Greys vs Truckies: Rules of Engagement

The Warrumbungles

Just a sample! As you drive, the amazing shapes loom and pass, as if a giant's toybox has spilt all over the place and then been left for the brat to clean up... 

We sit, quietly.

This is a civilized truck (non-breeding colours) without a trailing brother.

Years ago, we came across the Newell Highway as our Babes-In-The-Woods travels took us hither and yon. We first did it in the heady days of youth, when a winery visit  or two meant a Motel Recovery Unit. Then we visited with The Kids in tow, getting photos of Bathurst, specially Pit Lane and  pole position, the Coathanger et al. The Newell Highway was etched into our family history. So was Coonabarrabran, with kook-a-bloody-burras raucously rousing us at 5am after the battle of the highway had drained us the day before.   We swore, audibly and heartily, that never again would we make that mistake. We'd go up in smoke or down the tube before travelling up the Newell Highway again. But things change. The black-top is now a velvet carpet, and not a sheet of vicious carborundum paper.

     Today's Newell Highway still carries a huge amount of traffic, much of it the heaviest, from Meglomanic Melbourne to Sneering Sydney. But infesting this conduit, like the rats that voyaged for free on the desperate efforts of the sailors of old, is a Dad's Navy of people who want more than a truck stop overnight.  In the blue-signed pockets along the highway are the semis-with-sleepers, lined up in dozens, banned from popping a pill and heading for the depot. The slaves of the log-book snooze fitfully as the line of the free, the newly paroled from slavery, Greys trundle past. These slaves of the ledger, the staff-meeting and the sales-motivation gurus have been liberated and now sally forth to enjoy the fruits, however meagre, of their labours. And that means mixing with the knights of the road, the Truckies.

       The numbers, dear readers, are now seriously skewed. Whereas once the Mack, the Kenworth and the Perkins sneered at the Millard, the Viscount and the Kingswood, today's battle ranges more formidable foes on both sides. Regiments are formed of the Toyota Landcruiser, Nissan, Ranger, Disco, Colorado, even Missus Bitchy, now diesel powered; their vans are longer, stronger and single outfit might out-weigh the truckies' home transport, and a squadron is to be considered - six outfits against a B double is a fair fight.  But laws prevent war; the Log-book back-up Cameras are everywhere, preventing insomniac drivers staying up late. The Nomads retreat to the Castle of the Caravan Park for the night, muttering, Tweeting and Facebooking the news.  They talk. They drink wine and share web-sites for the best caravan parks. The drivers have no secrets on CB. A new, lasting peace-in-our-time has been forged.

         The new rules mean the Nomads can't just sit there, they have to offer Passing Rites. A right blinker flash offers the Truckie a passing move; he may NOT just loom up alongside, swaying heavily from port to starboard, and move inwards whether he's larboard or not. The Nomad may not speed up to make life a pain; they should hang on tight - to avoid being sucked under the second trailer - and back off a smidgeon; then they should flash the headlights as the Truckie's departing tray passes to allow the Rig to move left smoothly. (Apparently Truckies don't always remember whether they have two, three or more attachments to their outfits on  this trip.)  Thus the goods move onwards, especially the pharmacy supplies for the Greys, who then circulate, and all is well with the world.

The most obvious visible change is that the Kennies (etc) flash a right-left-right signal as they proceed. The Greys feel a moment of acceptance, almost of acknowledgement, of their existence. As if being run down by a semi was not the most likely method of their removal from the road, nor being found half-way through the wall of some urban structure. And the truckies deliver the other means of existence to the Greys' next port of call, so it can all go on as it should.

It's all good, folks.  Isn't it?  And tomorrow, we are gong to try the Alpine Caravan Career, the route chosen in two dimensions on Google Maps, no matter the cost in raising the rig 2500 metres. Ah...