Stories about dad: Dad’s petrol rebellions

My dad was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a reckless rule-breaker. In almost every arena of life, he was a steady, methodical man who respected boundaries, followed instructions, and kept well within the lines.

Except when it came to petrol.

The moment volatile hydrocarbons were involved, a rogue, undercover operative emerged from inside the mild-mannered dentist.

Every year, our family embarked on an annual holiday to Eight Bells, a lovely guest farm nestled in the mountains near Mossel Bay. The ritual always began in the pitch black of five in the morning, loading into the car while the rest of the neighborhood was fast asleep.

About halfway into the six-hour journey, with the fuel gauge hovering uncomfortably near empty, Dad would execute a maneuver worthy of a Cold War thriller. At the exact same undisclosed spot along the route every year, he would peel off the highway and pull deep into a concealed clearing out of sight of passing traffic.

While Mum unpacked breakfast—a Tupperware tub of cold sausages and pungent hard-boiled eggs whose sulfurous aroma I dreaded—Dad got down to business.

He would cast a furtive, conspiratorial glance across the empty veld to ensure no police patrols were lurking, pop the boot, and hoist out a heavy jerry can of illicit fuel. Under South Africa’s strict oil embargo and rationing laws of the era, hoarding and transporting private reserves of fuel like this was entirely illegal. Dad would place a funnel into the neck of the fuel tank and pour the bootleg petrol directly into the car, his eyes darting toward the tarmac like an international smuggler topping up between borders.

The dangerous streak didn't end on the highway; it was an essential fixture of our weekend family braais.

Dad cooked over a colossal half-barrel he had personally sliced and welded from a full steel drum in his workshop. His fire-building was a masterclass in structural engineering: he laid out thick logs in an immaculate, hollow rectangle, meticulously crisscrossing the timber to create an architectural chimney.

Any ordinary backyard cook might reach for dry twigs, pine cones, or scrunched-up newspaper to coax the fire to life. Not Dad.

He would stride over with his beloved container of petrol and generously douse the entire timber structure in fuel until the logs were thoroughly soaked. Next came the choreography: he would take precisely two measured paces backward, strike a match, and flick it into the hollow core.

WOOSH!

It was less an ignition than a localized sonic boom. The air would displace with a tremendous roar of heat and light, instantly engulfing the drum in a towering inferno of orange flame. The logs were roaring within a split-second.

Standing before the blast, his eyebrows intact and the heat reflecting in his green eyes, Dad would wear an expression of supreme, quiet satisfaction. It was as though the secret stuntman buried deep within his soul had been granted his ritual fix, leaving him thoroughly appeased and ready to return to his peaceful, risk-averse life until the next tank needed filling.

Stories about dad: The backstreet pick-up

For most of our youth, Dad was decidedly, magnificently uncool.

His everyday wardrobe consisted of aggressively sensible button-downs paired with high socks pulled taut against knee-length, unfashionable shorts. But his absolute crowning glory of uncoolness was his fleet of cars.

He owned two vehicles: a battered red Volkswagen Beetle and an aging, scuffed VW Type 3 Variant station wagon. Today, vintage Beetles are prized counter-culture icons, but back then, an old red Bug merely functioned as a bright beacon drawing unwanted attention to your total lack of street cred.

The Variant was worse. It was painted a truly dreadful, unappetizing mustard yellow, covered in scratches, and treated entirely as an industrial workhorse. Dad used it primarily to haul his heavy model locomotives and track gear back and forth from his beloved train club. To him, the aesthetics were utterly irrelevant. Being naturally gifted with tools and mechanics, he kept both engines purring in immaculate mechanical order. As long as the pistons fired sweetly, he saw zero reason to waste good money replacing a car just because the exterior looked like it had survived a minor skirmish.

My sister Jo, however, was in the full throes of teenage image preservation. The mustard Variant was her ultimate mortal enemy.

Whenever Dad came to collect us after the final bell, Jo laid down strict tactical protocols: under no circumstances was the yellow monstrosity permitted to breach the school gates. Dad was politely instructed to park two blocks away in a discreet side alley, allowing her to slink out to the car under cover of relative anonymity.

Dad never took offense. He simply took his post in the backstreet, engine ticking over quietly, perfectly amused by her youthful paranoia.

Then came his fiftieth birthday—and with it, an astonishing, wholesale metamorphosis.

It was as if a switch flipped overnight. Dad grew a full, distinguished beard that immediately gave his face immense warmth, gravitas, and character. He ditched the drab conservative palette and started striding around in vibrant, brightly patterned short-sleeve shirts—pioneering the vibrant aesthetic years before Nelson Mandela made the Madiba shirt a global fashion statement.

To complete the transformation, he inherited some money from his own father and promptly traded the dusty air-cooled fleet for a sleek, second-hand BMW.

In one glorious leap, our quiet, sock-pulling dad had become the coolest man in Cape Town.

The irony, of course, was cruel in its timing. Jo would have given anything to lean against that gleaming BMW right outside the main gates as crowds of schoolmates walked past. But by the time Dad finally arrived at peak cool, her school days were behind her.

Silverton

Places visited in Silverton

Falling in love with Silverton

I fell in love with Silverton almost as soon as I arrived. Red earth, old buildings and the iconic Silverton Hotel give it that quintessential outback feel. As a movie buff, I was delighted to discover that the town is something of a film star in its own right. Its buildings and the extraordinary stretch of road out towards the Mundi Mundi Lookout, with those vast views across the plains, have appeared in many films. Most famously, Mad Max 2 was filmed here—an iconic movie I love and still one of the greatest action films ever made. Naturally, I had to visit the town’s Mad Max museum! Between the movie history and the photographic opportunities around every corner, Silverton completely won me over.

These are just some of the movies and TV series filmed in and around Silverton—there are plenty more. The walls of the Silverton Hotel are plastered with photos from film shoots, including wonderful behind-the-scenes glimpses of how the movies were made. I could have spent ages looking at them. For a movie buff like me, the whole town is a delight.

Penrose Park

I camped at Penrose Park, just outside Silverton, and was surprised to discover how much history this peaceful place holds. For decades it was a favourite picnic spot for people from Broken Hill. In 1937 it opened as a recreation reserve for miners and their families, and I loved imagining the crowds who once came here for a day out.

From my campsite, a delightful short walk took me across a gorgeous dry creek and into town. I was especially pleased to find an old steam locomotive in the park. I’ve always loved steam trains: they’re so photogenic, and they never fail to make me think of Dad.

Photographing the old buildings of Silverton

I loved wandering around Silverton with my camera, photographing the old buildings that have survived from its mining days. It’s hard to imagine now, but in the 1880s Silverton was a bustling town of around 3,000 people, drawn by the discovery of silver and lead. Then the richer mines at nearby Broken Hill took off, and Silverton began to fade. Many of its buildings were even hauled away to Broken Hill by teams of camels, bullocks and donkeys! That made the ones still standing feel all the more precious to me. Each seemed to hold a little piece of the town’s remarkable history.

The old Municipal Chambers was one of my favourite buildings to photograph. Completed in 1889, it dates from the brief period when Silverton was thriving enough to have its own council. I loved its simple stone façade and the way it stands there in the red earth, a reminder that this little outback town was once a busy centre of mining and commerce. Silverton’s council ceased operating just ten years after the building was completed, but the Chambers are still here to tell the story.

The Silverton Gaol

The old Silverton Gaol was another building that caught my eye. Built in 1889, it now houses a historical museum covering the lives of the people who lived and worked in Silverton and Broken Hill. I didn’t go inside, but I enjoyed photographing its imposing walls and imagining how different the town must have felt when it was a working gaol.

Silverton Hotel

And then there’s the Silverton Hotel. Iconic! I must have photographed it dozens of times, returning as the light changed to see what it did to that wonderful old façade. It looks as though it belongs on a movie screen—which, of course, it does. The hotel has appeared in so many films, including Mad Max 2, Razorback and The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. Out front sits a wonderfully cheeky black Volkswagen Beetle, dressed up in homage to Mad Max’s fearsome Interceptor. I loved it.

The hotel’s story goes back to Silverton’s mining boom. The first pub opened in 1884, but that building was later destroyed by fire; the hotel we see today occupies what was once the town’s post office. I went there for dinner two nights in a row, partly because I enjoyed the atmosphere so much and partly because I couldn’t resist spending more time surrounded by all those photos from film shoots. Sitting there, looking at the faces and scenes on the walls, I felt I was enjoying several of my favourite things at once: an old outback pub, a town full of history and the magic of movies.

I loved photographing these Galahs in a tree next to the hotel in the early light.

The former Silverton Methodist Church

I was mesmerised by the old Methodist Church. Its story has a lovely twist: the stone building was originally a Presbyterian church, opened in 1885. After a fierce dust storm destroyed the Methodists’ own church in 1891, they acquired this one. I kept coming back to photograph its simple shape against the wide outback sky. In different light it seemed to take on a different mood each time. Of all Silverton’s historic buildings, this was one I found especially hard to walk away from.

St Carthage’s Catholic Church

St Carthage’s is another lovely reminder of Silverton’s brief but busy mining heyday. Completed in 1886, the former Catholic church has stood through all the changes that followed as the town grew, declined and found a new life. I enjoyed photographing it alongside Silverton’s other old buildings, each with its own small part of the town’s story to tell.

The former Umberumberka Masonic Hall

The old Masonic Hall has a fascinating connection to Silverton’s mining history. The Umberumberka Lodge was established in 1885 and moved into this building the following year. Charles Rasp, one of the men whose discoveries led to the founding of Broken Hill, donated the land and was the lodge’s first initiate. I loved finding another building in Silverton with such a direct link to the people who shaped the region. Even after the lodge’s regular meetings moved to Broken Hill, the old hall survived; Masons have occasionally returned to hold meetings there, more than a century later.

The former Silverton Courthouse

The former Courthouse is another reminder of just how substantial Silverton became during its mining boom. Built in 1889 with an adjoining Warden’s Residence, it once served a town bustling with miners and new businesses. In 1948 the buildings were given a new purpose as the Silverton War Memorial Youth Camp. I loved photographing the old courthouse and thinking about the very different generations who have passed through its doors.

Other quaint buildings

Beyond the better-known landmarks, there were so many other quaint buildings to photograph. I loved wandering Silverton’s quiet streets with my camera, noticing an old doorway here, a weathered wall there, and the red earth tying it all together. I never knew what would catch my eye around the next corner.

John Dynon Gallery

The John Dynon Gallery was another Silverton delight. It felt like a celebration of old junk, with weathered odds and ends gathered together in a way that somehow made them irresistible to photograph. In another setting they might have looked like things someone had forgotten to throw away. Here, surrounded by red earth and old buildings, they felt right at home. I loved the humour and character of it all.

Dilapidated and abandoned

Beyond the town were abandoned buildings and other things left to weather in the wide, open landscape. I’ve always found such places a photographer’s delight: rust, worn timber and crumbling walls have a beauty of their own. But there’s something deeper that draws me to them too. They make the passage of time visible. What was once useful and full of human activity slowly becomes part of the landscape again. To me, photographing them feels like a quiet celebration of impermanence.

A celebration of old, derelict cars

Of all the abandoned things around Silverton, my favourites were the old cars, rusting away in the open landscape. I loved their shapes and faded colours against the red earth, and the mystery of how each one came to be left there. Once they carried people somewhere; now they sit still as the years pass around them. 

Sunset at Mundi Mundi lookout 

I went out to the Mundi Mundi Lookout for sunset, where the view opens across the plains as far as the eye can see. The long stretch of road nearby felt wonderfully familiar from Mad Max 2—no wonder filmmakers have been drawn to this landscape. Other people had come to watch the sun go down too, and I ended up chatting with several of them, including a fellow photographer. It was lovely to share that enormous view, and the excitement of trying to capture it, with someone who understood.

Mundi Mundi look out in Mad Max 2

Revisiting Mundi Mundi next morning on the way to the reservoir 

The next morning, on my way to Umberumberka Reservoir, I passed the Mundi Mundi Lookout again. It felt like a different place in the morning light. After the warmth and drama of sunset, I enjoyed seeing the plains and that famous road in a softer, quieter mood. I was glad I’d had the chance to experience the view at both ends of the day.

Celebrating lots of red earth on the way 

I loved the drive to Umberumberka Reservoir. It was my first real experience of the outback landscape I’d imagined for so long: wide open country and red, red earth stretching away on either side of the road. I kept stopping the car to take photographs. Every time I thought I’d captured it, another view made me pull over again.

Umberumberka Reservoir

Umberumberka Reservoir was wonderfully peaceful. After driving through all that dry, red country, it felt almost astonishing to find so much water here. A family of White-browed Babblers was chattering away and flitting from bush to bush, and I managed to get some photos. While I was watching them, a NSW Parks van pulled up and the driver asked what I was photographing. It turned out he was a mad keen birder too! We had the most delightful conversation about birds—one of those unexpected encounters that made the visit even more special.

White-browed Babbler

Mad Max museum

And then, of course, there was the Mad Max 2 Museum! It was a delightful homage to the film, packed with vehicles, props and all sorts of memorabilia. As a fan of the whole franchise, I was in my element, lingering over the details and remembering the scenes they brought to mind. After seeing the landscapes where Mad Max 2 was filmed, stepping into a museum devoted to it felt like a fitting way to end my time in Silverton. I’d fallen for the town, and this was one last treat before I left.