Day 22: The Boring Day (A Heroic Struggle Against Nothingness)
The day started in the usual way: early rise, no breakfast in Cocklebiddy (their restaurant closes at 8AM sharp, as if anyone wants eggs before sunrise), and off we went, aiming for brunch at Madura. Noune did some work, I read the news, and away we rode.
Truth be told, this was the day that actually was pretty boring. Between Cocklebiddy and Border Village, there isn’t much — just two roadhouses about 100 kilometres apart: Madura and Mundrabilla. I ate at Madura, but Noune refused, convinced that her food poisoning on the way to Perth had originated there. She bravely held out for Mundrabilla instead, so we ended up with two brunches before midday. From there, straight on to Border Village, our overnight stop.
Border Village sits just 100 metres from the Western Australia – South Australia line. That gave us the chance to take the obligatory tourist photos we’d missed earlier: the Welcome to Western Australia sign, the Welcome to South Australia sign, and, naturally, the Big Kangaroo — a marvel of roadside kitsch so ridiculous that it swings all the way back around to being magnificent.
Just before crossing, though, one sign caught my eye. It read: “You don’t have to stop.” And it was clearly South Australia’s cheeky “up yours” to Western Australia. Translation: “Unlike our paranoid western neighbours, we don’t strip-search you at the border. We trust you. Welcome in.” I almost expected it to add: “Help yourself to a beer.”
With no scenery of note to grab my attention, I had time to wonder: why is crossing the Nullarbor still treated as a challenge? Decades ago, when the road wasn’t sealed and cars weren’t reliable, it was a true adventure. People broke down, people got stuck, and survival was not guaranteed. But today? The Eyre Highway is smooth as an airport runway, fuel stops appear every hundred kilometres, and there’s mobile reception more often than you’d think. The real difficulty isn’t physical — it’s psychological.
The road is so straight you can see headlights five kilometres away. The traffic is so sparse you sometimes question whether other human beings exist. And the silence isn’t the peaceful kind. It’s heavy, oppressive silence. It’s the desert reminding you that you’re nothing but a speck, and that if you disappear here, the Nullarbor won’t even notice. No wonder I counted at least half a dozen wrecks and burnt-out cars on the roadside. Maybe the drivers didn’t lose control of their cars — maybe they lost control of themselves.
My defense strategy? Keep busy. I sing (loudly and badly, thankfully nobody can hear). I recite poetry. And I hold long imaginary conversations with my friends. I’ve debated Kant and Schopenhauer with Leon (he was wrong, of course), argued about The Beatles and Led Zeppelin with Arthur (he was also wrong), and dissected Bach and Vengerov with Vigen (tragically wrong). For the record, I win every argument — mainly because they can’t interrupt me.
So yes, that was the big achievement of the day: not falling asleep. In fact, surviving the boredom of the Nullarbor might be the true test of human endurance. Forget Everest, forget the Sahara, forget the Amazon. If you can ride in a straight line for hours, over flat land with nothing to look at but scrub and sky, without dozing off or going insane — congratulations. You too are a hero.
Dinner done, day logged, time to read and sleep. Tomorrow, hopefully, will bring something worth staying awake for.
