No Worries

Although I`d gone all the way to Australia, the work would still see me spending most days in an office. I had to be there to meet people and sort out a few issues but the fact was, just for a while, I simply wanted to get on the road and look at some trucks. It was all well and good talking about them, theorising over this and that - drawings on the white board, graphs on the computer - but outside it was sunny, very sunny, and the sky was clear and bright, and it was warm. And when it’s like that the paint glows and the chrome shines. 

I went out.

The thing to remember about Australia is that despite being in the Southern Hemisphere, it is in fact part of Europe. The country may be gradually trying to ditch its ties with the ‘old world’, but in attitude, if not always in appearance, it’s definitely 'Anglo-Continental'. When you travel around, you feel it everywhere. Your eyes may see a country that thinks it should be part of the United States of America – with its American trucks and fast-food restaurants - but it's underneath you need to be, at the heart of Australia and Australians.

Australians have a unique blend of attitudes. There’s an almost arrogant self-assurance (German) mixed with those of: ‘if it goes wrong, well, so what’ (Italian); ‘rules are there – for everyone else’ (French); ‘we like it, so it must be right’ (British). The result is a tough but friendly nation – one that seems resigned to the fact it has little of its own culture (Belgian). The weather, though, makes it a place all on its own and the first thing I noticed was just how bright it was. “Better wear your sunnies mate”, was the friendly advice I received as I left the office. “Thanks”, I said, reaching for my sunglasses and thinking I couldn't imagine leaving any building without them firmly mounted on my nose. “No worries,” came the reply, and I headed out towards my car – and the highway.

I stopped at a marshaling yard outside the city, one where road-trains drop off or pick trailers before continuing either in or out of restricted areas for vehicle length. A driver was hitching up a semi trailer to a converter dolly. I looked at his Kenworth appreciatively, and he responded with a smile that invited some questions. “Do truckers prefer American rigs here?” I said, testing the water. “Truckies, mate”, he said, and then, “Most do”. “Where are you headed”, I asked. “Out into the Communities”, he said and then paused, seeing my look of confusion. “Five days in the bush, to the Aborigine lands. This lot’ll stock ‘em up for a while”. “Alone?” I asked. “Brother in Law sometimes joins me and swags on the trailer”, he said. Wow, I thought. “Sounds great”, I said. “All you need to remember is never sleep on the ground”, he said, with a look over the top of his sun glasses. “Oh, and don’t walk in the long grass. And never pick up anything lying on the ground, no matter how shiny it looks”. “Thanks”, I said. “No worries”, he replied.

One thing I had noticed was how short the tractor units were (or prime movers, as they are called) compared to the US versions. The result was quite small sleepers. “What about drivers working hours?” I asked, “Do you use a tachograph”? “Jeez, no. We fill out a log book”, he said, grinning. “How many hours can you drive?” I asked, casually. “S’posed to or can?” He said. It was my turn to smile. "What about tiredness"? I asked. "Goes with the job", he said. I had also seen that most vehicles were fitted with Bull Bars. “They must hurt a bit”, I said. “Roos come out at dusk, and there’s livestock in the bush”, he said. “What about pedestrians”, I asked before I had chance to think. He looked at me, again over the top of his sunnies and, without any measure of unkindness, fixed me with a, ‘you’re a real Pom’ gaze. “The road,” he said, with affected import, “Is an enhanced pavement for the use of motor vehicles; pedestrians shouldn’t be on it”.

I mentioned the Police; how often was he stopped or checked? “No worries”, he said, “You don’t see ‘em in the bush”. And breakdowns? “I fix it, if I can”, was his answer. “And if you can’t”, I said. “Have a few tinnies and wait for one of your mates to come along”, he said. “And the best bits about the job?” I asked him. “The country, the freedom, the open land where there’s thousands of kilometres of single track road and scrub and desert with hardly any people and no cars. Powerful trucks like this one and no boss on my back. And sorting out my own problems as I go”. “And loneliness?” I asked. “There’s the road house, and a few shared tinnies”, he said. “The worst bits”? I asked. “Punctures”, was all he said; he didn’t have to think about it. As he climbed up into his cab and made to close the door, I asked about European trucks. “They’re not trucks”, was his reply.

Back at work, I questioned my Australian colleagues about what the truckie had said regarding sleeping on the ground and walking in the long grass. Creepy-crawlies and snakes, they said. And not picking up something even if it looked too good to leave, I asked. Because there will always be something underneath that wants to bite you, I was told. “No worries”, I said.