[After our summer break, school’s back today in Australia. Well, let’s qualify that statement. In South Australia, some students are back in the classroom, while the rest are learning online. So, a break from my travel missives and a journey back in time to my teaching days…]
The Trials and Tribulations of a Student Teacher
Part 2
[Note: Names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.]
The Fallout
After the proverbial reading of the riot act the following lesson, my teaching limped along in an unsteady truce; actually, less resembling teaching, and more akin to animal tamer in a circus. And with each passing lesson, Luke took on the characteristics of the ringmaster. I should’ve seen then, that my high school teaching days were numbered and made a quick and painless exit, at that time…
The final week of my Practical Teaching, culminated in Luke’s mastery of revealing my failure as a teacher. On that Wednesday, my supervising teacher, poked her head in the classroom and said, ‘Alright, Miss T, you’re on your own.’
I glanced at the thirty faces looking to me for control and instruction. I gulped. ‘Okay.’
‘Any trouble, send the trouble-makers to me,’ Mrs S said before abandoning me to my fate.
As soon as her footsteps faded down the corridor, Luke, with a glint in his eye, pushed over a desk. ‘Oops!’
Danny kicked Ben into his desk. The wood splintered with a sickening crack.
Ben leapt up. ‘Why you…!’ He raised his fists. Danny launched at Ben and thumped him. Ben grabbed Danny. The boys fell to the floor, wrestling, turning tables, kicking up chairs, grunting and struggling.
Tiny Bill whined, ‘My pen! My pen! Someone’s stolen my pen!’
All the while, Luke lounged in the far left-hand corner of the room, laughing.
I stomped and cut the air with my hand. ‘Right! Luke! Danny! Ben! Bill!’ I swished my cutting-hand to the door. ‘Off to Mrs S!’
Out the four trooped to an unimpressed Mrs S who issued them with uninspiring, but necessary in Luke’s case, grammar sheets to complete.
I salvaged what was left of the class. With pens set firmly in their hands, I set them to work writing a story based on a poster I had brought in. Maria, obviously not satisfied with pasting her face with foundation, though, “accidently” spilt liquid paper all over her desk, chair and herself.
Meanwhile, Mrs S, showed her dissatisfaction of having to supervise these four stooges on what she hoped was her “free lesson”, by marking my assessment sheet for classroom management as “unsatisfactory”.
[School’s back this week in Australia. With that, a break from my travel missives and a journey back in time and an earlier blog, to my ever-so-brief teaching days…]
The Trials and Tribulations of a Student Teacher
Part 1
[Note: Names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.]
To Miss Without Much Love
They struck on Thursday afternoon. This was after the Year 9 English class had lulled me into a sense of security, which was false. Students do that, I learnt. They go easy on a new teacher for a week or two. Seasoned teachers call it “the honeymoon period”; usually the first two weeks of the new school year are the “honeymoon period”. And for the novice teacher, teaching looks like it’s going to be a breeze. How wrong they are. Come Week 3 and the students, having sussed out the chinks in the new teacher’s armour, strike with a vengeance of gale-force winds. So seasoned teachers such as my dad, advised that an educator must be tough, from Day 1, and remain tough for at least Term 1. Students need to learn who’s boss.
Coming from polite society, and not much older than the students who sat before me in their crooked rows of ratty desks, I failed to get my head around what exactly it means to be tough. Besides, up until that fateful Thursday, the students had been so docile.
‘Keep an eye on Luke,’ Mrs S, my supervising teacher had warned.
I clocked the so-called menace. Way back at the far left of the class room, he reclined on his plastic chair and sniggered with the girl, Maria who sat next to him. Her skin was so caked with make-up, she looked as if her face were made of pastry. And yes, in true 1980’s style, Luke sported a mullet-hairstyle and, when not leaning back on his chair at the back of the classroom acting the joker, he strutted about like a prize rooster, surrounded by three or four “chicks”.
Luke’s minions, Mick and Danny, as if rooks in the game of class-sized chess, guarded the right end of the back row. They sat silently presiding over this vantage point, waiting.
That Thursday, we moved to Room 18 for the video of “To Sir With Love”. Ironic, really, that I should be teaching on that particular novel and film. The 1960’s values put forward in that film didn’t work for me in the 1980’s.
Darkness, and the move, permitted Luke to slink out of hiding and band with his partners in “crime’, ready for the “kill”. Luke’s harem also emerged out of obscurity, surrounding him as they watched the video. Or should I say, rather than watching, this band of nasties, wriggled, squirmed and nattered.
As the film progressed, I shifted to stand near the clutch of unrest. The group giggled and shuffled. Chairs scraped.
I glared at Luke.
He curled his lip and leered at me. ‘Wot you lookin’ at miss?’
‘Silence!’ I snapped.
‘I woz doin’ nuthink.’
His chicks tittered.
‘Hey!’ Bill, turned his scrawny body. ‘Stop that!’
‘Stop jabbing me!’ Ben raised a skinny arm. ‘Miss, Danny’s jabbing me!’
Laughing, Luke rocked on his chair and shoved Bill with his foot. Bill catapulted onto the girls in front of him. They screamed and peeled away from the scrawny boy flailing on the floor. Good boy George leapt out of his seat. Ben turned and slapped Danny. And the girls sitting at the front cried, ‘We can’t hear!’
All the while, as waves of chaos continued to roll, Luke lurked at the back, glancing at me and gloating. Had to be him who started this fiasco, I thought.
I pointed at Luke. ‘Right! Luke! Out!’
‘Oh, but, why? Wot did I do?’
‘You started it. So, out, you go!’
‘Oh, but…’
‘Don’t argue with me! Now, go!’ I pointed at the door. ‘Go to…to the principal’s office!’
Luke shrugged. ‘I dun nuthink wrong.’ And then slunk from Room 18. His minions narrowed their eyes at me. Chief chick, Maria snarled, ‘Not fair!’
[In 2013, the T-Team, next generation embarked on their pilgrimage to Central Australia. Purpose: to scatter Dad’s ashes in his beloved Central Australia, in Ormiston Gorge.
Over the past year, I have taken you on a virtual trip to the Centre and memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation.
This time, with the trip coming to a close, the T-K Team continue their return to Adelaide heading for Woomera in the rain.]
Part 1
Cheeky Campers
So, out of toilet parole we escaped Coober Pedy, destination Woomera. I drove.
‘We’re running late,’ Anthony grumbled.
‘Ah, we’ll only arrive after dark,’ I replied. ‘Let’s get a cabin in the caravan park if we can.’
‘And, if we can’t?’
‘I don’t fancy camping in this weather. I guess we’ll sleep in the Ford, if we can’t.’
‘Hmmm. I doubt we’ll be able to get a cabin; we haven’t booked.’
We pulled into the rest area come viewpoint to have a break and take some photos. The sun had neared the horizon casting the salty waters of Lake Hart in hues of pink and lemon.
Some free campers had built fires beside their campervans. One couple had pitched their tent underneath the canopy of the Information Kiosk.
Anthony glanced at the tent and then muttered, ‘Not sure if you’re allowed to do that.’
‘Perhaps a ranger will come along and tell them off.’
‘Nah, probably not.’
‘I guess we’ll never know. We better get a move on to Woomera to try our luck.’ I adjusted my hold of the camera. ‘After I take a few more shots while there’s a break in the clouds.’
By the time we reached Woomera, the town was shrouded in darkness and rain fell steadily. Light still shone from the Caravan Park manager’s cabin. We entered through the unlocked sliding door and rang the bell. The manager appeared with a smile on their face.
No trouble getting a cabin. They explained that normally cabins were filled with workers from the nearby Roxby mine. But this night there were a few vacant cabins. We were fortunate.
Ah! Luxury! After all, we needed some TLC after no sleep the night before. The simple one room cabin with queen-sized bed, kitchen facilities, an en suite bathroom and toilet to the side, and television would do just fine.
I cooked pasta with canned spaghetti sauce, corn and chopped up spam. For dessert, canned pears and custard.
Anthony was in his element as he propped himself up on the bed and watched the football.
10pm, I woke with a start. Beside me Anthony, head bowed snored while the football commentators bantered. ‘You’re snoring!’ I mumbled. Anthony smacked his lips and sank down into the bedding.
I switched off the TV and snuggled into the warmth of the quilt and Anthony. With the sound of rain pattering on the roof, once more, we fell into a deep and satisfying sleep.
[Our Summer, here in Australia has continued to be filled with drama. This whole Covid-thing is like a bad relationship in which we are trapped. Pretty disturbing when game-set-and match of Dokevich verses Australian government is more entertaining news than the actual tennis. Let’s just say, as an Australian, I feel as if I’m stuck in the middle of the dystopian universe of Huxley’s Brave New World. So, where else can one escape, but virtually from all this mass psychosis to memories of Tahune Airwalk, in Southern Tasmania. Ah those were the days…]
Tree-Top Highlights
The K-men were up by 7am and already packing for the Tahune Tree-Top walk—a highlight all by itself as far as I was concerned. Usually, as the woman, I’m the one doing all that while the men lounge around looking stressed at the mere fact that they have to get up so early. But not this day. Brother P1 packed the lunches. My husband packed the bags. And Cousin P2 washed the dishes. All while I sat on the 3-seater-lounge and relaxed. Bonus!
‘Yeah, they have one accident and they push for the speed to be reduced.’
I yawned. ‘Yep.’
As the way to Tahune became slower and wound around the Temperate Forest terrain, rain spattered on the windscreen and my eyes drooped and I fell asleep. After all, this was my third visit to the Tahune Air Walk.
My husband’s voice woke me up. ‘We’ve come at a good time. They’re celebrating 100 years of National parks in Tasmania and we get to go into all the national parks for free during the Tasmanian school holidays.’
‘Well, your mum timed the planning of the trip very well,’ I replied as we rolled into the visitors’ carpark. ‘Good timing too, it’s 10.30am and the park opened at 10am.’
Armed with our rain jackets, layers of clothing and boots for hiking, we trooped to the Information Centre and Souvenir Shop to pay for access to the Air Walk. The National Park Pass only covers entry to National parks, not the Tahune Air Walk which costs $28 per adult. The park manager explained that the fee includes the tree-top walkways, a counter-lever (an over-hanging construction) and two swinging bridges.
Now one thing one must know about the K-Team, they have to get their money’s worth. And true to form, that day, we did indeed receive value for our money.
Right from the start, as we stepped out the centre door, the rain eased. First point of interest, how high the river rose during the floods in July. My husband pointed at the measuring post where the mark indicated the waters rose two metres above the height of the bridge. Then for the next twenty minutes, he repeated, ‘Two metres above the bridge, wow, that’s a flood.’
We hiked for two hours fascinated by the abundance and variety of plant-life in the forest. We pointed out the Huon pine tree, the river lapping at its roots.
‘The oldest Huon Pine is said to have lived for three thousand years,’ Hubby said. ‘This tree’s only a few hundred years old, so young in comparison. They grow only one millimetre in width a year.’
Also in the forest we saw, King Billy Pines, Myrtle, Sassafras and Blackwood trees as well as a range of ferns and native laurel.
We viewed the forest from above on the air walk, a sturdy construction made of metal. We stepped, single-file along the counter-lever to obtain the best view of the meeting of two rivers. A man lingered behind. ‘I’m not going on that thing,’ he said, ‘It’s not safe.’
P1 peered up at the magnificent Stringy Bark eucalyptus tree towering above us, then he lifted his camera and snapped a shot. ‘I reckon that’s the tree I saw from the other side of the river,’ he said.
On solid earth again, the girth and height of another stringy bark tree dwarfed us. A deck had been constructed around the base of that tree so we could stand in front of it and have our photo taken without damaging the roots.
We lunched in a picnic hut near a clearing. My husband made a friend of a Currawong bird. As this black bird studied our food with its bright yellow eyes, he said, ‘It’s like our crow in South Australia, but a different species.’
I filmed Hubby hand-feeding the bird. ‘Look, a new friend for you,’ I remarked.
Once we’d packed up, P1 announced, ‘Right, now for the swinging bridges.’
We trekked about 45 minutes to the bridges. Seemed to take forever. A boy and girl in their tweens, jogged past us.
Finally, we reached the bridge and began to cross. On the other side the kids we’d seen jogging sat on a bench the other side licking ice-cream. When we reached the other side, they raced off, jogging again. Where do they get the energy?
Checked the lookout where the Picton and Huon rivers meet. Then crossed the second swinging bridge. Husband rocked the bridge, but it didn’t worry me. Not good for taking photos, though.
As we completed our four-hour walk the rain plummeted to the silty path. The K-Team’s mission had succeeded. The Tahune Air Walk—well worth the cost and the effort. And an added blessing, my threatening head-cold had taken a hike and been lost in the forest of the Tahune.
Have been reviewing The T-Team with Mr. B, the prequel to my first travel memoir, Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981. The updated manuscript has been resting long enough for me to revisit Mr. B and his intrepid adventures with the T-Team. Ready to publish…Maybe in the new year.
The sun sparkled through the gold-green leaves of the river gums, and a flock of white cockatoos chattered in the branches. The air hinted warmth and enticed me out of my sleeping bag to explore. Dad had mentioned we’d be probably camping near Curtain Springs on our journey to Ayers Rock (now called Uluru). But this morning I wanted to check out a spring closer to camp.
I ambled down the soft sands of the creek bed, past Mr. B wrapped up in his sleeping bag of superior fibres for warmth. He smacked his lips and snored as I trod to the side of him. Matt and Richard stood like the risen dead warming the cold blood in their veins by the fire, offering no help to Dad who stirred the porridge.
‘You sure that’s porridge?’ I asked Dad.
‘Of course it is!’ Dad snapped and then peered into the billy to be sure.
‘Can never be too sure, after egg soup last night,’ I said and kept on walking.
Richard and Matt laughed. First sign of actual life from the boys I’d seen that morning.
Dad called after me. ‘Er, Lee-Anne, where are you going?’
‘For a nature walk.’
‘Oh, don’t be too long, breakfast is almost ready.’
I patted my camera bag. ‘Yes, Dad.’ Just after I’ve checked out the spring to see if the scene was worthy to be photographed. No need to tell Dad that information. He’d just try to persuade me to have breakfast first and then I’d miss the not so early morning photo opportunity.
The creek narrowed, and I scrambled over rocks, pushed through reeds to the spring. Anticipating a pretty pond, with waterlilies, ducks and a kangaroo or two drinking the fresh clear water, I was disappointed. The spring, if you could call it a spring was little more than a pit of slime. A puddle at the end of our driveway at home was more photogenic than this hole filled with muddy water.
After a glance at the so-called spring, I tramped back to camp and ate cold porridge for breakfast.
After our “business trip” to civilisation, Ernabella, where we collected the trailer, had a shower, filled up with petrol, water and replenished our supplies from the store, we began our travels to Uluru.
On the way a large flat-topped mountain emerged through the red sand dunes.
‘It’s Mt. Conner. Remember we saw it from Mt. Woodroffe?’
‘How come it’s higher than the land around it?’
‘In Central Australia’s prehistoric past,’ Dad explained, ‘this piece of land kept its integrity while the surrounding area had eroded away. It’s called a mesa.’
I was fascinated by this monolithic plateau. ‘Can we stop and get a photo of it?’
‘When I find a good place to stop,’ Dad said.
He kept on driving up and down the red waves of sand hills, winding left and right, the mesa appearing and disappearing, never quite the perfect view or park for our Rover. We rolled onto the plain and in the distance, Mt. Conner rose above the dunes. Dad parked the Rover at the side of the road and we jumped out. I hiked further up the road. The flat-topped mountain looked so small in the viewer of my instamatic camera.
‘I’m afraid so,’ Dad said. ‘Can you fix it, Richard?’
The men gathered around the trailer, once again sinking into the ochre sand and leaning on its side.
‘It’s the springs.’ Dad circled it like a shark. ‘Can’t take the rough track.’
‘Hmmm,’ Mr. B grunted, his hands on hips and elbows akimbo.
Richard lay down on the ground and peered up into the trailer’s underside.
Dad sighed. ‘We better unload the trailer, I suppose.’
While the men relieved the ailing trailer of its load and bound up the fissure with some rope, I scaled a small rise and took several shots of Mt. Conner. Then as the males in the T-Team stuffed most of the luggage into the back of the Rover and then with the light left-overs, reloaded the trailer, I gazed at the mesa, this top-sliced mountain in an expanse of yellow grass and sienna dunes. Boring! My photos needed a human figure to add interest. Richard and Matt, having completed their trailer-duties, wandered up the road.
I ran down the hill and chased after Richard. ‘Take a photo of me.’
Richard gazed up at the cobalt blue sky. ‘Oh, alright.’
Positioning myself on the side of the road, I looked at Richard. ‘Come on, I’m ready.’
‘Just wait, move to the right,’ Richard said.
I did and then noticed Richard’s finger hovering over the camera lens. ‘Move your finger.’
He shifted it, but as he snapped the photo, I thought his digit remained too close for comfort to the lens.
To ensure I acquired at least one good shot, I photographed Matt, then Dad and Richard as my humans in the foreground of my mesa muse.
[Unusually cold and rainy for November here in Adelaide. Reminds me of the younger of the T-Team with roughin’ it on their minds, exploring the Flinders Ranges; their sights set on Chambers Gorge…]
The rain followed the ants and began pelting down on the car roof.
‘Get to higher ground.’ Barney thumped his thighs. ‘Argh! An ant!’
‘Remember our friends from church?’ I said. ‘They got caught in a flood in the Flinders.’
Barney nodded and nudged my brother. ‘Yeah, remember?’
‘It’s like raining cats and dogs—and all those ants. We’ll be caught in the flood if you don’t do something.’ Doris slapped her arm. ‘Yuk! Another one! They’ve invaded the car. Get a torch!’
Barney handed Doris a torch. My brother fired up the engine.
‘Where are they?’ Doris cried. Beams of light from the torch bounced around the cabin.
‘Get that light off!’ my brother said. ‘I’m trying to drive.’
‘Don’t believe you,’ Doris murmured. ‘Anyway, it’s raining, I’m staying in the car.’
‘Are we high enough? Barney asked. ‘I don’t want us getting flushed down Chambers Gorge.’
‘Ha! Ha! Very funny,’ I said.
‘I’m serious,’ Barney said.
‘Yep, we went up a bit,’ my brother said. ‘We’re above the creek, now.’
‘Don’t trust you, get higher,’ Doris said. ‘I don’t want to be washed away.’
My brother mumbled, ‘Like that’ll happen.’ Then he sighed, ‘Oh, alright, if you insist.’ He revved up the car and mounted another small slope and then settled on a hill.
No one dared move from the car as the rain steadily fell and the fear of inch-ants crawling up and over our sleeping bodies. Plus, the bother of putting up the tent in the rain, kept us locked in the car all night. We made the best of sleeping sitting upright for another night.
Morning, we woke to blue skies and the creek transformed into a luxurious chain of ponds. Birds, big black ones called “butcher birds”, galahs, and parrots, converged on the edges of marsh. They searched for fish, poking around the lily pads scattered like floating pebbles on the water’s surface. White cockatoos congregated and chattered in the gum trees with leaves glistening in the early morning sun, washed clean by the rain.
Doris and I took the opportunity to take a dip in a nearby pool. I marvelled how this rain made reeds spring up overnight. ‘They weren’t there yesterday, I’m sure,’ I said.
‘Wow! All that rain, and we didn’t get washed away,’ Doris said.
[A mild spring with some happy warm days interspersed with bouts of thunderstorms and heavy rain. And the ants making me hop and dance when out in the garden. A reminder of the younger of the T-Team with roughin’ it on their minds, venture closer to home and into the Flinders Ranges; their sights set on Chambers Gorge…But never in their wildest dreams did they expect these little, or not so little, crawly things, ants, to spoil their first night camping in the Flinders Ranges…]
By mid-morning, and a half-a-dozen or so beers later for Barney, my brother chauffeured us on the rough road to Chambers Gorge.
‘Are you sure you know where we’re going?’ Doris asked.
‘Sure I do,’ my brother said. ‘I’ve been there before.’
We bounced over the gravel road and its abundant potholes. Then came the roller-coaster—up and down, almost flying and then stomachs thudding to the floor in the dips.
‘Stop the—’ Barney gurgled, and he leaned forward, his hand cupped over his mouth.
My brother slammed on the brakes and stopped the car in the middle of the road. Too late! Liquid breakfast splattered every corner of the car’s interior.
We spent the next half an hour using dampened beach towels to flush out the worst of the mess, and then the next few hours driving to Chambers Gorge, doing our best to ignore the smell—windows open, nostrils filling with bull dust in preference to the smell.
‘I feel sick,’ Doris said.
My brother stopped the car and we all jumped out.
Doris leaned over a salt bush and then stood up. ‘Nah, it’s okay.’
‘Better safe than sorry,’ my brother said. ‘We don’t want another accident.’
So without a map, my brother found Chambers Gorge. We lumbered along the rugged road that followed the dry creek bed.
‘Where’s the water?’ Doris asked.
‘All underground, unless it rains,’ my brother said.
We glanced left and right, sighting tents and camper vans. Four o’clock and already all the best campsites had been taken. We ventured further into the gorge crawling along the creek bed of boulders. The rocky slopes of the low hills that defined Chambers Gorge were shrouded in grey tones of an over-cast sky.
I pointed to a clearing. ‘What about here?’
‘Too small,’ my brother said.
Doris indicated a site near a clump of twisted gum trees. ‘Hey, what about one over there?’
‘Nup, where would we park?’
‘There’s a spot,’ Barney said.
‘And how am I going to get up there?’
‘We have to camp somewhere, or we’ll be cooking tea in the dark,’ I said.
‘I don’t feel so well,’ Barney said. ‘I have a headache.’
‘You shouldn’t’ve had so many beers for breakfast,’ Doris snapped.
My brother stopped the car. ‘Here will do.’
We climbed out of the car and inspected the mound of gravel no larger than a small bedroom.
‘Bit small,’ Barney said.
‘You reckon you can find somewhere better?’ my brother answered.
My brother and Barney unpacked the car and then set up Barney’s tent. Then my brother pumped up his blow-up mattress—no tent for him, he preferred to sleep under the stars. So did I. A billion-star accommodation for me. I persuaded Doris to also sleep under the stars. One problem, clouds covered our star-studded view.
Doris and I searched for firewood.
‘Seems like Chambers Gorge is well picked over,’ Doris remarked.
‘It’s like Rundle Mall,’ I replied. ‘Won’t be coming here again. Too many people.’
We found a few sticks, just enough for a fire to cook our canned spaghetti for tea. For dessert, we ate fruit cake.
As our thoughts drifted to bed and enjoying sleep under clouds as it seemed tonight, my brother said, ‘Oh, er, I did a bit of exploring. Found a better camping spot. Bigger, near a waterhole.’
‘Really?’ Doris sighed.
‘Can’t we just stay here?’ Barney asked.
My brother stroked the red mound upon which we sat. ‘Could be an ant hill.’
So again, we followed my brother’s leading, packed up and piled into the car. Once again, we crawled to my brother’s El Dorado of campsites.
There, in the dark, we set up our bedding. Barney abandoned the idea of a tent and settled down, content with the cloudy canopy to cover him like the rest of us.
Ants, two and a half centimetres long and called “Inch Ants”, swarmed the ground, their pincers snapping. They streamed from a hole on the mound where Doris had been sitting, ants multiplying and invading our clearing.
We scrambled to the car and threw ourselves in. Doris and I sat in the back, Barney and my brother in the front.
‘Looks like we’ll be camping in the car tonight,’ I grumbled.
[Watched the first two of the Mad Max series, lately. Memories ofthe younger of the T-Team(my brother and me with a couple of friends) surfaced. Wepiled into my brother’s Chrysler Charger or whatever, and with roughin’ it on our minds, we travel up north of Adelaide to the Flinders Ranges; our sights set on Chambers Gorge…]
Back in the mid-1980’s my brother rarely used a map, not a map I could see. The Adelaide Street Directory, all faded and lying on the back seat under the stiff-from-salt-beach towels, doesn’t cover way-out country areas such as the Flinders Ranges.
[Photo 1: A street directory much like this one, courtesy of L.M. Kling]
Every Easter, commencing Maundy Thursday, we’d pile into my brother’s latest Chrysler charger or whatever, and roll along to the car stereo-cassette player blasting out local South Australian band Red Gum. Up Port Wakefield Road we’d go, and if we were fortunate enough not the break down there, as one tends to do on Port Wakefield Road, we’d sally on forth to the Flinders Ranges, about four hundred kilometres north of Adelaide.
We’d start our journey late, usually after nine at night, as some of my brother’s friends had work and had to eat dinner, then finally pack before they were ready to leave.
One time, my brother and I took friends Barney and Doris (not their real names) on a planned trip to Chambers Gorge, situated in the north-eastern part of the Flinders Ranges. We must’ve left closer to midnight, and my brother and Barney shared the driving through the night. Dirt roads at that time, caused the driving to slow and by the time we neared our destination in the Flinders, the watery blue sky of dawn crept over low hills in the east. In the back seat, Doris and I rested our heads on our bags and slept, while my brother willed himself to keep awake rocking to British band, Dire Straits. There was a short stop as he then, too weary, swapped with Barney.
We spilled out of the car. I rubbed my eyes and looked around. The sun peeped over the horizon of flat desert plains, mountains to the west, jutted like pimples on the edge, still dark, untouched by the sun.
My brother checked the front of the car. ‘It’s all right, no damage. The bull bar took the brunt.’
Barney sauntered down the road, and then returned to us. ‘We hit a roo,’ he said.
‘So, we’ll have roo for breakfast?’ I asked, half-joking.
So as the sun rose over the distant mountains capping the peaks in pink, we roasted the skinned roo-roadkill over the campfire. While we waited for the meat to cook, Barney swilled his breakfast beverage of choice—beer. My brother, a teetotaller and body builder, drank his concoction of protein powder mixed with water and raw egg. Doris and I boiled a billy of water and then brewed ourselves a cup of instant coffee and condensed milk.
Doris clutched her metal mug, then sipped her coffee and said, ‘Not sure about the kangaroo for breakfast.’
‘It’ll be alright,’ I said. ‘I’ve had kangaroo—not so bad. Although, not sure about eating after the way Barney’s cooked it. We fried it once like that on our Central Australian trip, and I had a terrible tummy ache and bad gas. Smelt like rotten eggs. My brother and his cousin had competitions rating the potency of their gas. They thought it was hilarious, but the stink was awful.’
Doris grimaced and put down her coffee mug. ‘I don’t want to know.’
‘You won’t have any choice when we’re stuck in the car driving to Chambers Gorge.’
‘Speaking of Chambers Gorge, where is it from here?’
‘Haven’t a clue. I guess my brother will just keep on driving until we see a sign to Chambers Gorge.’
‘Oh.’
Barney called, ‘Roo’s ready.’
Doris and I trooped over to the campfire and inspected Barney’s efforts. Barney waved away the smoke to reveal bone and sinew reduced to charcoal.
Doris screwed up her nose and said, ‘I’ll pass.’
‘Me too.’ I grimaced. ‘I don’t fancy the after-effects from that.’
‘Aw, bit over-cooked, but charcoal’s good for you,’ Barney said. He took a few bites and then frowned as he forced the hardened lumps of gristle down.
Barney then took the remnants of the roo behind a bush and gave the poor animal a good Christian burial in a shallow grave.
[While three of the T-Team faced the perils of climbing Mt. Liebig, a drama of a different, yet equally challenging kind unfolded for Mr. B and his son, Matt as they stayed back at camp.
Mr B and his son, Matt napped under the shade of a bean tree. A southerly breeze ferried through the dry creek bed, spiriting away the father’s snorts. Matt tossed and turned on his inflatable mattress that was exhausted of air resulting from a small, elusive puncture. He imagined the three others of the T-Team, beating a path through the sweltering heat and stinging spinifex in their quest to the summit of Mt. Liebig. Matt chuckled to himself. “Suckers!”
In a nearby tributary, a bull spied the T-Team’s father, son and daughter trekking in the distance, and stamped its massive hooves in the loose dry sand. Once the family had vanished, the bull trotted towards his stamping ground which possessed a gigantic bean tree as a feature in an otherwise dull bed of dust. His quest was to reclaim his territory that the humans had invaded.
“Matt, ma boy, do be careful. Don’t go too far from camp. A bull might get you.” Mr. B squinted in the direction of distant thumping, then rolled over and resumed snoring.
A monstrous brown hulk loomed through a cloud of dust.
Matt bolted upright “Dad! Dad! Th-there’s a big- ugly- brown – ugly- big – brown – ugly – b-b-bull!”
“Aw, Matt, stop kidding me.” Mr. B blinked and rubbed his eyes. “That’s enough of the jokes.” A short rumble from behind sent him scrambling to his feet. He flailed his arms while galloping. “Quick! Into the Rover. Now!”
“But Dad!” In the sweltering heat and moment, the boy froze, glued to his air mattress under the bean tree. Terrified, he witnessed his Dad bound over the dirt and fly into the empty Rover parking space and onto a thicket of spinifex. Matt winced. The massif of angry brown trod closer. It paused, pawing the ground, taunting its human prey.
After rubbing his punctured behind, Mr. B scrambled for the tarpaulin and rummaged through the baggage. “Er, d-don’t worry Matt. I-I’ll charge this bull before it s-sh-shoots — er — us.”
“But, Dad, the bull doesn’t have a gun.”
“Well, neither do we, we’ll just have to be satisfied with this boomerang and spear, till I find the damn gun.”
The bull stalked, narrowing the gap. The son clambered up the tree and gasped as his father fought with a rucksack that had entangled his legs, while he waved the pathetic weapons above his head.
“Why Matt, how can you say such a thing? Where do you think these genuine Australian artefacts are made?” With all his effort, Mr. B thrust the spear at the beast.
“Yes, Dad, sold in Australia, but made in Japan.” Matt watched as the menacing bulk of fury stomped the ground, dust billowing into a cloud around it. “Too bad the bull doesn’t know the difference.”
“Don’t be sarcastic at a time of crisis, son.” Mr. B flung the boomerang at the charging bull and ducked behind the tucker box. The projectile bounced off the bull’s hide, provoking it into a tumult of frenzy. Grunting like an eight-cylinder engine, he stormed towards its human attacker, screeching to a halt at the edge of the tarpaulin. As the bull glared down at him, Mr. B could smell its leathery breath.
With a nervous smile fixed on his face, the father edged his way to the bean tree and climbed aboard. The bull stomped and snorted around the sacred bean tree while its victims trembled in the lofty branches amongst the beans.
From this vantage point, Mr. B spotted the rifle leaning up against the tucker box. Unfortunately, the bull sat between him in the tree and the tucker box.
Hours passed.
Father and son sat in the tree.
“Dad my bottom hurts,” Matt whined.
Mr. B sighed, “The others’ll be back soon. They have a rifle.”
“But Dad! I have to go!”
“Hold on,” Mr. B snapped. Then, he spotted the missing rifle, its metal shining on the churned sand.
The sun edged to the horizon.
Mr. B bit his lip wondering if he’d be stuck up this tree forever.
“Dad! I really have to!”
Mr. B turned to his son who was now rocking.
The distant hum rang through the golden landscape. Mr. B adjusted his grip on the branch.
The hum became louder. An engine.
The bull rose and sauntered out of the campsite, then disappeared into the bush.
“Just wait, Matt,” Mr. B said. He scrambled down the tree and grabbed the rifle.
Matt’s voice floated down. “Dad, it’s too late.”
As the sun disappeared below the horizon, the rest of the T-Team returned to find Mr. B clutching a rifle and pacing the clearing. Matt remained lodged high up in the bean tree.
“As you can see, while you’ve been climbing your mountain, we’ve had a not-so-welcome visitor,” Mr. B remarked.
[Mission to scatter Dad’s ashes in central Australia accomplished, the T-Team Next Generation commenced their journey back down south to Adelaide. Toilet stops were an essential part of the trip. A fact that these conveniences, even in this modern age, sometimes fail to appreciate…And the users too failed to appreciate, thus no mugshots of the “can” in question…
So, in lieu of that particular “robot” model, I have hunted down and flushed out (frommy photo collection) an assortment of true blue Aussie dunnies from my travels…through life…]
We settled down at a picnic table near the automated toilets. Anthony prepared the sandwiches while I dashed into the “robot” dunny to do my deed.
While I sat on the tin throne, county and western come Hawaiian music clanged away. Did I detect a banjo while the toilet roll unfurled itself for me? No button to flush. Oh, well. Once I washed my hands, the toilet duly flushed. Then, I placed my hands under the air-dryer. As usual, I am invisible to this universe, and the cohort of air-dryers that belong to it. Air-dryer refused to acknowledge me and blow air on my wet hands. Oh, well, I’ll dry my hands with my own towel from the car that exists quite happily in my universe.
I step to the sliding door and press the large blue button. The music volume increased. But the doors did not oblige. I pressed the blue button again. Nothing. Just the demented music. Becoming more demented.
Instructions said I must vacate this automated locked-down establishment in ten minutes. As if to press its point the “robot” toilet increased the annoyance level of the music.
What’s worse, I had entered this pongy prison without my mobile phone. Or jumper. It was cold in there.
Anthony called from the outside. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I’m trapped,’ I replied. ‘The toilet won’t open.’
‘Have you tried to push the button?’
‘Yes, a million times.’
‘Well, you must’ve done something wrong.’
I noted that the blue button had written on it “touch free” and then I figured, That’s why the toilet’s incarcerated me. Touching it must’ve broken its rules. ‘Has it been ten minutes yet?’
Then, the blue button which I’m meant to push for my release from this demented can, the button that has “touch free” displayed on it, lit up and vibrated. But the door refused to budge.
I pushed the door. No joy. It stayed locked and the not-so-ambient music went on and on like some crazy organ-grinder.
I was starting to imagine some security guy in some dug-out office in the middle of Coober Pedy laughing at this old jailbird (me)…when…
‘You have exceeded your stay. You must exit immediately.’
I waited and watched. ‘You might need to call the police or emergency services to release me,’ I told Anthony.
As if it heard my warning to call the authorities, the door slid open. I leapt out. ‘Yay! I’m free! I’m free!’ I jumped and danced in front of a rather unimpressed husband. ‘I’m never going to in one of those things again! I thought it was never going to open!’
‘Come on, let’s have lunch,’ Anthony snipped, ‘We’ve already wasted twenty-five minutes.’
‘Not before I get my jumper, I’m freezing. You don’t know how cold it was in there. I’m never going into a toilet without my mobile phone or a jumper. Ever.’
As we munched on our sandwiches, a brisk wind chilled us to the bone, even with an extra layer of clothing on. A little indigenous boy scampered into the evil “robot’ toilet. Less than a minute later, he exited. Anthony, then went into the same crazy “can” and was out in two minutes.
‘How did you do that?’ I asked.
Anthony replied smugly, ‘I pressed the blue button.’
‘So did I, a dozen times.’
‘You must’ve done something wrong.’
‘Just my luck I had to be incarcerated by the toilet.’
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