The population this side of Never Never was so sparse, I navigated using only a map of the nation. Dots scattered like knuckle bones across the outback occasionally consisted of two or three shops but were often just roadhouses dropped among the mulga.

Alice Springs was large for such a remote town. As I wandered the streets a young British fellow joined me on my hunt for the post office. After dropping our relatives postcards to assure them that we weren't dead yet, we went to a local café to share a cup of tea.

The young man's journey had begun with three friends, a shared car and shared expenses. Incessant bickering over who was paying for what had finally split the group apart. I had heard many similar tales from others, some of whose marriages had not survived the grand tour.

The Brit had decided to finish his travels by bus. But that choice had its own difficulties and he shared some of them with me.

"These bleedin' bus tours," he groused, "are worse than the fights. Cramped in a tiny seat, next to people I don't even like, all for twenty minutes or an hour at the destination."

"Yea," I said, "must be pretty awful. I kinda feel sorry for you."

"Good," he said, "because I feel sorry for me, too."