. So busy had she been that she was only just sitting down to lunch as I returned. As for me, I had to make my own sandwiches for lunch!

We whiled away the balance of the beautiful afternoon relaxing tranquilly in the annexe, the canvas shades rolled up to allow a fresh breeze to flow through the screened windows. We stayed thus until the dinner bell pealed.

It was off to the casino complex for a meal tonight, where an all you could eat buffet summoned us. With an eclectic mixture of dishes to choose from, we didn’t think too much of the offerings. That said, three plates of mains, two of desserts and 57 minutes later, movement of any sort was quickly becoming a luxury. Beads of sweat were starting to sting in my eyes as my stomach felt like it was performing cartwheels in my abdomen. Even swallowing the last mouthful of my beer was an effort I feared was going to put me over the edge and see me making a beeline for the first porcelain basin that came to my notice. I slowly shook off the sentiment, as we made our way to the gaming room.

Hardly a flamboyant gambler, I steered away from the tables and decided to plonk languorously upon a stool in front of a computerize money thief, otherwise known a pokie machine. Between us, we feed $31.00 into the slot, and started pressing buttons, calling out for a big win, an indulgent wish at the lowly stakes we were playing. Nevertheless, we sat for ½ an hour or so, finally taking back all but $1.00 of our initial ante. I’ll call that a win, because I reckon the power to run the machine for that period would have cost the casino in excess of a buck, so they didn’t come out ahead on our wagering either.

Until next time, have fun, stay safe and don’t forget to write.