"When two opposing points of view are argued with equal vigor, the truth does not necessarily lie in the middle. One side may simply be wrong." Richard Dawkins

On the Way 

On the way to Queensland, the landscape changed at first almost imperceptibly. The endless ochre-brown of the Outback gave way to vegetative green. The earth lost its layer of dust. Shrubs became bushes, bushes became trees. Suddenly, there was shade again.

In the afternoon, we passed a sign that read: Barkly Homestead – Fuel · Food · Accommodation · Beer. A roadhouse in the middle of nowhere; the only gas station, the only bed, the only cola for miles. Later, I noted: fueling, eating, showering, starlit sky. That wasn’t everything. I left out the best moment of the day: once again, under the shower.

The homestead consisted of a cluster of buildings with a green courtyard—an almost absurd sight in the desert. There was a gas station, a souvenir shop, and a Bavarian-rustic paneled restaurant.

I ordered a chicken parmigiana with chips and a cola; you stuck with steak and fries and ginger beer. We sat under a fan and let the coolness slowly creep into us. Maps were tacked to the wall, alongside a notice reading “Dingo Warning.” Next to me, two Grey Nomad couples ate toasties with tomato sauce, while their small dogs dozed under the table.

The staff were young and easy to identify as American and European backpackers, working a few weeks for food, lodging, and pocket money. None of them seemed particularly industrious. Outside, road trains—truck colossi as long as half a train—stood still. We could hear the drivers but never saw them.

Mount Isa

On the third day, we crossed into Queensland. The road led to Mount Isa, the first sizable town since Alice Springs, a mining capital nearly at the edge of the Outback.

In Mount Isa, we indulged in the comfort of the best accommodation in town. The RedEarth Boutique Hotel was a low, terracotta-colored building with a broad canopy and a carefully maintained gravel forecourt, hinting at a Japanese rock garden. Inside, everything was unexpectedly quiet, cool, and flawless. The woman at the reception desk had perfectly shaped eyebrows. You handed her your credit card; she smiled professionally, did her job, and handed you the keycards. Room 207, second floor, right of the elevator. The room smelled faintly of eucalyptus cleaner. King-size bed, Nespresso machine, air conditioning, flat-screen TV. Crisp white sheets, dense curtains, a glass shower, Eartherapy toiletries, polished fixtures, a full-length mirror, towels artfully rolled on the sink.

The first bath in days that didn’t smell of camping.

We embraced under the stream of water. You had turned on the television; we heard the news. The state of the world was far away. We simply stood there, letting the water run over our necks, backs, shoulders, legs. Foam flowed over the tiles at our feet. Steam gathered on the mirror.

We stretched and luxuriated in contentment.

The hotel had its own restaurant with an à la carte menu—steaks, seafood—and a cocktail lounge.

Charters Towers

Charters Towers owed its existence to a gold rush. The town resembled an American Western film set from the 1950s: antique facades with faded lettering, a hotel called World’s End, empty streets.

We checked in to a motel grandly named Heritage. It smelled of wet dog and wall mold. The air conditioning was criminally loud.

“Hot Meals – Cold Beer”—we ate at the pub across from our lodging: burgers and beer, no questions asked. The people seemed politely disinterested. Perhaps they had heard all the stories before. The jukebox played Australian country from the 1990s; a neon light flickered like something out of an Edward Hopper painting.

Back in the motel room, you wanted another shower. You emerged, your gaze open but not inviting. How much air and desire remained for us after this day?

I straightened up. You stood by the window, looking out as if there were more to see than a dusty parking lot and the pub’s neon sign.

“The people here,” you said, “look at you like they know everything about you. But they don’t say a word.”

Finally, you came to me. Your skin glimmered; I smelled your shampoo.

“Say something,” you demanded.

I said nothing and placed a hand on your chest. You were warm. Alive. Present. And suddenly there was that tingling again. Outside, mosquitoes swarmed around the lantern. We embraced.

Your back pressed warmly against mine. I felt the heat of your day, the fatigue, the unspoken 130 kilometers to Townsville. A few mosquitoes had slipped through the torn flyscreen. You cursed quietly and pulled the sheet over your head. I laughed and said nothing.

Arrival in Cairns

We continued along the Barkly Highway toward the east. The road narrowed; traffic thinned. Savanna stretched around us. At the Queensland border, we turned onto the Flinders Highway. The further north we drove, the greener it became. Colors shed their pallor. The sky deepened in blue; shadows grew shorter. Near Cloncurry, we veered onto the Gregory Highway. Vegetation shed its threadbare appearance, shifting toward tropical lushness. The final stretch took us along the Bruce Highway toward Cairns. Suddenly, the sea appeared. I inhaled the salty air.