SomethingSomethingSomethingDarkSide

The sun was an unwelcome addition to our lives. The previous night had seen the last teams arrive in time for an early breakfast rather than a late dinner, but incredibly 27 was still intact. Rebel Base had received an alternator from a completely incompatible vehicle, persuaded by an angle grinder to fit. They had even rigged up a single working headlight. Life was rosy. The Mini, team BMC, had fared less well on the last part of the Gibb River road, adding a cracked windscreen to their existing engine problems, which meant that the remnants of 27 had been heading at a steady 85 kilometres per hour all of yesterday. This was due to piston failure: the Mini was now running on three cylinders, a pop rivet patching up the hole in the cylinder they had picked up due to burning it out.

The American Marines have a credo that they adopted from the Shitbox Rally: never leave a man behind. We made the long procession north through Katherine to Darwin all together at a stately pace, though still faster than Braking Bad, an ancient VW that was only able at this stage to manage 80. Vintage cars attempted to pass each other while the Northern Territorians in their Hiluxes roared past in the far outside lane, used to the 130 speed limit. As in 2011 on the same route we missed the Stuart Highway turnoff into Darwin, but this time experience prevailed and we were able to form up in close convoy on the alternate route towards the main drag through Darwin city centre, horns honking. In a startling break with tradition, we rolled across the finish line before sunset, parked the car and then headed into the hotel bar for the first proper cold beer since Broome. As a baromter of our mental state at that point, I’ll just say that it was Castlemaine XXXX and it tasted like nectar from the gods themselves.

Hyped, we checked in, grabbed a quick shower and headed back out for more food and drink. After the shower, I was suddenly my usual pale complexion, all the orange fake tan of two days of Kimberley dust washed down the drain, hair no longer sticking up as if I had received an electric shock. Franzl fared better in the hair department, but that was due to general sparseness. A good group gathered for dinner, cracking jokes and retelling tales, but one by one falling quiet as the expenditure of the last week caught up with them. We were back at the hotel by 10.30pm.

Next day, we headed out to the Showgrounds for the car sale. In 2011, it had been a challenge to offload a hundred shitboxes into the local market, and this time there were two hundred and fifty. Learning from previous experience I parked Bruce up at the front to make sure there would still be some interest when his number was called. In the end, we got $100 for him, which was better that the Camry in 2011 that went for $60 – and that included a brand new jerry can and $30 of fuel. Franzl, however, was not to be put off and registered himself as a bidder. In a dazzling display of auctioning prowess mixed with bloody mindedness and seasoned with a pinch of mid life crisis, he entered into the bidding for the Land Rover that Alicinda Outback Safari were driving in (and usually at the back of) team 27, and clocked a Shitbox Rally record of $4280 when he secured it. The plan quickly fell into place: Troy from IT Crowd, a 27 team mate who is from Perth, would drive it back to home over the course of a week while we flew back.

So, Shitbox Rally 2014 is finally over. Franzl and I have covered the longest course in Shitbox Rally history, sharing a confined space from sun-up to sundown for seven days without me once having to resort to the tire iron and the spade in the middle of the desert. It’s the kind of event that lets you take a good look at your life and where you should be heading. For Franzl, the proud new owner of a Land Rover Discovery on the cusp of his fortieth birthday, that’s obviously towards the life of the landed gentry. I just hope that if he takes it on Shitbox 2015 he has an accompanying shitbox for his butler….

Mount Barnett to Victoria River roadhouse was always going to be a mammoth day. We were facing over seven hundred kilometres, five hundred of which were on dirt road, plus thirteen river crossings of unknown quality. It was the day that we drove all this way to do. There was a plan to separate the rally into three groups of eight buddy groups (or about eighty cars), with their own support and medical vehicles. However, as the saying goes, no battle plan survives contact with the enemy.

We set out in good order, the first wet river crossing was not a problem even though quite deep and rocky. We proceeded from crossing to crossing through the ever-present dust until arriving at a larger river, some thirty metres across. Support 16, our scout, decided on common sense being more useful than the battle plan and began sending shitboxes ahead, so we ended up in the lead for group three with the mandate to wait at the next big river crossing. This sparked some interesting debate within the car, as to what a major river crossing looked like. We hurtled through inch deep river beds for perhaps another couple of hundred kilometres looking for the big crossing. Rounding a bend on one of the long rises we finally understood what he meant.

There is a place, about eighty kilometres from where the Gibb River Road transitions back to sealed bitumen, where you realise why you’re on the rally. We crested the rise to look out across a twenty-kilometre-wide valley through which passes the mighty Pentecost River, silver in the sun, snaking in wide loops northwards towards the Timor Sea. It is buttressed on the opposite bank by the collossal red sandstone cliffs of the Coburn Ranges, stretching in a line as far as the eye can see in both directions. In the afternoon light, it was such an awesome sight that we actually halted our onward rush for a few minutes to take photographs. Far below, a thin orange ribbon met the silver. We finally understood what Support 16 meant.

Half an hour later, we rounded a bend and drew up to the west bank of the Pentecost River crossing, looking out at a hundred metres of flowing water and in the distance, the eastern bank. Franzl had taken the previous crossings and there was a tacit agreement that one of us should cross the Pentecost and the other should drive into Darwin. At that moment, I wished I was driving into Darwin. I kept the speed low, revs high, and entered the water. The bottom was rocky, the wheels bumping over submerged obstacles, Bruce’s shocks complaining about the rough terrain. In 2011 I managed to be the one that killed the shitbox in similar circumstances by getting water into the engine, so this was a chance to set things right. Metre by metre we chugged across, slowing down as the car got bogged. A flick on the accelerator and we moved forwards again, suddenly climbing into shallower waters on the other bank and out. Sphincter unclenched, I drove us up onto the dry, Bruce purring. Clearly our 1990 Corrolla that had spend 25 years only going to the shop and back had delusions of Land Rover. But without the cup holders.

We caught up with Rebel Base there, part of our buddy group that had gone on ahead due to not actually having headlights; this was considered to be a problem for night driving. We spent three quarters of an hour filming the shitboxes coming over the river, waiting for our group, but it became clear that they were separated. Given Rebel Base’s problems, we decided to form up a mini-peleton and head towards base while there was still light.

We swept around the foot of the Coburn Ranges towards El Questro. At that turnoff, the road unexpectedly shifted back to bitumen, no doubt to spare the discomfort of the visitors to the El Questro outback resort. We still had three hours to go, and the sun was dropping so we didn’t argue… we picked up the pace to Kununurra and the first fuel stop since Mount Barnett.

Leaving the dirt, we were both a little sad at the end of the challenge, but also grateful since we still had three hours to go to the nightly stop. Without the need to concentrate so keenly, the bullshit once again began to flow and we kicked back into the same easy rhythm that got us to Broome. This lasted as far as the dam at Kununurra. Rebel Base put a call out that they were losing power, and sure enough they died right in the middle of the one lane road over the dam. Another shitbox behind them shunted the car over to the other side, where we hooked up our tow line to bring them into the service station a few kilometres ahead, the reversal of fortune from the previous day not lost on us….

We set to on the Rebel Base’s engine like pros, for about five minutes, until we realised that none of the experience we gained at Mount Barnett was applicable. In the end, with the aid of Support 6 (who frankly had a lot more going on), we all came to the conclusion that it was an electrical problem. In all probability, the Pentecost had extracted its passage toll on their alternator, and they were now bleeding battery charge. As on the previous night, the spirit of shitbox presented a unique solution: their battery was dead, but our battery was fully charged and out alternator still worked because… well… Toyotas are invulnerable. We hatched a plan to switch batteries and run until they ran out of juice again, then swap. Unfortunately, this meant we needed a third car that could provide a battery jumpstart if the worst came to the worst. Our team, 27, were nowhere on the airwaves which suggested they were well behind us with their own problems (it turned out that Team BMC running the Mini had their own issues and the remainder of the buddy group were sticking with them to make sure they made it). We were also not going to leave a man behind, even if it meant crawling into base in the wee small hours of the morning, so decided to head out on the road.

Daffodils from team 24 offered to be our third car, which meant that we inherited the whole of team 24 for the trip back. As mentioned previously the Rebel Base had no headlights, and now no means of charging their battery and keeping the engine going. Valiant Effort from 24 took the lead in the dark with their roo bars, we followed behind lighting the way for our team member, Rebel Base tucked in just behind all but invisible on the road in the dark, and the rest of 24 followed on behind, headlights blazing. We moved at speed given the large distances still to cover, Rebel Base lighting up the hazards for oncoming traffic, the UHF radio tight with comms. Suddenly, IT specialists and lawyers were asking each other for their twenty and warning for oncoming civilians. Once again we had crossed over into the alternate universe of the other rally.

We had a sweepstake on arrival time, based on speed, set at 250km out from base. Two hours later, and with the one and a half hour time difference going into the Northern Territory from Western Australia, I lost by two minutes to Franzl. Team 24 were either side of us… go Brown Pointers! When we crossed into NT, the call went out regarding a photo opportunity. Needless to say after twelve hours in the dirt and then in the dark, it wasn’t taken up.

We arrived into Victoria River Roadhouse at about quarter to midnight, Northern Territory time. Worryingly, we were still among the first half of teams to sign in… it was clearly shaping up to be a big night. We rolled Rebel Base into triage, set up camp, got some dinner and then set up the camp chairs in triage to await developments. Andy and Melvin showed their appreciation to team 24 by cracking out the whiskey. It was most welcome at that point. The night dragged on and teams limped into base. Shitboxes on trailers were declared dead, and then the support guys headed back to pick up stragglers abandoned by the wayside. Some support teams covered another five hundred kilometres that night. We saw the remnants of team 27 finally roll in and headed to bed as the sign in board finally completed. A quick check of the time told us it was 3.15 in the morning.

We set out from Fitzroy Crossing to meet the Gibb River road, a thousand kilometre journey equivalent to driving from Scotland to the south coast of England on a single dirt road. The distance we had to cover today was 350km, the unsealed road easy going, scenery stunning… spirits were high. The buddy group was moving well, keeping in close contact on the UHF radio so that the following cars knew what to expect; after the experience getting to Marble Bar we were a pretty tight unit.

We stopped off at Tunnel Creek, a natural subterranean passage through the towering black limestone cliffs of the Devonian Reef National Park. Within, a pool of cool water for swimming that the shitboxers made good use of after two hours of hot, dry driving. We proceeded north to Windjana Gorge through fluted black rock-faces, the surface of this wide sweep of water punctuated by the heads of freshwater crocodiles. Even a sticky thirty degree heat and no air conditioning wasn’t quite enough to persuade us into the water.

From there we headed further north until we hit the Gibb River Road itself. The conditions were fairly good and we managed to keep our speed up on the gravel, though the still air meant that the dust from the road hung over us like a fine mist. We had the choice of winding the windows down and breathing in the Kimberley particle by particle, or keeping the windows up and slowing basting in our own juices. There was a Land Rover in our team; they shared our misery at one of the driver changeover stops… apparently they had to turn their air conditioning up a little in the fiery blast of the midday sun. We sympathised and applauded their fortitude… it was very spirit-of-shitbox.

The Gibb River road snaked up into the highlands of the Kimberley, through an ancient landscape of gumtrees and red sandstone. Fires burned ahead of us on the tops of the bluffs; as the road rose to meet them we found ourselves driving in shallow valleys with flames to the left and the right of the road, so close to the verge that we could feel the heat. We radioed back to the following cars and then put the foot down to get out of the area. [addendum: flying back after the rally over the the same landscape as we drove, it becomes plain that the Kimberley is always burning. From seven kilometers up, the brown land is shrouded by smoke from hundreds of fires].

We crossed seventeen rivers in one day, though most of them were dry or barely a puddle now the wet season had passed. The experience from the 2011 rally seemed destined to be wasted – here we were with our worldly possessions sealed up in dry bags and bin liners to keep them dry, tarpaulin over the bonnet and grille, and the Corolla air intake modified by ingenuity and duct tape to point backwards and high rather than sitting low, directly behind the headlight. There were a couple of crossings where we plunged into foot-deep water, but the Corrolla (unlike the mighty Camry in 2011) was unfazed and just kept chugging through the brown water. The crocs dined poorly that day.

The sun lowered in the sky and dusk approached; as before approaching Marble Bar, the visibility deteriorated. With the onset of night, the Gibb River road transformed from an unforgiving landscape of dry valleys punctuated by mighty Boab trees and blood red sandstone escarpments; as the sun set these blended into a yellow fog and finally into a grey netherworld of dust, sharp rocks and car tail lights. We crawled along, buddy groups unraveling as we put distance between cars to let the dust settle and lost radio contact with members ahead and behind. In the dark, twenty kilometres from home, Bruce finally decided he had had enough; we began to lose power and crawled to a halt by the side of the road, alone.

Standing on the roadside, bonnet up, dim figures in the dusty dark, we began to go through the causes: air filter clogged up by red dust? Electrical problem? Fuel intake? And suddenly we were in the other rally, the parallel universe that runs alongside the buddy group chatter and the silly driving games. Out of nowhere in the dark, two cars stopped for us and jumped in under the bonnet, theorising possible causes, eliminating the parts that might be going wrong. These were garage mechanics going bush two thousand kilometers from home, elbow-deep in red dirt trying to get a shitbox back on the road, and the only reason that the Shitbox Rally is really possible at all. In the end, Support 14 hooked us up and towed us the last few kilometres back to Mount Barnett and into triage.

At the Mount Barnett roadhouse, dozens of dead and dying shitboxes were parked around the bright lights of the triage area like patients in the ER, guys with red eyes and black hands working at speed on all types of cars, from Fords to Corollas to Rovers spanning three decades. We were guided to start isolating the causes and worked as best we could, dreading the worst. In the end, it was a $3 fuel filter choked with crap stirred from the bottom of the tank by three hundred kilometres of dips and corrugations. We were lucky. Other boxes had gearbox problems, even shattered axles, the kind of damage that would normally result in a sad shake of the head and a trip to the wreckers yard back in the real world. At Mount Barnett, half a thousand kilometres from the nearest sealed road, some shitboxes gave their lives so that others may live. The Barina with the shattered axle inherited one from a Festiva (though those parts don’t actually fit without angle grinders and sheer bloody-mindedness); we got a fuel filter from god-knows-where; and one by one lost causes were brought back to life. An engine roaring invoked the kind of cheers normally reserved for Grand Final goals. In the final reckoning the next day, we pulled out of Mount Barnett leaving only a single shitbox (the Festiva) behind, hollowed out, its vital pieces now integral parts in Holdens, Commodores, Barinas, Volvos. All in all, it could be considered an honourable death.