The roadhouse building seemed to be like most things Aboriginal that I have seen over the years. It is a neatly presented structure that is slowly but surely deteriorating. The showers were clean but tatty and had an odd smell. The consolation was that the water came from a desalination unit. The stream of Aborigines from the community coming into the roadhouse in car wrecks were dirty. The community has a ban on alcohol.

The community is responsible for 162,000 hectares of land, and anyone who wishes to observe whales in the Great Australian Bight needs to have a permit from the community, or to pay a fee to access the special observation decks on top of the cliffs. No unauthorised entry to the community is permitted. I left the roadhouse with feelings of despair and thoughts of how segregationist policies exist in Australia.

I set about trying to regain an average speed of 15km/h to get me to the 138km to Penong before dark. I was going great guns, the hills did not unduly impede my progress. The wind was of great assistance. The landscape started to change again. First the fences improved in standard, and suggested I was moving out of national parks and Aboriginal reserves and into farming country. The first farm settlement came about 300km from Border Village. An interesting sidelight is that since the border, the kilometre markers have corresponded with my bike computer, but the tourist signs show distances that are out of kilter with the markers and my computer.

I scooted along in ideal conditions headed for Nundroo when two kilometres out of town, "click-click-twang". I knew immediately what it was. A broken spoke on the rear wheel. When I looked down, the wheel was well and truly warped. I rode on with a clicking sound and stopped at the Nundroo Roadhouse... for the rest of the day and night.

It seemed almost inevitable that the break would occur on a spoke laced through the gearset side of the hub. I had the appropriate gearset remover in my tool kit, along with the appropriate shifting spanner that doubled as a mallet to drive in tent pegs. I probably was too cautious in manhandling the gearset and eventually I took the wheel to a mechanic nextdoor to borrow a socket spanner and long bar to "crack" the torque on the set. In the end, the several-second operation was quite simple, after 30 minutes of futile effort with the small shifter.

My difficulties did not stop there, however. The spoke went into the hub okay, but having left the tyre on the rim, I pinched a puncture in the tube, and that meant having to effect repairs with patches . At that point, I could see Penong today drifting further and further out of my reach. I started again with the spoke and removed the tyre and tube to discover the spoke was about 3mm longer than it should have been. I returned to the mechanic up the road, cut off the end of the thread with a hacksaw, and returned to try again. This time everything went to plan, but I seemed to use rubber cement that would not take to the patches properly; the tube went down again when I inflated it. So, off came the tyre again, out came the tube, and I found a newer batch of rubber cement. This time, everything went to script, and I put the tyre back on the wheel.

The next problem was to get the wheel to run true. I am not experienced in this area, and after some three hours both working and chatting to a South Australian tourist with alternator problems in his campervan, I was addled. I tried to run the wheel on its axle off the bike, but that did not seem to produced satisfactory results. I eventually put the wheel back on the bike, and reassembled the brakes to provide a reference point on the rim. That seemed to help my dilemma, and I achieved a slightly truer wheel than when I started. I still have five spare spokes taped to the seat stays, and I have learned quickly the replacement process. At least the learning curve isn't quite so steep now.

The cloud did have a silver lining. It kept me from the sights of the monster march flies that fly as squadrons in this part of the world looking for likely ground-based victims; they have a bite that could win a war in a day. The enforced stop also is giving my backside more time to recover from its woes, already aided by the "airing" strategies I adopted on the road. I have decided to spend the night in the backpacker annex of the roadhouse, at $8 a night, including television, tea and coffee and a bed.

I chatted throughout the day with a variety of other travellers, including some of the many motorcyclists returning from the east. Then I settled down to talk to the officials at a mobile polling booth for the South Australian elections. They went to Yalata earlier in the day, and were stationed in the hostel at Nundroo from 3.00pm to 8.00pm. I had a long chat to Joy Stott, a local who has a particular interest in the history of nearby Fowlers Bay. It was just general chitchat with me doing most of the talking about my own adventures.

During the day, I found out that the couple on bicycles behind me were 1½ days away and two Japanese cyclists were headed west and seemingly making heavy weather of their journey. They will find it even more difficult tomorrow. The forecast is for northerly winds, and a maximum temperature of 36 deg C for Ceduna. For me, the forecast means a tailwind and for them a headwind.

I find the heat is not a major problem, provided the wind is not directly behind me. A 15km//h tailwind means I ride along in my own pocket of air with no evaporative effect on my skin, and that can cause me to overheat. I will ensure all my water bottles are filled tomorrow to maintain my fluid levels in the heat. I will also have to stock up on a little food, such as fruit, to get me through to Ceduna. I am at the point where I can hardly wait to get to my first supermarket since leaving Norseman.

The polling booth officials, Joy, and Sue and Kevin Trewartha, are delightful. When I came back to the hostel after buying something to eat, Joy had left behind an unopened packet of Scotch finger shortbread biscuits. I am not sure if I look like a waif and people take pity on me, but gestures like that really are what country folk are all about.

Joy is a member of a group putting together 100-year celebrations for nearby Fowlers Bay, and the 100th running of the town's sports day. She has compiled a comprehensive portfolio of photographs and clippings as a history of the region from when it was an exporter of wheat and wool. Fortunately and unlike Eucla, many of Fowlers Bay's buildings have been saved from the ravages of the shifting sand, and have been renovated, such as the post office and police station.

Sue also is involved in organisation of the Fowlers Bay celebrations, and is secretary of the Ceduna Oyster Festival that was held on the South Australian Labor Day long weekend just gone. The festival evidently was a huge success, judged by the 2,300 dozen oysters consumed over the three days.

Despite the rear-wheel hassles, I enjoyed today. Not adhering to a schedule might have helped. In fact, my Nullarbor adventure is drawing to a close. Ceduna is the end of the line from that point of view, and I will start to meld into the masses as just another bicycle tourist from anywhere. I am seriously considering taking the road down the Eyre Peninsula to Port Lincoln then north through Whyalla and on to Port Augusta and Adelaide. This would get me off the Eyre Highway for a while, and provide some respite from the heavy vehicles that use it. The coastal scenery also would be nice.

I don't think I can let this day pass without observing the gulf that exists between Aborigines and white Australia... the gulf between reality and fantasy. While it is easy for white people to judge and express abhorrence at the lifestyle of Aboriginal groups, there seem no escaping the fact that white and black cultures may never mix successfully. And alcohol only serves to widen the gap.

The Nundroo experience tonight was, to me, a classic example of apartheid. The roadhouse had a bar for whites, while the Aborigines were kept to their own outdoor compound with a wall separating their section from the whites. The alcohol fuels violence among the Aboriginal men and women. It was not a pleasant environment, and apart from the segregation and control on amounts of alcohol consumed, there appears to be no other solution to co-existence.

An article published in Adelaide's daily newspaper, The Advertiser, in July 1997 said road accidents on the Eyre Highway in the 200km section between Ceduna and the Yalata Community accounted for more injuries per head of population than anywhere else in Australia. The information was quoted from a report prepared by the Aboriginal Drug and Alcohol Council. The figures were based on admissions to hospitals instead of police reports. The hospitals record information on race that the police do not. A free bus service between Ceduna and Yalata was suggested as one solution.

I joined Sue and Kevin as they finished dinner in the roadhouse restaurant and had a long talk about the Oyster Fest and the success it had been. The attendance was estimated between 8,000 and 10,000. The festival is regarded as a big event for the west coast of the Eyre Peninsula. Sue gave me copies of the official program and brochure. The couple finished their Oyster Fest duties at midnight on Monday, and have spent 13 hours in each of the past two of days attending to their polling duties that started at Maralinga 500km to the north. Country people always seem to be able to find plenty to keep their days busy!

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