Birdsville Beginnings

“Nicole, that ain’t good. You should get your ass back home and outta that shithole.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” I muttered, swatting aggressively at the flies dive-bombing my face, “but I am so fucking sick of these things.”

I was sitting out on the porch, outback hat pulled low, phone pressed to my ear. Pops was doing the same on his end — half a world away. It was 8 p.m. for him, 10 a.m. for me the following day. One of those unplanned, once-a-month kind of calls where you’re not really talking about anything important… until you are.

Gram was eavesdropping on the line too. I nearly jumped out of my skin when she suddenly chimed in, telling Pops it was time to “wrap it up” — I’d completely forgotten she was even there. The way she slipped into the conversation like that was almost as ridiculous as the time she called me out of nowhere just to say I should come home because “Justin is waiting for you.”

“Justin?” I couldn’t help but sputter.

“That boy would be perfect for you to marry,” she insisted. “He’s so close with your father, and they both ride dirtbikes.”

“Gram, you mean Justin from the beef jerky outlet? Not a fucking chance. He’s sweet, but thats not my story to fill. Don’t put that on me.”

“Whatever,” she huffed. Click. She actually hung up on me. She loves sitting in her chair next to the phone just making up little stories in her head, trying to make the famly picture perfect.Without skipping a beat, I dialed Marissa. “Oh my god,” I groaned, leaning into the drama. “You will not believe what Debbie just said…”

“’Scuse me, miss — are you on your way to Birdsville by any chance?”

Curled up at the edge of airport seating, waiting for my 730am flight I shot a quick glance over, pulling my headphones off one ear.

“Yep, sure am. What can I do for you?”

His eyes were golden green — I’d never seen anything like it before. He was wearing exactly what you’d expect from a proper rancher: a cowboy hat, boots, and a button-down to match. He had a Southern accent, which completely threw me for a spin. This was the great outback we were heading into after all.

The only other potential American I expected to see on this 40-passenger REX flight was my colleague Lexi — who I hadn’t even met yet nor spotted in the tiny crowd.

“You can call me Cliff. I work on a ranch about three hours south of Birdsville. It’s a haul — especially with all the roads flooded out that way — but nothing beats riding a horse in the bush.”

Ill believe it when I see it I thought to myself. The idea of heading into the great unknown should have felt familiar by now given all the bouncing around I’ve done but nope, just felt like I was losing my marbles.

We boarded on the tarmac, and my eyes ached from the glare of the sun on the wings — and from the entire bottle of rosé I’d consumed the night before. Nicole and I had been giggling on the 19th floor of her apartment overlooking Brisbane, watching golden hour just twelve hours earlier.

I found my seat at the back of the plane; Cliff’s was directly in front of mine. He looked back and winked at me. Thank the lord I had my sunglasses on , I was a bit awe struck at his audacity.Great — another man entering the storyline unannounced and unexpectedly.

“Why the hell are you going out that way? Sure doesn’t sound like fun.”

Yeah, no shit. The last thing I anticipated when I got divorced was taking off to one of the most isolated regions in Australia — population: 110. The people back home weren’t impressed, but all my “mates” in Sydney couldn’t help but hype me up. That was the energy I needed, knowing I was doing this to meet my visa renewal requirements for the following year. Even my first Hinge date in Oz, when he caught wind of my new pursuits, was like: “Aye Nic, you know they’ve got one of the best bars in Australia, right?”

“Nic, this is going to be a massive adventure — think of all the characters you’ll meet.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah — but my ocean, my beautiful ocean. I’ll have nothing but sand to stare into.”

So how did I end up in this position?A bit of backstory — I found this job listing on Facebook, in a backpackers group. I knew my 88 days were needed , seemed legit enough.I didn’t think much of applying, since I didn’t have the slightest clue what the hell I was doing with my future. Well, two interviews later — one of them at 7 a.m. in the foyer of my language school — I got the job. Out of 300 applicants and 60 people interviewed, I got the gig.

The CEO said, “You had resilience — that’s what I need to run the park.” For God’s sake, it was a camper van park in the middle of the bush, not the Ritz-Carlton. Im still shaking my head thinking about that as I pluck weeds by hand in the desert heat just to clean the parking lot up a bit.So there you have it — Facebook found me a job, and all my best friends in Syd… maybe it’s not so useless after all.

I packed up my Sydney life in just three weeks. After hunting through four different stores, I finally scored my first pair of steel-toe boots. It took me back to the flight over, when I was drifting in and out of sleep, imagining how cool it would be to look like a real tradie. I asked the cashier if the men’s work pants made me look like any less like a lady, and he practically tripped over his words. “No, not at all. You should buy two,” he stuttered. Not at $109.99 a pair. I’d been unemployed for a month while doing my CELTA, so one pair was plenty.

Subleasing my room couldn’t have been easier. I forced myself to say goodbye to the characters from that chapter and got the hell out of there. One note in particular stood out: “You put me on my spiritual journey, and I’m grateful for that.” A few waterworks followed — thank God for connecting me to those who could use a little more light. The tears lingered, though, as the future felt heavy. The reality is that I may never cross paths with some of these people again, simply because the legalities of our visas often get the best of us.

Landing in Birdsville is no easy feat. What normally would have been a two-hour flight took us seven, on account of stopping every 45 minutes for milk runs or supply runs— Toowoomba, Wellcamp, Charleville, Quilpie, and Windorah. We’d land, watch one or two people walk off nonchalantly, and then the rest of us would get off and stretch our legs. The land around us showed little more than a shed, a single gas tank for fuel, and a few lonely souls picking up their family members. Everyone on the flight seemed to know each other — except Cliff and me. That was, until I found Lexi in Charleville by the bathrooms. It was pretty obvious it was her, considering she was the youngest-looking person there.

Nestled in the southwest corner of Queensland, alongside the Diamantina River and the edge of the Simpson Desert, we landed in Birdsville. It was, ironically, more sprawling than I’d anticipated — if only because the cluster of buildings outmatched what Google Maps had promised. James and the team were there to welcome me home, trolleys in hand, braving the 35°C heat. Cliff snagged my Instagram handle before disappearing down the Birdsville Track toward South Australia in the back of some guy’s ute with a trail of dust his only goodbye.

There isn’t a whole lot going on here. We have a historic pub, the roadhouse — which doubles as the petrol station and general store — a gym tucked behind the information center, and the tourist park where I’m stationed. If you were to rock up to my shared cabin, you’d find a squeaky front porch overlooking the vastness of the Queensland interior. I’ve renamed our cottage “Courage’s Place,” as the porch facing the desert reminds me exactly of the house from Courage the Cowardly Dog.

Walking into our place for the first time, a wave of relief washed over me when I spotted the AC unit above my queen-sized bed — an actual air conditioner. I hadn’t had one in my bedroom since the summer of 2024.

I think that’s when I started to fall in “love” with being here.

The first few days were an easy adjustment. Grocery shopping at the roadhouse hurt my soul — I dropped $26 on just a kilo of rice, a block of cheese, and a loaf of bread. Lexi and James acclimated to outback life by chain-smoking cigarettes; a $60 box alone was enough to deter me. Still, I liked sitting on the back steps with them, gossiping and watching thousands of flies swarm the overhead lights.

Life in a campervan park is quiet — sleepy. It is the in-between season currently , the shoulder period where summer shifts into autumn without substantial any real difference in temperature. We thought we’d ease into the season — smooth sailing but I was quickly proven wrong.

Suited up in my prison-garb ensemble — white tee, boots, and heavy pants — I made the slow trek across the gravel lot. With only one sparky on the books, the place felt abandoned. I reached for my phone to kill the “Cares Collection” and let “Surf and Smoke” take over. That’s when I saw it: a message flashing against the glare of the desert sun.

“I’m pulling into Birdsville now. See you in a bit.” — Cliff.

What the fuck? It hadn’t even been five days, and this guy had already driven the three hours back to Birdsville — for what? I radioed James to give him a heads up.

“Nicole, he and his mate are checking into room 6. The guy is weird as — pacing the office, giving me daggers like I’m the only thing standing between him and you. Sorry (not sorry) that it takes 15 minutes to process a booking. Why the hell is he here?”

Unbelievable. Now I’m tiptoeing around the park, trying to avoid him while I’m just trying to do my damn job — bleaching toilet bowls and changing sheets. No chance. He called and asked if I wanted to “say hi.” I was busy, but I knew seeing him was inevitable.

After my shift, I dragged Lexi along to scope things out. A full moon was rising, and we both knew the drill: that’s when the frequency shifts and the crazies start to crawl out.

“Heeey y’all,” I called, rocking up to their doorstep. They were chain-smoking and drinking rum with coke. I could get behind free rum — it had been a week since any of us had a drink. There’s no real access to liquor out here except at the pub, so this felt like a win.

Without prying, I couldn’t help but wonder what on earth brought them back to town. “You flew back from Israel to start at the cattle station not even five days ago — why are you here?”

“Oh, we just wanted to go fishing and hang.”

Translation: I wanted to see you, and it seemed easy. My skin crawled. The whole thing felt familiar — the predatory edge of a situation I’d been in before. We sat there playing Bullshit and drinking. I called every bluff he threw; he was never a good liar. I was irked by the small stuff, too, like him sipping from my mug. Lexi and I just glanced at each other across the table, sharing a silent, knowing look. Then the realization sank in: Lexi and I would have to be the ones to clean that room. Fuck.

The politics came up, and Lexi was out. She faked a 5 a.m. landscaping shift like a pro, but I was honestly annoyed to go; I was so invested in those alien videos that I was insulted he wanted to pivot into political lecturing. We kept our heads down and stayed off the lit paths on the way back, ensuring they had no idea where we lived.

He was playing a character — leaning into this exaggerated southern accent, this version of himself meant to come off aloof, a little daft. But he was a lot smarter than he let on, and we needed to be careful.

In the mornings, I routinely take a few minutes to pray and watch the birds glide through the sky for their first feed. This day was no different as I huddled by the screen door scoping out the day ahead safe from insect attacks.

“Morning, beautiful,” my phone read.

Ugh. God.

“Wanna go fishing with us?”

Yeah… I’d be down for that actually. lolz.

I knew I was stepping into the unknown. While others were content just settling in and staying put, I felt the pull to see what else was out there. I went regardless, fueled by a single thought: God, the story is going to be so good.

Barefoot, casting a line into the overrun from the billabong, I tried not to aggressively swat the flies away. I’d left my fly net at home, wanting to look casual — now I was just living with regret.

“You got a knife in that bean bag? Proper Aussie already hey?” the mate teased me.

“No knife here. You reckon I should have one on me next time?”

Why would they ask such a question? It felt like the plot of a murder movie — two against one. Silly me, with my little hat on and the string tucked as tightly as it could go under my chin. Just a sitting duck.

A total lapse in judgment. Somehow, I was alone in the bush with him, his mate having disappeared into the dust. I kept casting, a rhythmic retreat — one step back for every step he took forward. Lexi’s “Checking” text hit my phone just as the ute pulled back up, carrying a new guy in the passenger seat who was already well past the point of sober.

What the hell am I doing?

“What do you look for in a man? What kind of man do you want? Are you opposed to getting married?”

Jeez. Immediate ick. I was over it. Take me home — drop me on the side of the road, I’d happily walk two miles back in steel-toes.

I ended up in the back of the ute — one girl, three guys. My eyes caught the airfreshie swinging from the mirror, a “Brookvale Union” tag. It felt like a ghost of home, just a stone’s throw from my old Sydney apartment. Even in the middle of nowhere, pieces of the past have a way of lingering.

“You wanna drink at the shed with us? Im banned by that dumb C**t at the pub, she’s a massive fat bitch.”

“Nah, mate, I’m good. Thanks.”

The random bloke — Troy — slurred, “I been to New York once.”

“Oh yeah? Just like you’ve seen the ocean too, right?”

-Outside the tourist park entrance

“Can I get a hug?”

Why do predators always find me? I wondered. It must be my light — my aura.

“I’ll see you later,” I lied. No fucking way.

Lexi and I spent the night in our living room, talking shit and making dinner. James was at the pub with the CEO when he texted:

“Cliff is giving me daggers. He’s been stationed right beside me at the bar all night, yet hasn’t uttered a single word.”

Then, right on cue, my phone buzzes:

“I’m coming to get you. You should be here.”

Absolute no from me, mate.

When James returned, he was a bit boozed up and yapping away. He headed out to fire up a heater and mentioned just how hammered Cliff had been — apparently, he’d spent at least four hours there, getting absolutely wrecked. James was mid-sentence when the sound of tires on gravel cut him off.

Cool. So he’s drunk driving through the park. I love that for us. All our eyes were wide, just tracking the sound.

We flicked the back light off and froze. James ushered us in — “Lights off.” We watched from the window as Cliff paced outside our place on the corner. He was typing messages, deleting them, rewriting them via insta dm’s directly to me.

Yep. Exactly what a controlling psycho would do.

All four of us eventually lost it. Pure hysteria. We were laughing at the sheer madness of the situation — and the very real danger I’d dragged us into. It’s hard not to find the irony in it, especially since the first night we met, they’d been casually talking about shooting cattle skulls for fun.

I do love a good story though — ex-Israeli lieutenant escapes Israel to become a cowboy in the Outback.

God, how were we all 29/30 acting like we were 16 again? My stomach hurt from laughing so hard.

Mia, from Southern China, shook her head and muttered, “Every day, Nicole — it’s culture shock here. Why are men like this?”

After a while, once he finally got the hint, James yelled inside, “Alrighty folks — time for another smoke break,” laughing to himself.

It’s currently week 2 of 25 here in Birdsville, and it feels like we’re living in the middle of a scene from A Bug’s Life — aesthetically speaking. The initial novelty of outback life is starting to wear off.

I’ve rebranded myself head gardener — a title I very confidently gave myself — I spend more time bent over inspecting dead bugs than I’d like to admit. I’ve also started collecting broken glass for future mosaics and even volunteered to deep-clean the laundry room, front to back despite the door that leads to the sewer sytem, an actual snake pit of terror..

Our biggest excitement in the past three days? Getting the roadhouse cashier’s phone number. After wandering in this morning to buy salsa and chips ($12, by the way), I casually mentioned that the gang had dropped $400 on 25 bottles of wine and asked if he could text me when it arrived. Turns out, everyone at the gas station also works at the airport unloading planes. Who knew Dan Murphy’s would deliver all the way out here? ETA: 23 business days.

The four of us have been low-key fiending for this bloke’s number since the day we arrived — not for any real reason, other than the fact that he’s a fellow backpacker and we clearly need the drama of another character in the mix. Plus, he literally lives across the street… which is also the only street in town.

The locals here are quietly shy. I managed to meet the ladies at the hospital — after dropping $500 on some basic UTI meds — only to randomly run into them again at a local macramé class. Yes, believe it or not, this town actually has community events. They’ve even accepted us into their community Facebook group… all 128 members of it. What’s even more laughable are the folks who approach you saying, “Aye, I saw your video on Facebook! Good to meet ya.

Once the magic fades, I’m not sure how excited I’ll be to watch sunsets and sunrises every day — coffee in hand, book open — six months from now. But if it means I’m saving money, I’m okay with it. Lord knows I could use it.

For now, I’ll keep walking barefoot to the main office to teach english lessons after hours, hoping the snakes stay hidden — watching butterflies dance through the yard and grasshoppers scatter through the grass, parting like Moses at the Red Sea as I walk onwards.

I know now it’s the quiet before the storm.