LITMIR.BIZ

      Bidding farewell to Uncle Pete, I point Percy, not at the porcelain but north with the familiar fluttering of butterflies the beginning of any trip brings. It’s hard to keep the grin off my face as I head the over the ‘coat hanger’, the Sydney Harbour Bridge in commuter traffic. Riding a motorcycle is when I feel most alive. You can be Don Quixote tilting at windmills, Clint Eastwood, in High Plains Drifter, Marlon Brando in The Wild Ones or Peter Fonda in Easy Rider. Take your pick.

      Before construction was completed in 1932, horse-drawn carts, people and cars crossed the harbour by ferry which connected Dawes Point on the south side to Blues Point, the headland to the west of Luna Park.

      The Aussie flag, so similar to the Kiwi one, flutters in the breeze. There is currently a political fight brewing over the suggestion that the Aboriginal flag have a permanent presence on the bridge, rather than its current 15 days per annum. Cheree Toka, a young Kamilaroi woman has attracted over 100,000 signatures with her online campaign. She, and many others reckon that we should all be proud of 60,000 odd years of indigenous history and flying the flag alongside the national and NSW state flags would be an appropriate expression of that pride. Personally, I’d love to see the red, yellow and black flag more often.

      It doesn’t take long to eat up some miles on the Newcastle Freeway, followed by the fast Pacific Highway where I sing Frank Sinatra songs (Moon River being my best performance) at the top of my lungs, as my single-cylinder engine drones on. My venerable Kawasaki 649cc motorcycle, like me is old-school and not very complex. Since its introduction in 1987 it’s basically remained unchanged, again, just like me (“yeah, right!” I can hear my wife laugh!) There are plenty of things that it’s not. It’s not the fastest away from the lights or the prettiest. It’s not the most expensive and probably not the most comfortable. What it is, is robust, and unpretentious, lacking the modern gizmos, like traction control, adjustable riding modes, ABS brakes, and fuel injection to name the most basic things that manufacturers seem to think everyone wants. Its massive fuel tank means that it won’t splutter to a halt before the next roadhouse or town. And with its 21inch front wheel, high ground clearance and bash plate, it’s designed to handle rough roads when the tarmac ends, as I feel sure it will, at some stage on my journey. Legendary for its rugged versatility, the big single has a functional beauty that many motorcyclists fail to appreciate. As one advertisement put it, the KLR is, “Not good at anything but good at everything.”

      At Kempsey’s Information Centre a helpful volunteer directs me further up the road to the arty little town of Bellingen in the growing dusk. I find the YHA Hostel and grab the last bunk in a four-man dorm, praying there are no snorers, as I’m a light sleeper and they have been the bane of my travelling life. As I book in, I produce my gold YHA life membership card with a flourish. “That’s worthless now mate,” the warden says dismissively, “you automatically get membership these days when you book a bed.”

      It’s Trivia Night at the Federal Hotel and they’re doing a brisk trade as I settle the dust with a pint of Coopers. Before leaving in the chilly morning I chat with an English travel-guide writer and his Australian, yoga-instructor wife as they eat their muesli. Their cute seven-year-old son wants to teach me origami, but I insist I’m not patient enough. The father is reading about Donald Trump’s meeting with Putin in Helsinki on his phone. “Says here,” he laughs, “that Trump, ‘projecting nothing but weakness, rolled over and invited Putin to tickle him.’”

      It’s cold leaving Bellengin and I switch my heated handlebar grips on. “Pussy” I can hear you say but I regard it as a Health and Safety issue. The Pacific Highway is more interesting now as it takes me through towns, rather than passing them by. At Coffs Harbour I ride down to the jetty to see the fishing boats and watch a pelican glide across the water, its pouch full of fish.

      As I travel up the coast towards Queensland, a record dry spell is causing eastern Australia’s worst drought in a century. In parts of inland New South Wales, livestock are starving, as a dry winter and high temperatures have severely depleted grazing. Australia is not alone. Wildfires are ravaging Greece and even Sweden has asked for international assistance to help tackle an epidemic of wild fires. And to think, there are still Climate Change sceptics!

      Past the Yuraygir National Park, largest coastal park in the state and through the Bom Bom State Forest, the air is thick with a blue smoky haze from recent bush fires. Just past Grafton in the tiny town of Ulmarra it’s time for another coffee, this one not so good – too weak and only luke warm. I drink it nonetheless at a picnic table on the banks of the wide and tranquil River Clarence. “This used to be a famous river port town,” an old timer with a huge nicotine-stained, white beard tells me when he sees me writing. His fox terrier pisses up my table leg as if to emphasise he master’s words.

      Just outside Brisbane I plug in my GPS and punch in my mate Foz’s address. Over my engine noise and traffic, I struggle to follow the well-modulated tones of the woman giving me directions. It’s still an ordeal, jousting with manic rush-hour traffic intent on getting back to hearth and home, but it would have been a very frustrating exercise without it. Foz (aka Paul Fozzard) went to University with my wife in London back in the 80’s and like many friends, we haven’t seen as much of him recently as we’d have liked. It’s great to catch up with him, his Kiwi wife Sharon and three boisterous school-age boys, one of whom has vacated his bedroom for me. Shortly after moving to Sydney in 1989, Foz came and stayed with us in Erskineville and we reminisce on some hilarious times. I was laying bricks for a company in the eastern suburbs and got Foz a start as a brickie’s labourer on the same site. It was boom time and I remember the look of amazement on Foz’s face when he opened his first wage packet. “I think they’ve overpaid me George” he said!

      Sad as it is to leave the Fozard’s, I’m soon back in my ‘happy place’, in Percy’s saddle, accelerating up the Bruce Highway on a sunny morning, despite the heavy traffic and blustery wind doing its best to bring my mood down. I’m briefly tempted to turn right and visit Noosa Heads, a spot I’d first visited and had a great time camping at in 1980 but know full well it will lead to disappointment as today it’s full of high-rises, expensive boutiques and fancy restaurants where tourists sip their over-priced chardonnay and flaunt their wealth. Chip on my shoulder? Who, me?

      After riding around Gympie in a vain attempt to find a coffee shop I finally fetch up at a café in tiny Tiaro which is doing a roaring trade. I’m enjoying my coffee, eating my egg sandwich and reading my James Burke novel at a table to myself, when an elderly couple arrive looking for a seat. “You can sit here,” I offer. They turn out to be real characters with a hint of mischief in their eyes. “Norman Wurst,” the man introduces himself, “and I’m a proper sausage!” His wife Joy is obviously used to this routine. “This gentleman said I could sit on his lap dear,” he says to her and winks at me. They both smile and settle in their seats. As they eat their barramundi and chips, they tell me their story.

      Now retired and in his late 80’s, Norman spent four years in Alice Springs and seven in Papunya in the Northern Territory, teaching Aboriginals how to be pastors on behalf of the Lutheran Church. “You could say they got the best of the Wurst,” says Norman and winks again. “Papunya is an Aboriginal community about 240 kilometres west of Alice. Literally in the middle of nowhere,” offers Joy, “they’re mainly Luritja and Pintupi people who live there.”

      While Norman was spreading the word, Joy worked in the thriving art scene in Papunya. “I worked at the Papunya Tjupi Aboriginal Arts organisation where about 100 local artists paint,” she tells me. “Have you heard of Doris Bush Nungarrayi?” she asks. I shake my head. “How about Albert Namatjira?” asks Norman with a mouthful of chips. I

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