Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
When it's time to call it a night, they invite us to go shooting with them tomorrow. It's their day off, and
they're planning to make money on the side by killing kangaroos. They tell us they get paid by the kilo, for
the meat. “I'll have about thirty in the back of my ute by the end of the day,” one of them says. “You have
to be a marksman, though. Can't sell it unless it's a clean head shot.”
We politely decline. Partly out of revulsion. Partly because I'd be more likely to shoot myself in the ankle
than make a clean head shot on a hopping kangaroo at one hundred yards. Besides, we have no time—we're
still up against the clock in terms of getting this relo car to Sydney. We retire to our room, which is four
corrugated metal walls and a cement floor with a bed in the middle and a sink in the corner.
AFTER the kamikaze kangaroos, the biggest menace on an Outback highway is a road train. Road trains
are giant trucks that have— instead of just one trailer linked to the cab, as most semis on American roads
do—three or four trailers stretching out in a long line. Sort of like a train. But on a road.
Passing one of these things is a real knuckle-whitener. You pull out onto the wrong side of the highway
and gun the gas, and then time seems to stand still. This ain't no wussy eighteen-wheeler you're overtaking.
You've got sixty-something wheels you need to put in your rearview mirror. Even at top speed, you'll be
driving alongside the beast—and praying you encounter no oncoming traffic—for a full mile or two.
On top of this, we're still not comfortable with having the steering wheel on the wrong side of the car.
In America, as in the great majority of the world (including ships at sea), we stay to the right when passing
an oncoming vehicle. I've yet to find any satisfactory answer as to why some countries insist on doing it
differently.
One theory holds that in the age of the horse, everyone kept left—so that the right hand (the dominant
side for most people) would be in position to greet, or clash swords with, an oncoming rider. A second step
to the theory is then required, and it goes like this: Napoleon, being left-handed, preferred to ride on the
right side of the road. The diminutive tyrant insisted that his soldiers, and everyone he conquered, follow
his lead.
This of course does not explain why countries such as America and China drive on the right (unless I'm
forgetting that time when Napoleon invaded the New World and then kept marching onward toward Asia).
But there are myriad other theories, including one about American wagon configurations and another about
ladies' sidesaddle etiquette.
In 1913, an international committee concluded that the whole world should settle on one side, for uni-
formity. This counsel obviously went unheeded. Still, several countries have made a switch over the years.
For instance, Sweden did it in 1967. At 4:50 a.m. one night, all traffic stopped. Everyone carefully switched
their cars to the other side of the road and then, ten minutes later, resumed driving. Astonishingly, it worked.
Whatever the history, this nonstandardized traffic stuff is a source of angst for anyone forced to switch
back and forth. Since we got to Australia, I've been looking the wrong way every time I pull out onto the
road. And Rebecca has not once managed to flash the turn signal without first pulling the lever that activ-
ates the windshield wipers. “The turn signal should really be over here on this side!” she complains, to no
avail—as another roo gears up to ram our fender with its head.
HOUR after hour we drive, yet the scenery never changes, and our spot on the map never seems to progress
much. It doesn't help that the only thing on the radio is a cricket test match—which as best I can tell has
no beginning and no end, though they sometimes take “tea breaks.” We stop the car every once in a while
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