Sandy Supposes....

May 5th, Coober Pedy

         I am hanging my head and muttering to myself. I missed the train yesterday. I'll admit I may have dawdled. After all of that adrenalin thrumming in my veins during my Sydney sojourn, I crashed. When I stumbled into the station, The Ghan was gone. I, of course, did pause to ponder my predicament.

         I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I could not actually catch a train. The only running I do now is sometimes running on empty. The ol' knees refuse to expel that type of undignified, unnecessary waste of energy. I opted to plead with a purveyor of rental vehicles and in the local parlance, I hired a Jeep. Yep, I opted to partake of a mad desert run across country to rejoin the train tour. My jostling, dusty journey afforded me to really feel the grittiness of the sand. No, the red sands of Coober Pedy are not particularly tasty. I'm not sure if my eyes appear to be reddened because of my lack of sleep, or that infernal, pervasive dust.

         I arrived to get down and dirty mining for opals. I just rushed the dirty part. What's another layer?

         May I stress the heat of this desolate place? Is this desert community really a sauna? I must say I thoroughly enjoyed the tour of the dugouts excavated into the sandstone hills. Residing underground is a novel approach to avoiding that extreme heat. Caves are indeed cool . Does this give new meaning to the Aussie term down under ?

         The warning signs topside gave me pause. Apparently, there are abandoned mine shafts everywhere and watch your step seems to be a local greeting. The signs advise me not to walk backwards, as if. I was also admonished not to run, but as I already explained my cranky knees watch my back. If I had been warned not to trip, I could not have complied. The knees believe that is acceptable and most likely probable.

         I can understand the allure of the opal. Many of us are attracted to the shiny, the pretty, the hidden. The local opal miners are no different than the gold prospectors. They live for the thrill of the hunt, the surprise pay dirt, the almighty mother lode. Just one more search. Just explore one more vein. Just dig a little more. That elusive big strike is here somewhere waiting to be discovered.

         I admire the tenacity of the Coobers. They epitomize resilience. They see far more than a barren landscape.

         By the end of the day, no one had succumbed to the dangers/temptations of an open hole. Imagine the rescue fuss if this calamity had befallen one of us clueless tourists? Would several someones shout, "One in the hole!" Is there appropriate slang such as "he/she is hole'd up", or is the correct vernacular "he/she's shafted"? I've heard of 'walkabout'. Is there a "fallabout"? Would there be rampant confusion if say a woman named Opal slipped into one of those former mine openings and it would need to be announced that "Opal's in the shaft"? Who would ken that to be a bad thing? Now I'm curious. How many of the local females are named Opal? I ask this of woman named June. "Were you born in that month?"

         I must be dehydrated. My mind is wandering without me again.