Supper, also called tea, was served early the day of my departure so Mary could watch me eat one last hearty meal. Even though she was sending me to her daughter in Coober Pedy, Mary fretted and fussed, packing sandwiches and juice.

"Now you know not to stop for anyone, don't you?" She massaged her face and peered from her worrisome screen of cigarette smoke until I nodded.

"And you particularly don't stop for those black fellows, those Aborigines," she said. "They'll make you think they need help and steal your petrol. Bugger you! Leave you there!" she exclaimed, hands waving.

I'd already heard many fables of wily Aborigines stealing petrol; hitching a ride for themselves and eight friends hiding in the bush; even a story about a fellow who towed a car and seven Aborigines two hundred clicks into town to discover the car never had an engine.

"Oh, dear," she chaffed, alternately patting her neck and tugging her hair. She sprang to life again, as she was wont to do, and rushed to a cabinet.

"Here, you take this," she said, still rummaging. "Oh dear, where is it now, it's here, don't leave yet, ah!"  She beat the air with a shiny object and forced it into my hands.

"You take this and if any of those black folks try to pull you over, you wave this at them and they'll be scared and run away." 

I looked down and held my breath to suppress my laughter. She had given me a toy cap pistol.