I'm in the backseat, drinking again (surprise, surprise), testing out one of Australia's fine canned mixed drinks, a Wild Turkey & Cola. Cars are coming at me from the wrong side of the road, and I keep getting distracted from my perusal of the snorkel on our truck by Tim's insistence on turning on the wipers everytime he means to signal, or indicate, as it's referred to down here. And he's drinking, which serves as one more distraction from my enjoyment of the passing mango trees. Actually, I completely trust his abilities and judgement. It just come soff better if I sound like a scared drunk.
After spending a fine night in beautiful, tropical Darwin, gargling beer by the pool and sipping Moet y Chandon down by the bay ("where the watermelons grow") we are now on our way out to Kakadu National Park, armed with all of our cameras, a case of Melbourne bitter, and Spearhead.
Catherine's practicing her best American accent, all the better to blend in and act the part of the idiot American along with us, rather than injuring her pride by admitting that she's our local hostess, pitifully underpaid, and prone to checking in with the Lonely Planet guide.
As we pass through the beautiful hamlet of Humpty Doo, Tim remarks, testing his knowledge of Australian lingo in his best British accent, "Just a lot of bush here, eh mate?" Catherine cackles and replies, "Scrub - we call it scrub." After which remark ensues a wildly heated debate about the distinctions between bush, scrub, and shrubbery. Monty Python, anyone? Tim concludes with another stab at the Aussie accent, "This is great, dude. I got wallaby insurance - I'm feeling good." Off we go, into the great expanse of scrub, chumscrubbing all the way.
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