Nothing overtook us on this stretch of dereliction, and nothing passed us coming the other way either. But a sign, nailed to a choking tree, reminded us that there was life, and even something approaching black humour, out there. It said,

GET OFF THE BEATEN TRACK

VISIT COPPER HILLS HOMESTEAD – 53 ks

Back on the beaten track the sand dunes gave way to a sort of crystalline surface composed of thousands of small sharpened nodules of flint. It was possible to dodge them only by driving over slivers of serrated shale.

At Marla, with less than a third of the worst over, we were able to pause at a roadhouse for refreshments. On the forecourt we found the owner of the Jayco making some fine adjustments to his wing mirrors. ‘A centimetre out of focus,’ he seemed to be implying, ‘that’s the full extent of the inconvenience I’ve suffered.’ But I noticed, with some satisfaction, that his hands were shaking.

An English boy, working his way around Australia, filled me up with diesel. He told me that the Marla roadhouse got very busy in the evenings, not with travellers but with locals. I surveyed the surrounding emptiness. ‘I thought you need a locality to have locals,’ I said.

‘You’d be surprised. They come in off the stations for a meal or a drink or just the company. And of course the Aborigines can’t stay away. Things can get a bit rough with them some nights. And banning them doesn’t work.’

‘Why not?’

‘They just stand outside and throw stones at the windows.’

‘That’s all right by me,’ I said. ‘So long as they take them from the highway.’

For some reason the next leg of the journey was rougher but also more communal. At times it was even almost festive. If anyone broke down a dozen vehicles skidded to his aid. A car coming in the opposite direction wasn’t in the slightest bit surprised to see you on his side of the road, searching for some respite from the corrugations. He slid over to your side, you stayed on his, and you exchanged an understanding greeting. Getting the wave right – the merest inclination of an erect forefinger, not too perfunctory but not too regal either – became as important as not ploughing into granite. It was not unlike being on the dodgems with your schoolfriends. Except that you stayed on the dodgems for half an hour at most, if you could afford to, whereas the road to Kulgera was interminable. And not made more supportable by the glimpses suddenly accorded you of railway line, sometimes new railway line, just a boulder’s throw from the highway; the gleaming track of the Ghan – the Adelaide to Alice – mocking the desert debris on which you floundered.