Life has been a bit hectic and unpublishable lately, and I'm running twenty pages behind schedule. But I might as well start this condensed update at the Carnarvon Cup. Weeks in advance, the ladies discussed attires, the men bemoaned their losses at last years' races and a recurring theme was: 'who are you going to the races with??'

Obviously something important was afoot. I borrowed the boss' girlfriend for half an hour to assist me in choosing my pathetic fashion statement -there's only two shops in Carnarvon, my size does not really exist so ten minutes was all it took. In anticipation of inebriation, a little party from Pelican Point took a cab . This calm seaside townlet had pulled out all the stops, everyone was dressed to kill, the champagne flowed freely and nobody watched the horses. People were betting from booklets with cryptic indicators of past performance and I decided to go for any grey horse- the nags all look alike, and by the time you can read the number the finish line's been crossed. All eyes were however on the Fashion Show.

I was personally dithering between two ladies of my acqaintance for the winner. But strangely enough, an outsider took the honours home!... 'And in evening dress too... such a shame!'

It so happened that the winner of the Cup was a grey horse.

Anyway... I had gotten a taste for racemeets and loaded the Pajero up with steak and beer for the Gascoyne Junction races. The Junction is about 175 k's from Carnarvon and is certainly in the Bush. I don't have any pictures of the bush, because the bush is only appreciated if you drive through it for a couple of hours. Just like a tree doesn't convey the sense of forest. And driving over a dirt track at night, with Janis Joplin on the stereo and suicidal kangaroos lining the road and not meeting any traffic at all is something to experience. To the best of my knowledge, NOTHING at all happens at The Junction except for the races. I'd been talking to the police officer there who thought his beat was roughly 200 by 200 km. And that about 400 people inhabit it.

The sense of occasion was palpable. I made an (European) camp consisting of tent and mattress, and joined the festivities. People thought I was a reporter or something, despite me dressing in Blunstone boots and grubby shirt. There was a band playing oldies under a tin roof, with a sort of a dirt dance-floor defined by the absence of long drinking tables, and everyone was getting drunk, meeting old friends, and playing two-up . Two-up is a sort of Australian roulette. Much of the virtue of Australia is contained in this game.

The thirty numbers have been drastically reduced to none-Simplicity.

Odds, evens, red, black, thirds and carre have been dispensed with altogether-Clarity.

The croupier has been sacked, players bet against any other player- democracy and Anti-authoritarianism.

Leaving the player with straight 50% odds of heads or tails, you play and drink to celebrate or drink to drown the sorrows. If I understood it, I would have played too.

I visited the Kennedy Ranges, a welcome bit of verticality in this hot, dry, flat landscape and killed my first emu which threw itself in front of the car. With a bit of wood I tried to knock a bit more life out of it before towing it to the roadside. Three snakes were also victims of my tires, I lost 15 dollars on the betting and I was goosed on the dancefloor. This bush thing might be a bit much for me. Black smoke crusts in my nostrils, dust in my sacred sleeping bag, beer in a blood-tainted ice slurry in the Esky... It was good to be back in Carnarvon.

Business as usual during the week.. lots of visitors, surfers, kiters, hitchikers and bikies invited to stay at Pelican Point. Beer and guitar under the stars. Fishing on the Prawn Jetty. Windsurfing after work. Aaah!

Two new docs have hit town...aussies on a mission to surf every break in Australia. When funds run low, they doctor a bit. One's a beginning windsurfer as well and the Friday afternoon started with a bit of high-speed screaming on the river together. Stopping at the yacht club for a midsurf-beer. If it gets any better I want to know about it! And that's just the afternoon!

Anyway, I am currently the second-worst windsurfer in WA. And the worst one has surfed Gnarloo! To make a hideously convoluted story short I started off with a request for a spare mattress and ended up with a rebuilt tow-hitch and a bush-trailer to take to Gnarloo. Now this is travellining in style! A double bed, an oven, campchairs and a table! The track is 80 k's of deep sand and corrugations leading to a windy, shrubby, rocky outcrop in the ocean with a kiosk and a campsite on it. Some of the best windsurfers in the world stick it out for months there to surf the allegedly world-class waves. Stunning displays of windsurfing there, free of charge. Being a wimp I stood there for an afternoon figuring out how to get away from the coast without getting killed by the waves. The next day I conquered most of my fears-though not the waves- by rigging up and surfing to the breaks, falling in, then fleeing back to land spitting salt water. But next week- watch this space- I'm buying a waveboard, a 5.0 sail and I will sit in Gnarloo for a week eating canned foods until I get out, and ride a wave back in.

A man can dream, can't he?

Kees