by Pat Messenger
At the age of twenty seven I drove a distance of 1500 kilometres in a beaten up car with limited fuel.
“How could you consider that?’ I hear you ask”. Fair enough. I would ask the same question.
No windscreen or rear window. Driver’s door, so badly damaged that it wouldn’t open. No airconditioning. Limited water and no food at all. No first aid kit, or spare fan belt or battery.
I was leaving my friends, neighbours, work-mates and I thought I never wanted to return. My mind kept going over the events of the previous week; the build-up and the aftermath. Why didn’t I leave earlier?
The December heat was stifling, very heavy humidity, and flies everywhere . There was a Police road-block ahead. I slowed up and noticed there were people with guns. There had been a rumour that an outbreak of typhoid was imminent and police had started shooting hundreds of dogs as a preventative measure. The first question was “Has your dog been with you at all times?” I answered “Yes”. I was allowed to continue.
The first night on the road I was listening to the radio and I heard Colin, the husband of my work-mate Eileen, being interviewed by an insensitive journalist, who asked “What happened to your wife?” He said his wife died during the cyclone. The last words I spoke to her was about our bulk order of prawns we were sharing. She had children and had been asked to collect them early from school on Christmas Eve. “Have a good break and don’t forget to pick up your prawns” I said.
Dear, sweet Eileen. That was how I found out what had happened to her.
When will this nightmare ever end?
But it wasn’t a dream; it was a true story. My husband Neil, was an Air Traffic Controller and I was an Employment Officer working for the Commonwealth Employment Service in Darwin. Four days after Cyclone Tracy had devastated the city we were given a tank of fuel and told to follow the convoy out of Darwin and go South to either Adelaide or to the East Coast. We had to report in to the authorities at least once a day. We had been unable to make any phonecalls to loved ones; just pack our two almost new cars with necessities, and look after our dog and ourselves. Where were our best friends that we knew from Cricket and baseball. And my hockey team, and work collegues. Were they injured or worse. We had heard so many stories of survival at the Marrara Hotel where we had chosen to go. A good choice (it turned out) because they were paid by the government to feed their patrons, which was a win-win, because there was no electricity and the food would have rotted. They had bottled gas and prepared great meals.
When we finally got to Alice Springs, we were stopped at the edge of town and told we would be billeted and everything had been arranged. The lady told me to follow the car in front; I told her “Yes, that’s my husband”, but she didn’t hear me. I started crying and couldn’t stop. I couldn’t believe my ears. I had no idea the country would rally like this.
On the three days driving that it took to travel from Darwin to the Centre, our only stops were for fuel and the main towns for sandwiches. All I could remember were thunderstorms that were so severe that I couldly hardly see a metre in front of me, and was terrified I would crash into the back of my husband’s car. Closer to the Alice, visibility was minimal because of the dust in my eyes. No front windscreen.
Most of the time my throat was dry from lack of water and tight, because of the fear I felt every time I had to slow down and move over onto the gravel for the barrage of over-sized vehicles (driving North with loaders, huge spare tyres, fuel and water) to commence reconstruction.
Without a doubt, that was the worst driving experience of my life, especially the last few kilometres of the journey. My whole body had turned to jelly; to this day I cannot remember driving from that checkpoint to the highschool. My mind was re-living the relentless sound of the wind and screech of iron sheeting being torn off hundreds of houses. I made it. I was totally exhausted but I was still alive.