From our room, the passing road trains sounded like swooping aircraft, not the earth-bound rush of mighty 18-wheelers bearing their goods eastward. The highway sustained life out here. It is a straight and lonely stretch of asphalt – or bitumen, the Aussies would say – stubbornly crossing the barren Nullarbor Plain. It’s the unpredictable suicide route of too many short-sighted wombats; the stark yet exotic touring line for patient road trippers; the demarcation zone between roadhouses, these isolated outposts of civilization. 150 kms from Nundroo Hotel Motel to Nullarbor Roadhouse. In the other direction, 150 kms to Ceduna. Instead of losing my mind to extreme loneliness, I was surprised by a sense of gumption. Like pioneers, we refused to let the environment wear us away.
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From its dusty sienna soils to its leathery locals, Australia earns the poetic moniker “A Sunburnt Country.” Sand, skin tones, fresh produce...