In Coober Pedy waiting for Rachael

Spending the night on a bus is a bit of an ordeal. But at least no one sat next to me, which gave me room to try out a greater variety of positions that were not comfortable.

The biggest problem was the gap between my neck and the lower part of the headrest. I tried rolling up my long-sleeved shirt and putting it into the space, but the shirt wasn't large enough. My jacket was, but then I was cold. Eventually I discovered that I could use my waistpack as a pillow and lean aganst the window. In this position I could nod off for brief periods and those periods I enjoyed.

I wasn't really bothered by the discomfort, though. I was on the bus, on the move, and I liked the bus driver, Kevin, who would periodically come on the p.a. and tell us stuff in a grandfatherly, assuring manner. I knew I would sleep some, that I would sit awake and feel tired some, and that eventually the ride would come to an end. And actually the end came a little too soon, for me, 5:30 in the morning.

We pulled into the small Coober Pedy station in the dark and cold (down around thirty degrees). At first I was at a loss about what to do. I'd been planning on hanging out in the passenger lounge until light (two hours hence), but it was closed. A small shuttle bus operated by a brisk driver showed up, and he had the names of the other six or eight people who'd gotten off in the cold. I said, "I'm going to Redeka's, but I don't have a reservation...."

"No worries," he said, and gestured me towards the bus.

We all got off at Redeka's Underground Motel and Backpackers Inn. A small French woman had gotten up to check us in, and she hurried everyone along, "so you can get back to sleep and I can as well." I waited till last, and then gave her Rachael's name, since she told me she was going to book us a room. I thought I'd have to wait till the afternoon, but no, the woman gave me the key to the room, and then she waved us all away to our beds.

I tried to sleep but I still can't do so after five in the morning. But I lazed about, I'm good at that.

Mid-morning I set out to see what the town looked like. Not very impressive, I'm afraid. A few streets of red rust-colored dirt and squat buildings. According to a flyer at the information office, Coober Pedy "is situated in the erosional scarp of the Stuart Range which is generally stony and treeless. The town is surrounded by a moonscape like landscape." The combo of sandstone and hardly any rain means hardly any vegetation. Still, it had a stark, desert appeal, and there were lots of people in town, most driving high-clearance four-wheel drive vehicles packed with camping gear and looking seriously expeditionary. Coober Pedy (pronounced "pee-dy") is a jumping off point for outback adventures.

But first it was and still is a mining town. Seventy-five percent of the world's opals are mined in and around the town. The first strike was made in 1915, and they've been at it ever since. Early on, the miners burrowed not just mines but homes into the red dirt and lived in the dugouts to escape the summer heat. The underground thing is a big tourist attraction now--lots of shops and motels underground (more into the sides of small hillocks than under your feet). My room has white and orange mottled walls and ceiling and a long vent-pipe fifteen feet to the surface. There's an underground Catholic Church next door.

The townspeople are miners, rough-looking sorts, reminiscent of frontier towns in Wyoming and Alaska. The tourists are another species, as are the few Aborigines loitering about. I saw none of these aboriginal people in Melbourne, only a few in Adelaide. They look other-worldy to me, their features and color and hair like no other people I've seen. My first impression is that there is little in the way of assimilation. The name of the town is an aboriginal phrase meaning "white guy's hole in the ground."

I found the overall mood of the town pushy. The businesses were all pushing opals and tours and motel rooms--in an almost desperate way. I suppose tourists are more of a sure thing than mining. A paved road only first reached the town in 1987.

In a small dirt park I used a stand alone public toilet--an Exeloo, with an automatic door. Once inside, you push a button and the door slides shut. A pre-recorded voice announced that I had ten minutes maximum to do what needed to be done. Then a muzak version of "What the world needs now is love swet love" commenced.

I walked the length of town a couple times, wandered into a few shops though opals interest me not in the least, and returned to my room around four, the time when Rachael was scheduled to arrive. I found a note on the door: "Your mate has broken down car--will be in about 10 pm." I'd been a little nervous all day long, but I was ready to see her, and now I had to wait longer.

Later I went to Tom and Mary's Greek Taverna for dinner. I had a big lovely bowl of spaghetti, with big chunks of red pepper and mushroom and onion and celery, and I drank a glass of red wine. The restaurant was packed and loud, everyone talking at once. I reached the bottom of the bowl, finished off the bread and wine, and thought, in wonder and sudden pleasure, "I'm in fucking Australia." Wine can be so helpful.