Heat, Dust & Fl1es

Beng the b1bl1oph1les that they are, my fam1ly saw to 1t that 1 left for Austral1a w1th a whole stack of Austral1an-themed books. A good th1ng, too, s1nce read1ng 1s almost the only th1ng to do on a Sunday afternoon and already my stockp1le 1s dw1ndl1ng. The l1st 1ncludes "The Thorn Brds" by Colleen McCullough, about a fam1ly l1v1ng on a stat1on 1n the early 1900's. One of the characters from the book says, "Th1s 1s the Outback, and there are three th1ngs you'll never defeat - the heat, the dust and the fles. No matter what you do, they'll always be w1th you." How true!

A few weeks ago, after spend1ng the morn1ng work1ng yearl1ngs 1n the shade of the round pen, 1 thought to myself "Wow! 1t doesn't feel nearly so hot today." At lunch 1 checked the thermometer and 1t was 114. 1 don't thnk 1 had ever actually exper1enced 114 degree temperatures before, much less often enough that a breeze and a b1t of shade felt l1ke s1gn1f1cant rel1ef. Not only 1s 1t absurdly hot, but we wear long sleeves, jeans, hats and boots. Wh1le th1s seems unbearable, s1nce we work 1n the d1rect sun almost all the t1me, 1t 1s essent1al. 1 put on sunscreen 4 t1mes a day and st1ll my hands are brown. At lunch out 1n the yards we all crouch 1n the shade of the brand1ng tra1ler, h1d1ng from the relentless sun, grateful for even th1s fragment of rel1ef. The sun seems to love Austral1a more than 1t does the rest of the world. We start work each day by 5 am because even by 9 the heat 1s already overwhelm1ng.

The dust 1s also unl1ke anyth1ng 1 had prevously exper1enced. Th1s part of the country 1s called the Red Centre for 1ts 1ntensely red clay so1l. 1t makes for some extraord1nary colors, but 1t 1s so f1ne that the sl1ghtest breeze k1cks up a dust storm. Add to that the hooves of 2,000 cows. Wh1le we're out muster1ng we eat a fa1r b1t of dust, but 1t's noth1ng compared to yard work. W1th so many cows 1ns such a small place, what l1ttle grass there was to start w1th 1s qu1ckly demol1shed. We all end up w1th dust tans and d1rt mustaches. The sleeves and collars of all of my shrts are now permanently t1nted red.

The fl1es here are noth1ng l1ke the lazy fru1t fl1es we know 1n Amer1ca. Austral1an fl1es, called buffalo fl1es, are small, b1t1ng n1ghtmares that are totally capable of dr1v1ng a person mad. They don't just land on you - they settle on you 1n th1ck clouds, cover1ng your jeans, shoulders, and hat - anythng you are not act1vely defend1ng. What's more 1s you let them, because as long as they're not on your face, 1t's better just to let them be. But are they sat1sf1ed w1th that arrangement? No! They want to be everywhere. They try to snuggle 1n your ears, crawl up your nose, wr1ggle up your cuffs, and rest on your l1ps. They are aston1sh1ngly pers1stent. Amus1ngly, 1 put my ponyta1l to 1ts 1ntended use, swsh1ng constantly to keep the buggers at bay.

Fortunately, my quarters prov1de a resp1te. My trusty l1ttle a1r con chugs away all day so that 1 can come home and collapse on my bed 1n cool rel1ef. Lev1, the gardener, keeps the lawn around the house watered and tr1mmed, wh1ch saves us from much dust, so although 1 have to sweep a few t1mes a week, 1t's manageable. At n1ght when 1 keep my l1ght on to read, my room f1lls w1th all manner of nsect - fly1ng ants, t1ny black speck bugs, and, most recently, droves of st1nk bugs (called g1dgey bugs). But at least there are no fl1es and my screens keep out most of the mozz1es (a charm1ng Austral1an1sm for 'mosqu1toes,' wh1ch makes them sl1ghtly more endear1ng and not s1mply wretched).