Go West
Go West young man has been the catch cry for generations.
Discover a new land, find riches, build a new life … all are reasons for going west. Why always west? I have no idea, and to all intents and purposes it doesn't matter. Intrepid sailors discovered the western world; often those sailors were on a mission to safeguard their life by keeping on side of the ruling monarch. Gold was discovered in the west of many a new country, and Australia is a case in point.
Towns were built, populations rose into the thousands until a new 'find' was discovered elsewhere, a discovery that made for easier access, and the miners moved on. The town either died, or existed as a poor relation until the charm of yester-year became popular. Cue followed a similar path. Once a thriving mining center, home to 1000's, it is now a town of 100's, it’s heritage buildings a legacy to the past.
Things come and things go. Mining comes and mining goes, only to come again, albeit wearing a different uniform. Where once it was gold, now it is iron ore, iron ore rich in its purity. Once men and horses trudged the mining trails, now men wait for roads to make access easier, and a trail to move the massive machinery deployed in the mining industry.
Today is Sunday. I often write on a Sunday, because it is my day of rest. As I sit on the balcony I watch the trucks pass through. Some are huge, but the load they carry is bigger. Sunday afternoons have seen the passage of trucks so big they have small vehicles ahead as pilot vehicles. Flashing lights herald the impending approach of a yellow monster. The yellow monster sits uncomfortably, like an overstuffed cushion on a lady's wicker chair, defiantly, proudly, and pompously claiming its ownership of that space, on the back of a truck designed to carry such a load.
Last Sunday I noticed a small van parked at the south end of town. I wondered if the driver was taking a lunch break, if he was eating a sandwich made by the woman in his life in the city some hundreds of miles south, or had he purchased a burger and chips at a road house enroute. Later a pilot vehicle came into view, and the van and its driver made a move. Still the connection was not made. It was Sunday … my day of rest, the day of the week when I can turn my powers of concentration, my powers of observation, off. I do not need to think on a Sunday.
Another vehicle, red and blue lights flashing appeared around the corner from the south. Aha, two pilot vehicles … that signified action. The van edged closer to the shopping center, the CBD.
The Central Business District takes up two blocks, two blocks of historic buildings that are photographed by many who pass through daily, towing caravans, or travelling in campervans.
Around the corner at the entrance to town a monster of a truck crawled, carrying an even larger load. I moved along the balcony to get a better view.
The driver of the van stopped, clambered out of his vehicle, and with a long pole lifted the power lines to allow the truck with its oversized load to pass through ... on the wrong side of the street … on the side of the street directly outside this hotel. They were going exceedingly slow as they inched under the wires, the pole lifter shooting ahead to hold up the next set of wires while the huge truck and its oversized load crawled along behind.
I am on a balcony of an old hotel that features high ceilings. There are cream and green heritage coloured wooden balcony railings to stop folks from falling off … should they imbibe too much of the bar's products of an evening.
Closer and closer they crept. Suddenly the entourage was directly in front of me, towering above me. Scrapers, loaders, and other massive machinery travel west to a mining area. Going west in fact.
In today's modern age to travel west there needs to be roads. Today I am more tired than last Sunday when that impressive parade passed by. To build roads we need men … machinery needs men to maneuver it. This week this hotel has become home to the road construction gang. They are optimistic this time their work will not be undone by a cyclone, as happened earlier in the year. Cyclones often go unreported in World News because of sparse populations, and apart from a handful of station homesteads being inundated by floodwaters, and the road being undermined by floodwaters, nothing else of significance is damaged.
The frogs, lying dormant in the dried-up mud from the last deluge of rain, spawn and leap their greenness around copulating and laying eggs. Little fish, whose eggs lay dormant for an equally long period, hatch and swim in their golden glittery-ness, mate, lay their eggs in readiness for the next rains. Life goes on, dependent upon the rains. Roads can be rebuilt.
The road builders need breakfast at 5.00am. I am breakfast cook, which means the alarm signals the start of a new day for me, just before 4.00am. Bacon, eggs, baked beans and sausages are in the bain marie by 5.00am, food is set out for lunches, the urn is boiling for flasks and cups of coffee and tea, and by 7.30am the rush of the morning is over. Salads and sandwich materials are concocted at noon, and in the evening we welcome the weary roadmen to their final meal of the day. It is a long day, for them, and for me.
Today is Sunday … I am having a well-deserved rest while roads are being constructed for intrepid miners, albeit of the modern machinery age. Go west!
Go West young man has been the catch cry for generations.
Discover a new land, find riches, build a new life … all are reasons for going west. Why always west? I have no idea, and to all intents and purposes it doesn't matter. Intrepid sailors discovered the western world; often those sailors were on a mission to safeguard their life by keeping on side of the ruling monarch. Gold was discovered in the west of many a new country, and Australia is a case in point.
Towns were built, populations rose into the thousands until a new 'find' was discovered elsewhere, a discovery that made for easier access, and the miners moved on. The town either died, or existed as a poor relation until the charm of yester-year became popular. Cue followed a similar path. Once a thriving mining center, home to 1000's, it is now a town of 100's, it’s heritage buildings a legacy to the past.
Things come and things go. Mining comes and mining goes, only to come again, albeit wearing a different uniform. Where once it was gold, now it is iron ore, iron ore rich in its purity. Once men and horses trudged the mining trails, now men wait for roads to make access easier, and a trail to move the massive machinery deployed in the mining industry.
Today is Sunday. I often write on a Sunday, because it is my day of rest. As I sit on the balcony I watch the trucks pass through. Some are huge, but the load they carry is bigger. Sunday afternoons have seen the passage of trucks so big they have small vehicles ahead as pilot vehicles. Flashing lights herald the impending approach of a yellow monster. The yellow monster sits uncomfortably, like an overstuffed cushion on a lady's wicker chair, defiantly, proudly, and pompously claiming its ownership of that space, on the back of a truck designed to carry such a load.
Last Sunday I noticed a small van parked at the south end of town. I wondered if the driver was taking a lunch break, if he was eating a sandwich made by the woman in his life in the city some hundreds of miles south, or had he purchased a burger and chips at a road house enroute. Later a pilot vehicle came into view, and the van and its driver made a move. Still the connection was not made. It was Sunday … my day of rest, the day of the week when I can turn my powers of concentration, my powers of observation, off. I do not need to think on a Sunday.
Another vehicle, red and blue lights flashing appeared around the corner from the south. Aha, two pilot vehicles … that signified action. The van edged closer to the shopping center, the CBD.
The Central Business District takes up two blocks, two blocks of historic buildings that are photographed by many who pass through daily, towing caravans, or travelling in campervans.
Around the corner at the entrance to town a monster of a truck crawled, carrying an even larger load. I moved along the balcony to get a better view.
The driver of the van stopped, clambered out of his vehicle, and with a long pole lifted the power lines to allow the truck with its oversized load to pass through ... on the wrong side of the street … on the side of the street directly outside this hotel. They were going exceedingly slow as they inched under the wires, the pole lifter shooting ahead to hold up the next set of wires while the huge truck and its oversized load crawled along behind.
I am on a balcony of an old hotel that features high ceilings. There are cream and green heritage coloured wooden balcony railings to stop folks from falling off … should they imbibe too much of the bar's products of an evening.
Closer and closer they crept. Suddenly the entourage was directly in front of me, towering above me. Scrapers, loaders, and other massive machinery travel west to a mining area. Going west in fact.
In today's modern age to travel west there needs to be roads. Today I am more tired than last Sunday when that impressive parade passed by. To build roads we need men … machinery needs men to maneuver it. This week this hotel has become home to the road construction gang. They are optimistic this time their work will not be undone by a cyclone, as happened earlier in the year. Cyclones often go unreported in World News because of sparse populations, and apart from a handful of station homesteads being inundated by floodwaters, and the road being undermined by floodwaters, nothing else of significance is damaged.
The frogs, lying dormant in the dried-up mud from the last deluge of rain, spawn and leap their greenness around copulating and laying eggs. Little fish, whose eggs lay dormant for an equally long period, hatch and swim in their golden glittery-ness, mate, lay their eggs in readiness for the next rains. Life goes on, dependent upon the rains. Roads can be rebuilt.
The road builders need breakfast at 5.00am. I am breakfast cook, which means the alarm signals the start of a new day for me, just before 4.00am. Bacon, eggs, baked beans and sausages are in the bain marie by 5.00am, food is set out for lunches, the urn is boiling for flasks and cups of coffee and tea, and by 7.30am the rush of the morning is over. Salads and sandwich materials are concocted at noon, and in the evening we welcome the weary roadmen to their final meal of the day. It is a long day, for them, and for me.
Today is Sunday … I am having a well-deserved rest while roads are being constructed for intrepid miners, albeit of the modern machinery age. Go west!
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