When I arrived back in Halifax, I discovered that the little sidestreet with the hotels was in fact the main drag. I checked in at the suitably named Halifax Hotel, run by Jim and Michelle, great folk. The hotel was about 100 years old, ancient in Aussie terms, especially inland. Twenty bucks got me a white-washed panelled room with 12-foot ceilings and double bed, all to myself. There were no locks on the doors, not a problem since the only other guests were a live-in who had been there two years, and a guy from Charters Towers who came here to get away from it all, sit on the veranda, sip his red wine, and read his book uninterrupted. I had a shower to wash away the Getz grime, shaved, and headed to the pub downstairs to see who else was about.
I ended up talking to Cynthia, a woman in her 40's (I'd say) who was of Aboriginal descent. We chatted about the Bush administration and what is was like to live so close to the States, past lives, rooting, how her friends thought she was psychic, overpopulation, and Aboriginal philosophy. Then she asked me if I was interested in the French Revolution. I mean, I did an essay on it in high school, and think of it now and again when I feel powerless against the powers that be in this day and age, but aside from that, not much. She told me that in a past life, I had been a commander in the Revolution, and I had a mate from then who continued to watch over me. "In fact, he's standing here now, just over your right shoulder." I froze, and felt a chill run up my neck. I've heard a lot of crazy stuff before, but when someone tells me there's a ghost right next to me.... We chatted a bit more, but once she got a bit more toasted and switched back to the topic of rooting, I disentangled myself from the conversation before it got weirder.

I liked the atmosphere here in Halifax, quiet, out of the way, and thus decided to scrap my mission to Mission Beach all together and stay here for a couple more days, sitting on the veranda, sipping beer, and writing in my journal uninterrupted. I learned from some locals that there were crocs in the river around the corner from the hotel, and after a hike and a peek (I paid attention as to how to spot them too, no need to end up the subject of an "ignorant tourist" news item), but I guess the crocs were shy. I was also stressing a bit about not hearing from the DJ on Maggie, as he had been the reason I was killing time around Townsville in the first place.

I left Halifax on the 1st of September, saying ciao to Jim, Michelle, and Charters Towers guy, and headed off to Ravenswood, an abandoned mining town I'd read about. It took me about an hour to drive back to Townsville, where I found the turnoff to the Flinders Highway, and headed further inland into the scrub and heat. With absolutely no traffic aside from myself, and a speed limit of 110, it felt great just to drive.