Across the Nullarbor Pt. 1: From Sydney to Perth in the back of a Toyota Corolla
Written by Floyd Ives - June 16th, 2025
Essentially, the vision was this.
Flee the state.
Start a rock band in Perth.
Fame and glory.
How it did go, is this.
I packed the car the night before to leave at 4am I slept in, and through a miracle that seven-time Tetris world championship winner Jonas Neubauer would be proud of, packed my entire life into the boot of a trusty and infamous 2006 Toyota Corolla Hatchback. And off we went, me behind the wheel, mum and sister in the passenger and back seats respectively.
Morale was delusionally high.
An hour in, I develop the noble and ingenious idea of sleeping in the backseat while Mum drives. Three hours in, we have our first breakdown. Mum is cruising down the highway at a brisk 60km when the inconceivable happens. The engine light turns on and the car begins jerking wildly, making strange noises that (and I’m no mechanic) suggest something is certainly rogered.
We pull onto the verge and click on the hazards.
‘Well that’s not good.’
Sister is already checking for flights home, but mum is preparing to camp. Out comes the gas cooker and sausages. We’re a mere three snags in as the sun starts inching towards the door without even stopping to say goodbye, and we hear the call of wild dogs in the distance. By now the National Roads and Motorists’ Association has been called and a tow is supposedly on the way, but as truck after truck cancels we begin to wonder if it really is the sausages the dogs are after.
I threaten to whip out the acoustic axe and lighten the mood with a song or two, in return I’m met with a pair of looks that suggest the dogs would be the least of my worries. Suddenly out of seemingly thin air the hulking rig of an Isuzu D-Max comes thundering to a halt just behind us on the verge, a sheep dog drooling lazily over the tinted window of the passenger’s door. A man hops out the driver’s side adorning a long beard, cargo shorts, and a trucker’s cap that reads:
If Jimmy can’t fix it, we’re screwed.
in a retro-looking-news-agent-birthday-card font.
‘You guys look like you could use a hand!’ That is a classically Australian understatement.
We graciously accept his hand, and pop the hood. The Bush Wizard does a routine check of our oil, coolant (Hmm, smells a little sweet. He says), and the air con before reaching under the car and producing a huge, long snake! Except it isn’t a snake, it’s the remains of our fan belt. ‘There’s your problem!’ the Bush Wizard exclaims in a tone that, in more optimistic circumstances, would usually warrant a She’ll be right or two.
We thank the Bush Wizard for his hand and close the hood. As we turn to offer a sausage as a token of our appreciation (as is customary in these sorts of situations), he, the dog, and the D-Max have vanished, leaving the tattered remains of our fan belt as the only evidence he was ever there.
We again phone the NRMA to inform them of our diagnosis, and they in turn inform us there has been another cancelled tow truck. The sun has well and truly set by the time a tow arrives. Our trusty rusty is hitched and we hop into the cabin. I drift off calmly in the back seat, to the swaying of the cab, musing about which Coldplay song’s chords I'm going to set this day’s events to.
The Toyota Corolla (2006). A car not known for its sport performance, its style, off-road capabilities or mileage to the gallon. A car synonymous with grandmothers and Coles car parks. A car terrified of gravel, and frustratingly friendly with the rear end of a tow truck. A vehicle that no self-respecting thief would steal, or used car salesman flog. A car, that I would not recommend driving 4,000 kilometres across Australia, from Sydney to Perth.
- Floyd Ives