Once upon an outback roadhouse ...

Location:
Australia

outback, dingo, roadhouse

By Megan Ranney

After weeks of sun-drenched hedonism at Bondi Beach, I’d flown to the heart of the red center, eager to see the Australia of brochure inlays and travel agency windows – vast red deserts and scraggly spinifex, men in Akubras drinking beer as wild kangaroos hopped casually by. I longed for a genuine Aussie experience, something I couldn’t see back home in the States. What I found was a dusty highway roadhouse and a singing dingo named Dinky.

My tour group had left King’s Canyon after an intense hike in the blistering 45ºC heat – 113ºF for me, the group’s lone Yankee. Northern Territories heat wasn’t like New South Wales heat, encouraging sliced mango on hostel rooftops and afternoon naps on the beach. This heat was dry and flat, like the inside of a car in July. My thighs stuck resolutely to the vinyl bus seat; I left a sheen of perspiration wherever my bare skin brushed.

Our air-conditioning sputtered out minutes into our 4-hour bus ride back to Alice Springs, no match apparently for the searing heat. Wilting, we passed a spray bottle of tepid water from hand to sweaty hand. The aisle was littered with shed hiking boots; damp socks fluttered drying from the half-open windows.

To mollify the group, our tour guide promised a stop at a roadhouse in Stuart’s Well with bathrooms, cold drinks, and a swimming pool.

“And a singing dingo!” He added cheerfully.

We rumbled into Jim’s Place beside a pen of indifferent camels, throwing up a cloud of red dust in our wake. The building was squat and unassuming; the pool lay still behind a chain link fence, dotted with leaves and floating bugs. So much for swimming, I thought.

Inside, I ordered two icy cans of Tooheys – drinking Fosters a mortifying American faux pas – and pressed one dripping to the nape of my neck. A cheerful, bearded man led a well-fed dingo slinking to the front of the room. Hitching his pants, he smiled broadly.

“G’day,” he said, resting a thick forearm on top of a piano. “My name is Jim and this handsome fella’ here’s Dinky.”

He gestured with a flourish to where Dinky lay panting under the pool table, stretched out on his side. Dinky, Jim explained, was a cherished family pet, rescued from a cat-trap as a pup. As evidenced by the newspaper clippings and magazine articles papering the walls, he was known internationally as the world’s most recognizable – and probably only - singing dingo.

“Dinky has an ear for music,” Jim said proudly. “He can pick out a tune and sing right along. Who here knows how to play?”

Peter, a lanky Swede traveling Australia on holiday, rose tentatively. Jim clapped him good-naturedly on the back, leading him to the piano bench.

“Now Dinky’s not very particular,” Jim instructed, “but he fancies songs that’re upbeat.” Dozing contentedly on the wood floor, Dinky gave no indication of a preference either way.

Peter stretched his fingers over the keyboard and picked out the few first bars of Für Elise. From his place under the pool table, Dinky’s ear twitched delicately. As Peter hit a sour note, Dinky leapt to his feet and let out a howl. With a burst of his sleek hind legs, he hopped to piano bench and stepped onto the keyboard with a muffled tinkle.

Uncertain, Peter paused. “Go on,” Jim encouraged. As Peter resumed, Dinky howled like an air raid drill, his long nose aimed skyward. Prancing indiscriminately over both the keys and Peter’s hands, his bushy tail wagged time against Peter’s face as he sang his dingo heart out.

With the last notes fading, Dinky readied himself for his grand finale. Sucking in a belly full of air, he closed his eyes and let loose a braying howl, his mouth a concentrated “O” of effort. Jim thrust his hands into his pockets, his face creased in a deep grin.

“What’d I say?” He beamed. “Bloody good pitch! Like a bloody rock star!”

I was enchanted. It wasn’t playing the didge around a roaring campfire or swagging under the stars, but this was the authentic Australia I’d hoped for. The two cans of Tooheys, of course, hadn’t hurt either.

Further Information

Other helpful information: Bring money for food and cold drinks - the selection isn't much but after hours on the road it doesn't really matter!

Must see/do at this place: Dinky the singing dingo, of course

You should avoid here: The swimming pool. Swimming only seems like a good idea until you have to pull back on your dusty jeans and sit for hours in a bus