Back when I was a swaggie, I thumbed a lift outside Coober Pedy from some backpackers in a kombi van. The tyres were bald, whish is often the way with kombis and backpackers. They were all right, in their way. Even let me sit in the front seat a spell. One of 'em played concertina, another one played bongos, and another one had a cigar-box banjo. They made quite a noise, but it was well-meant and it passed the time.
The last one didn't play anything, but he had this conductor's baton, and he just conducted the rest. While he was driving, mind. All the way north to Mount Isa, well, at least that's where we were headed.
We ran through all the Irish drinking songs, then all the German drinking songs, and even all the drinking nursery rhymes. Finally, I started singin' Waltzing Matilda, and the conductor chucked me out by the side of the road. Handed me a tin of deviled ham and a warm can of Fosters, and said, "Ich nicht bin eine billabong", and sped off. I could hear Kraftwerk blaring from the stereo as the kombi careened down the road in a puff of cloud of dust.
A bloke in a ute picked me up the next day. About fifty km down the road, I saw the kombi by the roadside. Steam was pouring from the bonnet, and two of the tyres had blown.
As the bloke chuckled and sped up, I waved out the window and yelled, "Happy trails, Drakko... see ya in Humpty Doo!"