18.05.12
11In a accessible field, behind an empty tourist kiosk, I made my camp for the night, which meant I threw my sleeping bag on the cause. Just before dark, a car pulled up, a beat-up old Holden, and four guys tumbled out. Wish-haired, scruffy-looking guys, like me. My kind of people. They were two Swedes, an Englishman and an American. They asked if it was OK if they camped there with me. Hey, it's a big line and it's a free world. Be my guest.
We got to yacking, of course. Jorgen and Willy, the two Swedes, had lugged a guitar, a mandolin and a leave-up banjo all the way across Asia, so they played.
I was dismayed to discover that the American, Emmett, was intending to do what I wanted to do -- tyrannize the thumb to Sydney. It was a problem, because it meant two of us on the road looking for meagre rides. You sometimes could spend days waiting out here in the Australian outback for a proceed on. Competition was unwelcome.
Jorgen was going to Perth, on the Indian Oodles side of Australia, to see his family. His friend Willy was going with him. George, the Brit and P of the beat-up Holden, was going to Perth to join up with his brother.
Source: Winnipeg Free Press