I first met R up in Broome at a party in our campground where cocktails and other mood enhancers were being thrown around freely. This was the peak of the season up there, with still warm nights and warmer days under the sweltering sun, always marked by a thin layer of fine, red dust. The respite from the heat of the day gave way to flawless sunsets that reflected off the sand like a mirage at Gantheume or Cable Beach; backpackers and like-minded locals always made the most of the magic that the Kimberleys have to offer around that time of year with a beer in hand and a smile in their faces.

I had seen her around the campground before, being the centre of attention as she sometimes was (after a few drinks, that is) by trying to balance herself inside the cardboard box of one of the new small kitchen fridges whilst trying not to spill the drink in her hand. She ended up getting stuck, of course, and the sheer carelessness towards what others might think as everyone laughed struck a peculiar first impression. These moments of pure folly that never failed to lift the spirits in the room were usually complimented by a famous phrase I would come to be accustomed to. ‘I’m Russian!’ she would yell, more in defiance for another challenge than justification for any unbecoming behaviour. I would come to understand the uttering of this phrase as the moment that R turned into her feral, pure self. This contrasted perfectly with her shy, subtle self on non-drinking days – not that many of them up there that time of year – that could be completely flipped upside down by night.

The bond we started to share from that night was taken to the next level at another party, out bush this time, where R caught herself so immersed in her folly that she decided it was a good idea to do a front flip over the bonfire. I was only called onto the scene after the fact, of course, being brought back from my trance of speakers-and-lights-show-in-no-man’s-land hypnosis to her rescue. She had pulled the flip off, I was told later, but upon landing, her right hand softened her fall over the coals; the holes in her synthetic windbreaker told a whole story the day after. When I arrived at the scene and held her mangled hand in mine, our over-stimulated dilated pupils met and she smiled at my concerned face; the blaring music from the party speakers shifted somehow, and the blue in her eyes took centre stage. I cared, and I guess that the following day when I drove her to the hospital fighting more than a hangover, our friendship was taken to a different level. These are the raw tales and facets of R’s nature that I came to admire whilst we kept each other company for my holiday up there from uni.

*

The time to go back to reality arrived, and I hit the road with a full heart and a car covered in red dust and fine white sand that filled every crevice. The long drive down all the way to Perth differed greatly from my time in Broome; the everlasting warmth of tarmac stretching far, far ahead, its petroleum dark contrasting with the fire orange dirt as falcons circled above or rested lazily on the fence lines, keeping watch for roadkill or any critter brave enough to cross the threshold. A 24-hour drive will clear your head like nothing else, with nought but your own thoughts to entertain you and the bonnet swallowing the road underneath you.

Me and R kept in touch afterwards, and we became closer over texts and messages. There is an unspoken bond that can form over communication via written word, an ease of thought and deliberation that can be hard to get face to face. Several weeks passed and I agreed to come visit for uni break week.

This time I flew up on a Friday, after a long day at work, and I was looking forward for some relaxing time when I got up there. But I found myself being slightly reticent about the situation when I landed as if this marked the first time that we actually went out of our way to be together, when everything had just fallen into place ever so naturally before. She felt the same when I got there and I could tell; but this was Broome at night now, and the night was warm, the sky was full of stars and the possibilities were endless.

She picked me up with a girlfriend in her van, and after a swift pitstop at the Roey bottle shop, we were en route to a party at Crab Creek. This worked well in breaking the thin layer of ice that had formed between us, a respite from addressing the uneasiness we both felt of being together again following the endless texts we had exchanged leading up to this. All of these thoughts bounced in my head, along with my beer, as her van braved the corrugated dirt road that rattled us awake back to no man’s land, her friend sitting between us in the middle seat.

We arrived at the party and got amongst it. I realised that most of the people I had met up there had been seasonal visitors, such as myself, and I now found myself surrounded by mostly strangers. The setting made everything weirder, a couple of big speakers and some laser and flashing lights that blinded you underneath the dark, towering canopies of trees surrounding the night sky. The music wasn’t doing its thing either, and the little people I knew seemed surprised to see me back in town, under such different circumstances. The drinks kept flowing to ease the uneasiness, and despite the inflatable crocodiles and flamingos, a hint of discomfort and doubt bubbled within me. Me and R were happy to see each other, of course, but the fact that I had flown all this way up for her and her only now became real; the people all around us prevented us from addressing what we both must have been thinking.

Finally, one of the established locals came out with a handful of mushroom powder, and a little group conveniently gathered around as is usually the case in this sort of situation. I had heard of this bloke, some good and mostly bad things that get told around in a small town like this. A stupid need to make a good impression and taking the bait seemed like the only reasonable thing to do. It is safe to say that if my inability to see in the dark and perceive the folly around me was bad before, this little handful took everything to a different level. Psychedelics have a way of enhancing how you feel, and I felt weirder and weirder around this batch of strangers. The eucalyptuses surrounding us fuzzed over the night sky as I became increasingly unaware of what the hell was happening; the party lights blinded me through the night like laser beams straight to my brain. R was pretty out of it too, both of us lost in a piece of forest by a creek I was completely unfamiliar with. Wash it all down with room-temperature beer and you are in for a hell of a ride.

Towards the moment I remember to have perceived as the end of the night, me and R finally found ourselves alone when she decided to go for a swim. This particular part of Crab Creek is composed of a treacherous conglomerate of rocks straight off the beach, and after I managed to hinder her efforts for a swim, she set her mind on catching an octopus in the slippery rocks and rising tide – or was it? Add all of this rollercoaster to my impaired vision and the fact that that particular part of the country is notorious for crocodiles, and you get why this specific moment made a mark on me.

 In the end, we managed to survive, R being relatively unharmed, apart from a few bumps and scratches. We found ourselves frolicking in the humid sand, too far gone to do anything and myself too paranoid to relax: the thought of a crocodile consuming me in my blind folly a constant in the back of my scrambled brain.

R lost her phone in the bush sometime after that and I convinced her I had had my share of emotions for the first night. We pulled up to the van to find a fellow backpacker inside, rolling a joint or something else I failed to perceive. Despite the state of affairs, I talked to him for a while whilst trying to understand his relationship with R, trying to put the pieces together of why he was in her van. When the slurred conversation was finally exhausted, I managed to blurt out something along the lines of: Hey bro, do you mind leaving now? I really need to sleep, to which he replied amusedly that that was his van, not R’s. I over-apologised and promised to make it up to him for the embarrassment the following day. It is safe to say that I never saw this bloke again, and if I did, I certainly would have never recognised him.

The final hurdle in this rollercoaster of darkness and confusion was finally overcome and we crashed out, the banging of the sliding door bringing an end to the festivities. I felt a rush of emotions and fireworks when I closed my eyes, but the distance between me and R had now evaporated. I embraced the spectacle unfolding inside my overstimulated brain and fell asleep.

I woke up some time later, not long considering it was still dark and the music was still cavalcading in all its wobbly glory. I pushed the sliding door open and froze in my tracks when I saw a crocodile right outside our van. We were parked right along the creek, and the croc just seemed to be lying there in waiting, ready to pounce on sinful, careless ravers. My brain must’ve skipped a beat then, for I can’t remember anything following that. Was it all just a dream? I woke up the next morning outside the van, mounted on an inflatable crocodile forgotten next to it. Whether this was a brazen attempt to tackle my fears in a drunken bout of bravery or a loving, animal-caring embrace after overcoming my paranoia, I will never know.

I got up and admired the beauty of the place where I had thought I was going to die the night before, happy to have my all-essential sense of vision back. Brain seemed to still be working in order, or thereabouts. The tide was coming in over the rock pools and a few straggled ravers snoozed about on the silky white sands.

 I jumped in the water, regained composure of my own, forever-changed self and walked up to wake R with a morning kiss.