We are driving north on the Bruce highway (it is actually called that) through central Queensland to Agnes Water, the first stop – and our base for Christmas – on a three-week trip which will then take us south to Sydney.
According to the map, to get to Agnes you have to first drive up to the town of Miriam Vale, and then turn back on yourself onto another road, one heading south to Bundaberg (home to Australia’s much-loved Bundy rum).
This seems pointless. We spot a shortcut via an unnamed track which should take us from the Bruce, cross country, directly to the Bundaberg road. It should save us time and is also exactly the kind of diversion into uncertainty that we like to take.
We turn off the highway. Instantly there are only cicadas and birds, miles of bush, grazing cattle and gum trees, and the scent of oily eucalypts and rain coming.
No signs either. The road that the map says we should take is closed. We take a look anyway.
We cross instead via a bridge, narrow and crudely built, and soon come to another floodway. This one isn’t nearly as deep or fast-flowing, but it makes us wonder what lies ahead. Nevertheless, we first walk, and then drive through it.
The third floodway comes as no surprise. It seems highly likely that once we cross this one we will be making it harder for ourselves to turn back if we are forced to. Another consideration is that we are down to less than half a tank of petrol.
As we sit and deliberate over our next move a Ute comes thundering towards us through the water. The bloke in it is wearing a smile as broad and generous as his sunhat, and in true Aussie style he stops for a yarn as if we were old pals.
He tells us that this is just one in a series of floodways and thanks to heavy rain the others are much deeper. He points out a black and white sign hammered about a metre high on a tree next to the track. “She broke a record here last Sunday,” he says, “reached a metre above that sign.” Another beaming grin and he’s off, but not before warning us not to go any further.
We turn around; head back to the highway and reach our beachside campsite in Agnes about an hour later, only just making it to a petrol station in time.
It’s quiet here; we are told that ominous weather reports have led to several cancellations by campers, but Christmas Eve breaks warm and sunny, the waves are clean and fun, and we try to ignore the news of bad weather, despite the best efforts of those around us.
D makes friends with the rangy, tanned man camped opposite us called Shaky. Shaky tells him he was on a five-year trip around Australia but then lost his licence and has been living here in Agnes for six months. When we are tucking into bananas and mango early in the morning and he is cracking open his first beer, it all starts to make sense.
A family arrives and sets up camp next to Shaky. We nickname the father Angry Dad, as he shouts a lot, in the tired and exasperated way that parents do after long journeys with teenagers.
Christmas Day: the sky is gloomy but we are in high spirits and don’t notice. We open presents, play a game of Scrabble and drink beer. As we begin to prepare our lunch, it starts to rain. Under our shelter built from a tarp and attached to the van we are dry. We pour glasses of wine.
It isn’t long before the tarp begins to leak heavily. D. goes to adjust it and in doing so water gushes over our camping chairs. The wind, which has picked up, blows more rain in. We are wet now too, time for more wine, another cuddle, I’ve got the giggles, who is cooking dinner?
We muddle through and find ourselves eating a hot and delicious meal that, as with all Christmas lunches, takes longer than you think to cook and so everyone is truly drunk by the time it is served.
Phoning home to wish our families happy Christmas is a bittersweet end to the day. My dad is sad that my youngest sister and niece haven’t been able to come home because of the snow in England; I make him laugh by telling him I am sharing the phone box with a frog.
We are due to leave the next day – Boxing Day – and pack up in the rain because it hasn’t stopped. D. drives up to the campsite reception and I jump out to return bathroom keys (pink for girls, blue for boys).
The woman behind the desk won’t take the keys from me. She asks: “And WHERE do you think you’re going?”
This is obviously some sort of trick question, so I don’t reply. She continues: “The sergeant says both roads are closed.”
“Right,” I say, realisation dawning, “the rain…” The woman bursts out laughing.
“You can check out if you like,” she says, finally taking the keys away, “and you can always come back. Why not call in at the police station for an update?”
Between us, D. and I decide that this is much ado about nothing. We head off via the supermarket, which is playing a familiar song that catches in my head, and the friendly checkout girl asks if we are having a nice day, and we reply something sarcastic about being trapped, and she laughs.
We stop at the police station, which is empty, but has the words ROAD TO BUNDABERG CLOSED and ROAD TO MIRIAM VALE CLOSED in large print on the doors.
Beginning to feel a little claustrophobic, we decide to try and leave anyway, seeing that our van is a 4WD and the whole point of having one is to drive places where other cars fear to go.
We drive out of town for about ten minutes and admittedly, the place is flooded. The golf course is under water, people’s front lawns and driveways are swimming, and then we reach Oyster Creek, the first of three floodways out of town.
And we realise that we aren’t crossing it.
We sit and watch the water get higher with every minute and stare at it rush over the road; watch the logs flying past and the mice zipping through shallower areas trying to escape drowning.
A shiny new 4WD turns up and six Swiss-German backpackers pile out, walk halfway across the flooded road, and then turn back.
We turn around and drive into town, try and find someone sensible to ask, preferably with a beard. A policeman is filling up at the petrol station and we talk to him briefly. He says the same: the roads are closed, no one is getting in, no one is getting out, and there is more rain coming.
And then he laughs too.
We drive back out of town, because there is nothing like being told you can’t leave a place to really make you want to leave a place, and because driving around is better than watching the rain and being laughed at by locals.
Because the water at Oyster Creek seems to have mysteriously receded just enough to make the yellow lines on the road visible, we drive on through. We toy with the idea that this is all a sinister plot by the locals, but are convinced further up the road when we reach the council truck putting up road blocks.
It starts to rain again, heavily, and it occurs to us that the only thing worse than being stuck in town is being stuck in between floodways on this road. So we turn around and drive back.
We head back into town, stopping to buy more tarps, and drive past a gleaming billboard of the beach at Agnes saying WELCOME TO PARADISE, when I realise the song I am humming from the supermarket is The Eagles’ Hotel California:
“You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave…”
There are other sounds too, the sound of a sluggish VW engine, and a death rattle from the exhaust. Not only are we trapped by the rain, but it seems we are about to break down too.
TBC…
oh Maite.
It is so good, albiet nerve racking, to read your blog and see how you are doing as the thought
of you and Dorian wondering around when the worst floods are around and on top of you.
I cant wait for more adventures and so so so….well written…
Not watching the news about floods as I get so nervous but do listen to radio…..
Part two coming up to put your mind – and my mother’s – at rest…M