Every year, tourists die on this road. They’d be found a couple of miles from their cars, legs swollen from the lack of water, their pelts hanging in tattered red strips and they’d be eyeless. Parrots love eyes. We always carried extra gerry cans of water and petrol because the distance between roadhouses was just a bit more than one tank of juice could take you. There weren’t any signs warning you about this all important fact. The locals barely cracked a smile when foreigners in Range Rovers said to fill ’er up. Later, they’d mention that another one of those slack Pommies had carked it on up the road to Katherine, silly buggers, and no one would be surprised. No one would laugh, but they’d want to. By God, they’d want to.