Didn't want to get up this morning; would have loved to stay curled up but soon on the road again. Crows nested: cold but lousy roads so not moving too fast to enjoy the great scenery. Had to detour down into dry riverbeds where mud and wood bridges had either fallen through or their edges were so worn that the way was only a metre wide and ragged. Lots of birds early on, including a stunning black headed and tailed bird with shiny, bronze cape-like wings. Passed close to a bushfire and stopped the truck to listen to the crackling flames.
Got our own lunch in a largish town, entertained by two weirdly costumed youths dancing and chanting. They wore woven headdresses with birds’ beaks and long hair, possibly horse hair, bound to their fronts and backs. Fabric penises were safety pinned to their short fronts, pyramidal decorated anklets encircled their feet and dead rats and possums hung on their backs. But more remarkable still was their abdominal tribal scars: each had a large expanse of skin deeply cut in a similar pattern. They chanted and rattled knives against their bangles, but then, after some time, they lost concentration and broke into giggles and moved away. Lots of people suggested it was purely a tourist show but I think their attempt to make a few coins involved some tradition.
Just out of town we stopped at a very different style of Somba village: an outer wall linked circular dwellings, suggestive of castle fortifications, some tall and narrow as if distorted in a trick mirror at a circus. But we were not welcome. The people were quite aggressive and a man who said he was the chief blocked the truck steps, demanding money to let us back on board. We outmanoeuvred him by crawling up the sides, but he nearly pulled Hawk and then me out again.
Driving on, we entered rockier terrain and poor old Stanley chugged up hills in low to avoid our now distinctly clunky first gear.
Late in the day, after an impressive feat of driving by Ben, through three rocky and wet riverbeds - Stanley was officially baptised - and along a narrow humped “footpath” lined with trees and tall grasses that slapped into the back of the truck, and all the time followed by a hoard of yelling village children, we stopped. The “camping site” marked on our Michelin map was a tiny clearing in which Ben somehow turned the truck around ready for our retreat. The rest of us walked to some cascades, the first few clambering from the lower falls and their small but clear pool, up through rocky smaller falls, and across and up wet stones, constantly attended by local lads who guided me and made sure I didn't fall. Finally we reached the top, where we found a spectacular pool, about 15x20m, fed by water tumbling about 15m down rocks hung with creepers and long woody tendrils. The cascade and adjoining walls, which were heavy with ferns and other water-loving plants, provided a beautiful green backdrop. We stripped off and dived into icy water. I swam under the falling water but it fell hard as hailstones so I retreated to calmer water.
Us skinny dippers were totally relaxed despite the 15 locals who sat watching us cavorting, and I emerged clean, refreshed and tingling. Hawk carried my stuff so I could crawl and walk down the rocks to the truck.
Ben bush-bashed us back out again and we camped in a lovely gravel pit off the road. A few locals offered to stay all night and guard the truck but eventually we convinced them we were okay on our own.
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