What would an Outback blog be without a story about a dunny?

Entertainment at an Outback property in the mid fifties was often concocted by the practical joker, or by some event that caused enough excitement to have a good laugh and then a greater laugh in the pub at the retelling, with embellishments attached to that retelling.
There was no television to supply comedy skits. There was the occasional traveling show that told the same old jokes and performed the same old party tricks—that would raise a bit of a snigger because of the money it cost to go to one of those shows.
Best of all though was the completely unrehearsed happening that would cause gales of laughter for many days—happenings that you could not write a script for, and a happening that no one could possibly predict. This is one of those happenings …

A hole for a drop dunny that is three feet square, a bit under a meter and ten feet deep (three meters in modern currency of measuring stuff) will last a family of four for ten years. This being so, new holes had to be dug from time to time to replenish the availability of the station 'Library'.
On one particular station I was extradited from the painting gang to the dunny digging gang, as the painting of the Ringer's quarters could wait but nature is relentless in its call.
This drop dunny required a hole twice the size of the depth of the one mentioned for a family of four, so it was a sizable hole to dig, but the digging in this downs country had one most favourable condition—never was there rock to dig through, just clay.
The outhouses had been constructed by other stockmen who had been seconded to the job as we were. For this exercise there would be two, side by side dunnies, on this one hole.
The digging kept the gang in close proximity to the cook house, so there were side benefits as we would have a lavish smoko, midday meal and afternoon smoko as well as the night meal, so there was no rush in progress on the hole.
The work was also a welcome break to the usual day to day work on the station, and its progress was followed closely by all and sundry. The cook was the main 'sideline overseer' and his comments and directions were taken with little or no interest. However the cook did have one promise for us diggers—he was going to be the first one to use this facility, which would put him in a position of a claim to fame in years to come as the dunnies reached capacity,
“I wuz the first one to use these dunnies,” he could say.

The big day arrived; we had reached ground zero, or more to the lingo of the time, we had dun the job proper and the establishing of the new, galvanised sided dunnies were to be placed in position.
Logs were supplied to sit the dunnies upon. Sheets of tin were used to cover the area around the outer perimeter of the dunnies, and over any exposed holes and the clay was then back-filled over the tin and, with a cursory patting of the dirt the job was completed, right on the midday meal time, announced by a ringing of the large triangle of iron hanging outside the meal room door.
Cookie was very excited about his claim to fame and asked us if we had used the dunny yet. We promised him we hadn't and saw the relief on his face and the extra dessert in our plates.

What followed was the unexpected, the unscripted, the impossible event to guess.

After lunch there was one of those sudden 'skuds', as they were called, the rain storm on a sunny day that would drop inches of rain in a few minutes, and in this case, two inches (50mm) in twenty minutes (twenty minutes metric as well).
The Jackaroos housekeeper asked us as the time neared for afternoon smoko, “Have you seen the cook?” and as always some smart Alec said, “Yeah! He is that bloke wot cooks our tucker.”
It appeared that the cook had not been seen from a little while after lunch by anyone on the property.
A search party was organised. This was considered urgent as it was getting towards afternoon smoko time and eventually we arrived in the near vicinity of the new dunnies.
All that could be seen of the new outhouses was the top few metric feet, the rest had dropped the drop of these drop dunnies after the 'skud' struck; washed away the clay over the tin allowing the logs to role out from under the new facilities to plunge to almost the bottom of the hole.
“Help! Help!” came the plaintive cry of our chief chef.
After removing the roof of one of the dunnies we extracted the cook from the depth of muddy water in which he was immersed in and sent him off tho the kitchen.
Men rolling on the muddy clay-pan of the Outback, holding onto ribs and bellies that were in a fit of bursting from ribald laughter is a very laugh-producing sight in itself and of course is how we got our laughs in those good old days when we made our own fun, or waited for circumstance to provide that fun.
On threat from the cook, a threat that no man would care to challenge, we promised not to tell anyone about his drama ... well not until we got into town and the pub, that is.