Correspondent letter

“May I help you?” says the lady, whom (“whom” Ross, friends) comes out of the backdoor of the cafe where we just ate a steak sandwich. “I’m just waiting for the motel to open” I answer and feel that I’m standing on private property in a backyard between the cafe and the motel when she says; “oh, that’s me I have just closed the cafe, I will be with you shortly.”

The lady at the cafe have two jobs, she runs the cafe where she serves breakfast and lunch, while she in between that checks in and out guest from the motel. She regularly runs between the two buildings, while wearing her apron at all times. She seems tired and her hair is messy, she had red cheeks and a traditional Australian white skin color (despite the sun that is here). This woman works for a living and has her two jobs as her lifestyle.

On day number to in Meningie we decide to stay another night, another 95 dollars out of the pocket for a motel where you have to do the dishes yourself in the bathroom. I think the prices is stiff but at the same time it feels good that the woman get another stay over on the quite empty motel. It is spring in Australia and the holidays season haven’t kicked in yet, so it is few guests. The wind along Lake Albert makes the place cold and unpopulated. The ones that keeps life in the town is a bunch of elderly people at the local ball club. I wonder what the future holds for a town like this. It seems clear that the youth get out to Adelaide or Melbourne to study, but the question is how many of them will return.

We dress up the bikes with bags and step out on the Princess Highway. 60 k’s until next small town, or more correct; 60 k’s to next roadhouse. The fields lay in a row in this area southeast of Meninigie. Most of the empty for animals, people and machines. It seems like people have given up and said goodbye. Several Large agricultural properties have the sign “for sale”. Everybody left. The generation that run the agriculture here has either packed their bags and left voluntarily or retired because no one was willing to continue the previous generations lifework.

Without any bigger problems we have suddenly cycled 60 k’s and arrived in Salt Creek. The roadhouse in Salt Creek, an old building built on 1927 and have probably not been renovated since, oozes of fried fish. An rusty bell rings above my head when I open the door. I quickly close it so the dog inside not will run out on the road. This roadhouse has everything within its four walls. 5-6 meter long fishing rods hangs in the roof, antlers and fish skeletons on the walls, old photos randomly spread around together with old articles from newspapers, both form before and after the war. A freezer in the corner marked with “bait”, and freezer number two is filled to the edge with ice. Obviously fishing has and still is the thing in Salt Creek. The brochures about fishing with guide lies in the window and we ask if we can take a trip. That was not possible, the owner of the place didn’t have time. The brochures itself told us that answer, they must have been made at least 15 years ago.

Also this roadhouse is for sale, a poster outside says. We order to burgers and a large bowl of fries. “Do you know why I said yes to that bowl of fries, Lasse?” Lasse replies “no”. “Because I couldn’t say no to that upsell he tried. Look around, this place needs that guests spend money.” Another consciousness buy, in a place that could be totally abandoned in a few few years.

We walk back out with smell of fried fish stuck in our nose. On the grass behind the roadhouse we have put up the tent and we lay us down on the thick grass and sunbathes under the clear blue sky. One thing I feel is really good about places that are about to be abandoned; the quietness is total and suddenly you got spare time.

Anders,
Salt Creek, Australia