Tomorrow, August 1, is Swiss National Day. The K-Team who hail from Switzerland are coming to our place to celebrate a fondue dinner.
I’m so glad I have discovered I have some Swiss ancestry too, although, mine’s not the German part, but the French part–from Lausanne.
Anyway, in the spirit of celebrating Switzerland, here’s a re-visit of the K-Team’s adventures in Switzerland, 2014.
In the cool, crisp morning, the sun shone lemon-yellow rays but not much warmth; we strolled around the Woomera Rocket Museum. Rockets of all shapes and configurations stood in the open-air, testimony of what once was. This RAAF Base and village had once been a lively town in the 1950s and 60s, as an Anglo-Australian Cold War defence project. On this day, Saturday, July 20, 2013, the place seemed a mere shell of its former self, a cemetery of what once was, rockets rising like giant tombstones to the sky.
We meandered around the rockets, reading signs, eulogies from the past when threats from enemy nations were imminent. I was reminded of older friends telling me of a time when they practised drills hiding under their school desk in the event of enemy attack.
My mother recalled when on February 19, 1942, Darwin was bombed. She was a girl in Hermannsburg at the time, and whenever a plane flew over, the Aranda women would wail, fearing disaster.
Now, Hermannsburg was a mission set up by German missionaries in 1877. Although by the 1940s the mission was fair dinkum Australian, having existed in Australia for all that time, the name, being German, raised suspicions among the Allies with the advent of World War II and the conflict with Germany. Hence, Mum remembers British officers flying into Hermannsburg to check the place out. They had to make sure there were no German spies. My grandpa, Pastor Sam Gross, and his wife (my grandma) hosted these officers and put on a lovely spread of lunch for them.
After investigating any mitigating threats, the British Officers flew away in their propeller plane, satisfied that Hermannsburg was no threat. Nevertheless, they confiscated the only link to civilisation, the community pedal radio. Just in case they really were spies, I guess. Further, to make sure that no threat to the Allies arose from this humble mission, they sent Rex Batterbee, a World War I veteran, to oversee the mission in the role of “protector of the aborigines”. As he had visited and then lived in Central Australia since the mid-1930’s, Rex taught Albert Namatjira to paint watercolours and helped him launch his career as a renowned artist.
Homeward Bound
Needless to say, in 2013, such threats of foreign enemies seemed in the distant past. But, being only 446 km from our home town, Adelaide, we were reluctant to linger amongst the rockets. Having packed and checked out of our overnight accommodation, we were eager to start our journey home.
At a steady 90 km/h, we made progress down the highway that split the gibber plains in half.
‘I bet the T-Team (my brother’s family) are home by now,’ I said. ‘No hanging around taking time to look at any more places for them.’
‘Why don’t you ring them just to see where they’re at?’ my hubby said.
I texted my niece. The time was 10:30 am.
“We are in Port Augusta,” she replied by text.
‘There’s no way we’ll catch up to them,’ I said, and then texted back, “Have a safe trip home.”
Clouds and rain descended on the land the further we drove south. By the time we reached Port Wakefield, the cold had seeped into the car. I put my parka on my legs to keep warm. Yet, for lunch Hubby insisted we eat alfresco in the rotunda at Port Wakefield. After all, despite his aversion to the cold, he needed to stretch his legs. Plus, it seemed no café existed in the town.
The rain and cold became more intense as we approached Adelaide. After driving through the grey, sodden streets, we arrived home, just as darkness fell at 5:30pm.
What disaster awaited us?
Hubby opened the door, and we trod inside. Son 1 played a computer game on the PC in the dining/living annex. He ignored us. We tiptoed through the family room. Not too much mess, and the carpet remained visible and clean.
We found Son 2 all rugged up and cosy in his room playing World of Warcraft. He said, “Hello,” and then asked for a coffee, then followed up the conversation with, “I’m hungry, what’s for tea?”
In the kitchen, as I prepared a drink, I noticed the dishes had been done, and the cats fed. I thanked Son 1 for the effort. He took all the glory and remarked that his brother had done nothing.
The Aftermath
There are always casualties that follow every holiday. And this one was no different. Two paintings which I had planned to exhibit in the upcoming Marion Art Group exhibition had gone AWOL. I’d like to think they were stolen … but I reckon they would be found in some odd place sometime in the future.
Eleven years hence as I write this final chapter, I wonder what paintings they were?
Oh, and the other casualty, Hubby, who proudly boasted that he had taken thousands of photos of the Central Australian trip on his mobile phone, can no longer find where those photos went. It would seem those photos went AWOL too.
As for the T-Team, they actually arrived home after us, having spent a night at Port Germaine. They decided to treat themselves after roughing it for the past two weeks.
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2024
Feature Painting: Ormiston Memories, the reason for the journey © L.M. Kling 2018
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The Austin appeared one winter’s afternoon in our backyard; Dad’s solution to the worthless Wolseley, and of course, just for the time being.
Only cost $100. What a bargain!
Next morning, his breath steaming with excitement, Dad marched up to the green lump of a car. I sat sulking in this woe-begone wreck, the vinyl seat threatening frostbite on my delicate buns.
Dad hopped in and turned the ignition key. Nothing. Not even a squeak on this icy morning.
‘Ah, well, we have to crank it,’ Dad said.
Crank it? Yep, we had to crank this ancient Austin to life.
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2019
Feature Photo: Not actually the Austin, obviously…but was it the same end? © L.M. Kling 2010
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[While Mr. B and his son, Matt stayed back at camp …
Three of the T-Team faced the challenge of climbing Mt. Liebig. And finding their way down. After a successful climb (except for the lost quart can) to summit Mt. Liebig (Read Part 1 of this adventure in my travel memoir The T-Team with Mr. B Central Australian Safari 1977 ), the T-Team lost their way … ]
Extract from The T-Team with Mr. B Central Australian Safari 1977, a prequel to Trekking With the T-Team Central Australian Safari 1981. Available on Amazon.]
We heard a blood-curdling scream.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘Rick, I hope he’s alright.’
We scrambled down the last of the gully and ran along the ridge in the direction of Rick’s cries.
Rick rose above the mounds of spinifex rubbing his behind.
‘Are you okay?’ I fought my way through the prickly barbs to my brother.
‘I’m fine, except I fell, bottom first in the spinifex.’
‘Oh, so it’s just a false alarm then, we thought you were really hurt,’ I said. His scream was worse than the prickly bushes’ sting.
‘Well, I’m going to avoid any more painful encounters,’ he said and with that he stomped away from me and within minutes, drifted out of view.
We also diverged. Dad was confident that all gullies lead to the big one at the base of the slope. ‘Ah, well! We will meet Rick in the gully below,’ he assured me.
But contrary to Dad’s prediction, we did not meet Rick. I could not help thinking, this was not the first time as far as Rick was concerned. We’d already lost him in the sand dunes near Uluru. Almost.
Dad continued to search for his quart can. But that little friend Dad had cherished since the fifties, eluded him also.
We weaved our way down the main gully for about an hour. A huge spider in a web spanning the width of the gully confronted us. The spider, the size of a small bird, appeared uninviting, so we backtracked and decided to hike up and down the ridges.
For several hours, we struggled over ridges. Up and down, we tramped, yet seemed to make little progress; the rise and dips went on forever. The sun sank low, and so did our water supplies.
The heat drained me. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. But we had to ration water.
Dad slumped on a slab of rock at the bottom of a gully. ‘Drink?’
I took the canteen from him and filled my cup. Then I spooned in some Salvital. I chugged down the water as it fizzed. So refreshing!
‘Oh, Lee-Anne!’ Dad quibbled. ‘You didn’t leave much for me!’ He poured the last drops of water from his canteen into his mouth and gazed in despair at the lengthening shadows of the mountain.
‘Oh, but Dad! It’s not fair! We will never get out of this place! We are lost forever.’ I had visions of future hikers coming upon our dried-up old bones thirty years later. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Well, um, perhaps we better pray God will help us.’ Dad bowed his head and clasped his hands. ‘Dear Lord, please help us find our way back to the truck. And forgive me for growling at Lee-Anne.’
‘Forgive me too. Help us not to run out of food and water, too.’
‘Bit late for that,’ Dad muttered. ‘Ah, well.’
We had barely finished praying, when an idea struck me. ‘Why don’t we climb up a ridge and walk along it. Surely if we go high enough, we’ll see the landmark and the land rover.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. We need to conserve our energy.’
‘Just one ridge won’t harm us.’
Dad sighed. ‘Okay, it’s worth a try.’
I raced up the hill and strode along the ridge. I climbed higher and higher. I glanced towards the east expecting, hoping, willing the Rover to appear. But with each stride, each hopeful gaze, nothing. I resolved to climb further up the slope before turning back.
After a few more steps, still nothing. With the heaviness of defeat, I turned to climb down. Then I saw it. The Land Rover sat at the base of the mountain, glistening in the last rays of the setting sun.
‘There it is!’ I jumped up and down over-reacting with excitement.
‘Praise the Lord!’ Dad’s shout echoed in the valley.
With renewed energy, we attacked the last mounds that lay between the vehicle and us.
‘Rick will probably be sitting there waiting for us wondering what has happened,’ Dad said puffing as we strode up to the land rover. ‘Can’t wait to have a few gallons of water.’
We rambled over to the rover. Dad circled the vehicle and returned to me shaking his head. ‘He’s not here.’
I wandered around the clearing searching for Rick. I looked behind bushes and under some neighbouring bean trees. My brother was nowhere in sight.
But worse still, when Dad tried to fill his cup, only a few drops of water trickled from the land rover’s water tank.
Dad stared at the ground and tapped his pockets. ‘This is not good. This is not good,’ he said.
The sun had set and a cold chill cut through me. He’s lost. My brother is lost in this wilderness. ‘What if he’s had an accident?’
‘We need to pray,’ Dad said.
Dad prayed, ‘Father, bring Rick home and provide us with water too.’
We waited watching the colours on the mountain fade and our hopes fade with them.
‘I guess we better get going,’ Dad said. He opened the door of the Land Rover.
Rick staggered around a nearby outcrop of rocks.
We ran to greet him.
‘Rick, you’re okay,’ Dad said hugging him.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘I took the long way and trekked around the base of the mountain. I thought it wouldn’t take that long, but it just went on and on.’
As we walked to the Land Rover, Dad studied the vehicle. ‘You know, it’s on a slope, if I get it to level ground, we might have enough water.’
Dad drove the Rover to where the ground flattened out. Water never tasted so sweet.
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2019; 2021; 2023
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[Extract from Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981]
After relishing the sweet crunch of cornflakes for breakfast, the T-Team drove back to Ormiston Gorge. We hiked through the gorge admiring the red cliffs, ghost gums and mirror reflections in the waterholes, and took less than an hour to reach the end with the view of Mt. Giles, lumpy and sapphire blue.
Settling near a waterhole framed by reeds, Dad built up a fire on the coarse sand while our family friend, TR rolled up his trousers and dipped his toes in the pool. ‘Hey!’ He pointed and did a little dance. ‘A fish! I see a fish!’
Our cousins, C1 and C2 raced over to TR. ‘Where?’ They peered into the pond. I trailed after them, hunting for fish through the plumes of muddied water near TR’s white calves.
‘There!’ TR waved his finger at the middle of the waterhole.
C1 squinted. ‘Oh, yeah.’
C2 waded into the water and peered. ‘I don’t see anything.’
Richard hunted and fossicked through the cooking equipment Dad had scattered around the campfire. ‘You got a sieve? A net? Anything?’
‘What for?’ Dad asked.
‘The fish.’
‘Ah, you know, those fish can lay dormant in the dry creek bed for years and when the rain comes, they spawn.’ Dad just had to tell us.
‘Well, this little fishy is going to be our lunch.’ Richard snapped his fat fingers together like crab claws. ‘I’ll catch it with my hands if I have to.’ He strode into the pool with such force the waters parted like the Red Sea. ‘Now where’s that fish?’ He said as he sank up to his waist.
‘There it is!’ TR gestured. ‘To your right.’
Richard glanced, his smile faded. ‘Oh, is that all? It’s just a piddley little thing. Not enough for lunch.’ He was neck deep in the water and prepared to swim. He shot up. ‘Ouch! Something bit me!’
‘Better watch out, might be Jaws,’ I said.
‘You didn’t tell me there were yabbies.’ Richard bobbed up and down, then reached down to catch his feet. ‘Ouch! It bit me again!’
‘Why not yabbies?’ C1 said.
‘Now that’s an idea.’ Richard replied.
‘Ah! Shrimp!’ C2 waded towards his cousin. ‘I love the taste of shrimp.’
‘Hmm, yabbies,’ Richard said. ‘We used to catch yabbies all the time when we were young.’ With an explosive splash, he submerged in search of the yabby that had bitten him.
Dad, TR and I waited for the damper scones to cook and watched Richard and C1 turn bottoms up like ducks in the water in their quest for yabbies. C2 waded in the shallows of the pond, a roughly sharpened stick in hand ready to skewer any hapless water-creature.
Soon we breathed in the sweet aroma of baked scones. Dad flipped the foil wrapped balls out of the coals. ‘Lunch is ready!’ He clustered the silver spheres together using a small branch as if they were balls on a snooker table. Empty-handed the lads dragged their soaked bodies from the waterhole and schlepped to the fire place to collect their consolation prize of damper scone.
Richard held his stubby index finger and thumb in the form of the letter “C”. ‘I was this close to getting a yabby.’
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; Updated 2018; 2021; 2026
*Feature Painting: The Other Side of Ormiston © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016
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