The morning was noticeably warm, and for the first time it was not necessary to relight last night’s fire. We did anyway, to boil water for coffee.
It wasn’t long before the flies found us. They’re like heat seeking missiles, and when they’re locked on there’s no escape. You can swat and swat and swat, but by the time your arm is back by your side, the fly too is back, in the corner of your eye for the moisture, tickling a nostril causing you to snort and jerk like a bull, enough to drive you mad.
The French guys inspected their car out of habit and lucky they did because they’d almost blown a tyre yesterday and hadn’t noticed in the dark.
So they got to the business of changing it before they even had breakfast, and we all crowded around beneath the rapidly warming sun as they cranked up the jack and lifted the car in the sand, with Julien sliding underneath to release the spare and swearing profusely:
And all the while the flies buzzing in their ears.
We gave them the lion’s share of the coffee and hit the road hot and hungry. The land is covered with dried grass and black-stemmed scrub; a true tinderbox just waiting for it.
At Erldunda we stopped at the roadhouse there, and waited for the convoy to coagulate. The boys went in and filled their pockets and came out looking sly and sheepish. Then, due west along highway 108.
The signpost says:
ULURU (AYERS ROCKS): 264
There was a gentle sense of anticipation; we are going to the spiritual heart of this place. I have heard tales. I do not know what to expect. It seems a peculiarly powerful place. Even those who go there without spiritual awareness come away changed. They say the rock speaks to people.
Beside the road are barefoot Aborigines, just walking, walking, with one stark white woman carrying a dark child.
In response to Daily Prompt: Crank.