We’ve made it to the Pilbara, where the heat settles in and stays. It’s a dry heat that turns the van into a slow-cooking oven by mid-morning and your shirt into something damp and stained with iron-red dust. Everything you touch feels warm, including things that shouldn’t be.
We found a free camp beside a bridge, next to a slow-moving stretch of river. It’s basic but quiet and free, which suits our budget, given how casually we underestimated fuel costs. Fuel is now the biggest expense, draining the account one remote roadhouse at a time while we pretend this cost was factored in.
If we were in Europe, we’d have crossed borders by now, ordered food in different languages, and maybe even moved into another time zone. Here in Western Australia, we’re still in the same state, still covering distances we probably should’ve thought more seriously about before setting off.
The beers are colder and easier to find than water, and in this heat, hydration comes with a hiss and a clink. Tonight we’ll sweat through another still night, the air unmoving, salt drying on our skin beneath the southern stars while we lie on top of the sheets and question recent decisions.
North of the Tropic of Capricorn, that’s how it is. In the van, discomfort travels with you, usually in ways that turn out to be self-inflicted.
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