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We’ve just landed at Mungerannie Station on the Birdsville Track in South Australia and the dust is still settling as we climb out of our 12-seater plane. The airstrip is nothing more than that – a strip of bush flattened for incoming and departing Royal Flying Doctor Service crews – and within seconds we’ve reached two dusty vehicles parked near the runway.

A barefoot man with ragtag beard, shades and a grimy stockman’s hat that almost entirely disguises his features steps forward to welcome Dr Alistair Miller. Here in the Outback, a visit from a flying doctor is always appreciated; and the co-manager of Mungerannie Station’s one and only pub, Phil Gregurkie, looks rugged yet friendly… pleased, even. In a town with a population of 18 – and numbers continuing to fall – you’d look forward to a visit from a medico too, especially when, as is the case today, there’s an absence of medical crisis. Dr Alistair will be seeing just two patients here for routine check-ups.

Both men are waiting patiently at the runway to ferry the good doctor and his team (senior pilot, Alan Ransley, and community health nurse, Christine Freeman) to the pub a short 500 metres away where the medical consultations are to take place. Within minutes, Mungerannie’s publican has ushered everyone inside for a thirst quencher. While he has a swollen ankle checked, his partner, Pam, an Englishwoman with peaches-and-cream complexion, offers visitors a choice of toasted sandwiches or sausage rolls. But what’s a Yorkshire lass like her doing in a remote outpostlike this? Don’t ask. “I’m an English rose withering in the Australian desert,” says Pam, only half-joking.

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Meanwhile, in the dining area, out of view of any visitors propping up the bar, Dr Alistair’s medical consultation is in full swing. Could it be gout that’s causing Phil’s aches and pains? Or has he broken something? Phil will only know for sure once he visits Port Augusta to have X-rays. “It’ll have to wait,” he says matter-of-factly. “There’s too much to do here. I need a few more reasons to go to Port Augusta. With Panadeine Forte, I’ll be okay.”

The drive to Port Augusta, some 500 kilometres south of Mungerannie, typically takes Phil about six hours each way. That’s one long drive for a couple of X-rays. Pam needs him at the pub, helping out with the tourists that visit their establishment daily.

Tourists? Here? One finds it hard to believe. You gaze out the front door of the pub and all you can see is a fuel pump and a couple of thorn bushes doing slow cartwheels in the dust. Phil points enthusiastically to a creek nearby and recommends we try the ‘hot tub’ on the banks. But we’re so dehydrated, the last thing anyone feels like is something ‘hot’. Staring at the vast expanse in every direction, it‘s hard to imagine Mungerannie as a tourist destination. For Mel Gibson in Mad Max, perhaps, but... who else?

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