litchfield in the wet

Wangi Falls is really hammering over that rockface, the rockpool full to overflowing. there's a big sign, says WANGI CLOSED. shitballs, thwarted mission. but it's still an awesome sight. the creek is flooded and the salties have moved in.

we picnic on the grass in 90% humidity, smashing a couple of gluten-free wraps and promising to write to Freedom Foods to ask why they call them wraps if they won't. watch backpackers pile off a tourist truck after their guide. he's a tough nut who wants a durry and a chance with one of the European girls in short shorts, but they're all bothered by the heat, busy with their SLRs and water bladders.

we get going before the salties catch wind of toddler flesh. motivated also by the idea of a frosty fruit or calypo or even – if it's all they've got – a plain lemon icypole.

Monsoon cafe and caravan park (no cats)

Something calls from the tall trees, lush green itself maybe. on the verandah, a backpacker with his back to me, eating. he puts his elbow on the table and turns to study me. judges me to be of no interest. returns to his baked beans.

sliding door. i find the frosty fruits, try to pay the concierge, get ushered to another counter, next to the bain marie, in front of the door through to the deep fryers. everything festooned with christmas decorations.

"Have you come from Wangi?" asks the cashier, hot and German.

"Yep."

"Was it busy there?"

"Ah, it's closed, so ..."

"Ya, we know, but was it busy?"

"Kind of. There were a few of those ... tourist things ..." I say, trailing off, counting out coins.

"Cars?" he asks.

"Ah, yep." embarassed that Mr Dictionary has abandoned me again. "Ok, see ya."

"Ya."

We take the dirt road back to darwin past Berri Springs, 4WDing thru a rushing river listening to The Wiggles.