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© 2002 Brian F. Schreurs
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Cooinda to Darwin

August 1, 2001

  1402 miles       depart Cooinda
  1475 miles       exhaust pipe falls off
  1478 miles       exhaust pipe falls off
  1518 miles       radiator hose blows &
                    refuel in Annaburro
  1557 miles       overnight in Darwin

So, while we are all looking forward to meeting up with the other Jaguar enthusiasts, we are also in the heart of one of the world's best national parks, on a short travel day. We have time to explore. Shane and I wake Jason, though we have some doubts about how much sleep he actually got with that hideous cough, and are considering making him sleep outside for the rest of the trip, or until he dies, whichever comes first.

The obligatory saltwater crocodile photo. This particular fellow is a hair under 12 feet long.
At left is a white-bellied sea eagle, and at right is a comb-crested jacana. Both are quite common to Kakadu.

Our first stop is Yellow Water. We join a two-hour guided tour of this amazing ecosystem that is part slow-moving river, part wetlands, and part rainforest. The theme is water and lots of it. The main attraction is saltwater crocodiles and lots of 'em. The place is teeming with crocs. Big ones, too; we spot two 4.5-meter males (just around 15 feet or so), one of which is named Pluto.

According to our guide, Pluto is named after a dog. The dog belonged to a visitor who felt that the "no dogs" signs were not applicable to him, and he was throwing a stick into the water for the dog to retrieve. Surprise surprise, after a few throws the dog was retrieved by a croc. When the owner complained about this, he was fined $2,500 for feeding the animals. True? Hard to say. It's a good story though.

As we motor around the area, one thing that is inescapable is the number of crocs. Anyone who comes to Australia looking for crocs needs to just come on up here. Our guide says the crocs even occasionally has a go at a boat, but normally they hold a live and let live attitude.

But there's other wildlife here besides crocs, especially birds. We chose the early, 9 am tour, which proves to be wise. We see dozens of varieties of bird, many of which are extremely rare and very beautiful. Unfortunately I am out of my element with birdwatching, and though I appreciate their beauty, I have no clue what they are.

A rainbow bee-eater.

We started on the actual river where the water moves, albeit slowly, and that's where the crocs prefer. But soon enough we are headed off to the wetlands, a strange environment that is open to the sky like a lake, but shallow like a pond (maybe three or four feet deep), and where the grass actually grows on the water. The wake of the tour boat travels through the grass, a bizarre sight indeed. Living amongst the grass and lily pads are more birds and fish -- and the water is crystal clear. The avid wildlife photographer could spend all day and a box of film here and still want to come back for more.

Then, there's the water buffalo. Water buffalo are not indigenous to this region so we are all a bit surprised to see a couple of them trundling through the wetlands. Especially when one turns out to have a collar on. The guide sighs and explains that the buffalo are pets belonging to the wife of the leader of the Aboriginal tribe that leases the park to the Australian government. She doesn't seem to be entirely pleased by the presence of the buffalo. I mildly wonder what the Aboriginals think of the presence of all these tour boats every day.

Pet water buffalo. And you thought your retriever was a handful?

The "wooded" section of Yellow Water.

The last part of the boat tour is through a wooded area, almost a swamp but less murky. The water is fairly still and clear, making it easy to see the waterlife, and we are surrounded by fair-sized trees. One is forced to wonder how a tree manages to grow to any respectable size when it has to first sit in three feet of water; surely it cannot survive being completely submerged for several years? Indeed, it can't; the seeds that survive are the ones that fall onto floating debris, where they grow until they become heavy enough to sink to the bottom and take root. It is a fascinating process.

As the morning wears on, most of the crocs are now on shore, sunning themselves with their mouths open. The guide explains that allowing air to flow over its mouth is the only way for a crocodile to cool down; if it doesn't do so, its internal temperature can get high enough to cook its brain. But not all crocs are relaxing; on our way back to the docks, one small male thinks he can handle Pluto, the 15-foot dog eater, and challenges him. Pluto swiftly strikes! The speed is startling. All that mass must surely be muscle. The small male decides that he has made a mistake and retreats while he still can.

We decide it might be interesting to balance our trip through Yellow Waters, a place of natural wonder, with a visit to Ranger Mine, a place of manmade wonder. Of course, the type of wonder might be different ("I wonder whether putting a uranium mine in a national park was such a good idea" comes to mind).

Along the way, we spot signs for Mirray Lookout, and figure it's probably worth checking out, whatever it is. It turns out to be a very steep hike to the top of what passes for a mountain in these parts. I had plans for working out at the gym before this trip, but the plans failed in the face of the reality that I hate gyms; now, I find myself unable to keep up even with Shane and his trick back, or Jason and his Cough of Doom. They are gracious enough to not leave me sitting on the side of the hill. When I do finally reach the top, it is well worth the exercise; some loon actually built a lookout tower up there, and from it we can see for miles (or are they kilometers?) in any direction. We also meet a foursome of Irish students, who arrived in Australia, bought a cheap old van, and are now just driving around for a few months. The idea of having enough money at that age to afford such a trip, and yet not having a job that would prevent such a trip, strikes me as an unresolvable paradox unless parental money is involved.

Looking out from Mirray Lookout.

But we don't want to be late for Ranger Mine, so we leave the Irish and their paradox behind us as we carry on. At Ranger Mine, we grab some lunch and then pile into a tour bus. Our first stop is Pit Number 3, which is beyond huge. It is a crater so large that attempting to explain it size is as futile as attempting to explain what blue looks like. Photographs cannot adequately convey the immensity of this hole. Once I come to grips with the size of this mine, and then the fact that this is the third one, I know the answer to my wondering earlier in the day: No, it is not a good idea to put a uranium mine in the middle of a national park. I don't care how much money it brings. It is stupid. Humongously stupid.

It's impossible to convey the magnitude of this uranium pit in a photograph, but this is my best attempt. The truck, circled above, is shown to the right using a 400mm lens. A man can easily stand inside each tire on the truck. It is capable of hauling several tons of rock, from which the mining company can hope to get a few pounds of uranium.

As the tour continues, we are treated to an in-depth report on how important Ranger Mine is, how uranium is extracted from the rock (a painstaking process that yields 11 pounds of uranium for every 2,000 pounds of rock), how wonderfully safe everything is, and how they are going to restore the environment to its natural splendor when it's done. Of course, I've been through this with the coal mines in West Virginia -- what really happens is, they run out of profitable materials, go bankrupt, and leave behind a mining community with no work and a big gaping hole in the ground. Only in this case, they're leaving behind a second hole (Pit Number 1), currently naturally filled with water and being artificially filled with tailings, which is basically rock powder mixed with some chemicals from the extraction process, and about 80% as radioactive as the uranium extracted from it.

Is it any wonder there's a lot of people ticked off about this arrangement?

Shane starts the sport right away. "Get many greenies?"

"Not really," replies the guide. "We had a pack of them about two and a half years ago. We gave them a private tour with a scientist -- rather nice of us I think -- and they left for the south to harass loggers or wherever they came from."

Glug glug-- pit #1 slowly fills with chemically-poisoned and somewhat-radioactive rock dust called "tailings". But don't worry, the mining company will take care of it once the mines are depleted of ore. Right.

The sport continues throughout the tour, and is often more interesting than the tour itself, but the guide remains unflappable to the point where I start to wonder if she's actually a Disney Animatronic. She does an admirable job keeping to the party line and seems to genuinely think that the mine is a good idea even in a World Heritage Site, perhaps like a beauty mark on a pretty girl but more radioactive.

With the tour over, it's time to get back to our reason for being out here -- the Darwin Run! We head out to Darwin. But after an hour, the exhaust falls off the XJ6 for the third time. Shane and Jason get it strung up again, only to have it fall off for the fourth time a mere three miles down the track. This time their repair is a bit more successful.

After three days of driving with an occasionally-functional exhaust system, we'd become accustomed to attracting attention at petrol stops. Not that we were being swarmed with autograph-seekers or even people chatting us up, but the sight of this old and L-O-U-D XJ6 screaming off the highway at high speed, rolling up to the pumps, and three guys jumping out to fill the tank and jerricans, topping off oil and water, grabbing beverages, then back into the car and up the highway, seems to bring most everything else to a stop for the few minutes that we are there.

But in Annaburro we outdo ourselves. We already have the full attention of a pack of Japanese tourists. I am topping off the oil, when I hear a gurgling sound. I think to myself "Oh shi--"

BLOOEY!! The upper radiator hose explodes, dousing me in engine coolant. I stagger back. A dozen Japanese cameras click in unison. Look ma, I'm famous, the Annaburro Exploding Car Antifreeze Guy. "Well, that's gonna slow us down," I remark.

We're still a long way from any sign of an exhaust repair shop, so the boys once again make do with what's available and pray the kitty doesn't start a brush fire.

But I underestimate Australian resourcefulness. By the time I get cleaned up -- my glasses spared my eyes, so I did not require medical attention -- Shane and Jason have managed to get a bit of hose scavenged from the boot to fit on the engine, and we're ready to go. It barely fits, so there is some worry about whether it will hold for the remaining 40 miles, but we have little choice. There is not much hope of finding a proper hose out here.

Much to our relief, the hose does hold, and we arrive at Mirambeena Resort in Darwin without further incident. We park amongst the other Jaguars and have a look -- XK120s, XK140s, and XK150s abound, with a good representation of E-Types and even a few saloons. There are a couple of XJ-S coupes, but we seem to have the only XJ6. Most cars are more than 35 years old, and near-mint. It is, without a doubt, a true spectacle. We are looking forward to touring with these cars and their owners.

We get cleaned up as well as a pack like us can manage, and head to the opening reception. Here we meet David Laird, the coordinator. Shane introduces himself.

"I'm sorry, you're not on the register," Laird replies.

Shane reminds him of the conversation they had earlier in the year, when Laird had indicated that we could participate.

"I'm sorry, I have no recollection of that. You're not on the register, and we're all booked up. There's nothing I can do."

This was starting to sound not good.

"Oh look, interlopers!" someone nearby commented.

Yeah, definitely not good. We demand an explanation for how a run on public roads could be "booked". He gives a weak response about lodging and meals -- weak because we had no trouble getting into the Resort with no reservation. Disgusted, we decide David Laird is a two-faced lying elitist prick, and if the XK Register of the Jaguar Car Club of Victoria thinks he makes a good leader, then we would judge them by the company they keep. We'll see you wankers on the open road!