Spiritual

Trekking Thursday–Ernabella

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[The T-Team with Mr. B — Dad’s friend Mr. Banks and his son, Matt, joined Dad, my brother (Rick) and me on this journey of adventure. I guess Dad had some reservations how I would cope… But it soon became clear that the question was, how would Mr. B, a middle-aged man who was used to a life of luxury, cope?]

Deserted

[An extract from The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977, my newly released travel memoir, based on true events but names and events may have changed.]

We stopped in at Fregon, another Indigenous settlement much like Mimili; a row of tin sheds and deserted. Then at about 2.30pm we arrived at Ernabella.

A teacher friend of Dad’s invited us into his home for refreshments and each of us had a hot shower. I enjoyed the warm cascade of water on me. My treat for the week. Below rivers of red mud spun into the drain hole of the bath. I scrubbed my hair with shampoo. The soap refused to lather. I scrubbed and scrubbed.

‘Lee-Anne!’ Dad called. ‘Don’t take all day, the boys need a wash too.’

‘Oh, alright.’ I turned off the tap. I guess the boys did need to wash, probably more than me. They were getting quite ripe at close quarters in the Rover. After all, it had almost been a week since we had a proper wash.

All showered and smelling sweet again with soap and deodorant, we trailed after Dad who gave us a tour of the settlement, including the school. Ernabella lies at the foot of the Musgrave Ranges, south of the South Australian and Northern Territory border. The land belongs to the Pitjantjara people. The mostly prefabricated buildings were neatly arranged around a random collection of unsealed roads.

[Photo 1: Approaching Ernabella © C.D. Trudinger circa1942]

Dad guided us around the school which appeared empty. We followed him circling the white building. ‘Must be closed,’ Dad said.

‘School holidays, I guess,’ I remarked.

Dad scanned the transportable blocks and then screwed up his nose. ‘We need to find someone to fix up the trailer.’

We walked through the settlement. The white buildings stood sentinel to the roads void of human activity and traffic. The crunching of stones under our feet was magnified by a town suffering from a bad case of abandonment.

‘Where are all the people?’ Mr. B asked.

‘Wow! The place is tidy and look how clean the streets, are,’ I said.

‘Except for the gravel,’ Richard mumbled.

Matt sniggered.

We wandered after Dad who was having a hard time finding someone to fix our trailer. Anyone…No one seemed to be around. I wondered if Ernabella was a ghost town.

Mr. B suggested we wait by the store that seemed closed and suffering a severe case of neglect. This we did.

‘The reason the settlement is so tidy,’ Dad explained, ‘is because everybody, I mean the aborigines, have a job to do here. They don’t get their welfare payment unless they do their job. They probably have someone cleaning the streets of rubbish and all sorts of other jobs.’

‘Not the store, apparently,’ Mr. B said.

‘Ah, well, they have to get the stock from down south, from Adelaide. Perhaps they’ve run out.’ Dad coughed.

[Photo 2: Building in Ernabella © C.D. Trudinger 1992]

An Indigenous man sauntered up to us.

Dad strode to meet the man and he guided him to the trailer still perched on top of the Rover.

While the trailer was being repaired, I climbed a hill. I figured the trailer would take ages to be fixed so I had time to sun bake. I wanted a tan. Treading up the hill, I noticed Matt running after me.

I stood and sighed. Great! Just when I wanted space to myself.

Matt held up a stick. ‘Look what I found!’

I examined the carved piece of wood. ‘Oh, yeah?’

‘What do you think it is?’

‘I dunno, a corroboree stick, I suppose.’

‘Oh, cool! Can you take a photo of me with it?’

‘Yeah, okay.’

[Photo 3: Corroboree Stick on Trudinger Hill © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger)] 

I photographed Matt proudly holding a corroboree stick. The Musgrave Ranges behind were cast in hues of gold from the rays of the late afternoon sun. When we had descended the hill and found Dad, he told us that the “mountain” we had climbed was named “Mount Trudinger” after his brother who had been a teacher in Ernabella.

Near evening, we visited an Indigenous pastor. As the Musgrave Ranges is sacred to the Pitjantjatjara People, Dad and the pastor discussed the possibility of getting a couple of guides to be our companions as we climbed Mt. Woodroffe.

[Photo 4 and feature: Dead Tree Sunset © C.D. Trudinger circa 1992]

For the night we camped in Two Mile Creek which is not far from Ernabella. Dad conceded to camp not alongside, but right in the dry creek bed on the soft sand. This arrangement made Mr. B very happy. ‘For once I get to sleep on soft sand,’ he said.

‘Just remember, if we have even a hint of rain, we pack up and go to higher ground,’ Dad answered.

Mr B chuckled. ‘No chance of that, the weather’s been as dry as the bones of that deceased camel we saw on the side of the road.’

‘The water comes rushing down if there’s a storm,’ Dad said.

‘Oh, of course, Captain.’ Mr B then turned over and snored.

Rick muttered, ‘The only storm will be if Mr B doesn’t get a good night’s sleep.’

Matt sniggered.

[Photo 5: Picinic on Soft Sand, at last! © C.D. Trudinger circa 1992]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2018

Feature Photo: Dead Tree sunset in Musgraves © C.D. Trudinger circa 1992

***

Keen to read more of the adventures of the T-Team with Mr. B?

Click on the link and come along for the adventure.

 The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977

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Why not take a virtual travel with the T-Team Adventures in Australia?

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Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981…

And escape in time and space to Central Australia 1981…

Fantastic Friday Fiction–Choice Bits (3)

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Short Story: Black Forest…in Bite-sized Bits

Bit 3

The Temptation of Gunter

‘What’s the matter?’

Gunter glanced up. ‘Nothing.’

He sniffed and observed the slim man with a pale face and a monk’s haircut. He held a thin tablet similar to a slate under his arm.

‘Doesn’t look like nothing,’ the man said.

‘Nothing you can help me with,’ Gunter replied. ‘You are the magic man, are you not?’

The man threw back his small head. ‘Hardly magic, my son. Merely science. You have heard of Physics?’

‘Yeah..but…’

‘Tell you what, you look like you’ve had a rough trot.’ The man took what looked like a thin book from under his arm. The book had a shiny surface. ‘How about I make your day.’ He ran his finger down the front of the book.

‘Who are you?’

‘Just call me, Herr Roach.’

‘Herr Roth? Mr Red?’

‘No, Roach, as in Cockroach?’

‘Huh?’

‘Never mind—call me Boris,’ the man answered as he cleared his throat.

A whirring sound came from behind him and for a moment Gunter thought he saw dark wings of lace flutter and then snap into the man’s back. Were his eyes playing tricks on him?

Boris’ mouth spread into a wide grin with teeth in a neat row like keys on a piano. ‘Now where were we? As I was saying, anything you want, anything at all. Whatever you desire, your wish is my—oh, dear, that sounds a bit lame. Now, what is your greatest desire and I will make it so.’

‘You will?’

‘Yes, I will.’

Boris balanced the book on the tip of his finger. ‘Money, gold, wisdom—women and so on—you know the drill. Whatever.’ He flicked the book front with his finger and made it spin through the air around their heads.

Gunter, his eyes wide, gazed as the object slowed and fluttered into a butterfly and then settled on the log where he’d been sitting.

‘Wow! How did you do that?’

‘I’m still awaiting your answer. Anything you want.’

‘But it changed shape. You made it come alive.’

‘Never mind that—anything at all, it’s yours.’

‘Aber, what are you?’ Gunter asked. He tried to catch the butterfly but it flew high above his head.

‘Oh, that’s hardly important,’ Boris said. ‘Come on, I’m waiting for your answer.’

‘I want to know,’ Gunter reached for Boris, ‘where you are from.’

‘Not from this world,’ Boris stepped away from him and his arm became a tentacle and whipped Gunter’s hand. ‘Now hurry up! Tell me.’

Gunter rubbed his fingers. ‘Are you a demon?’

‘Oh, Herr Fahrer, how could you think such a thing? I’m insulted.’

‘Ja, aber for a man, you have some strange appendages.’

‘That’s because, I’m evolved, my race is superior to yours.’ Boris narrowed his beady eyes and antennae sprang out from the top of his head. With his mouth closed he fed thoughts into Gunter’s mind. ‘I don’t need a voice or a mouth. I can communicate my thoughts to you. So much simpler, don’t you think?’

Boris clicked his fingers and the butterfly floated into his open hands and turned once again into a tablet.

‘Now what will you have,’ Boris demanded with his thoughts, ‘Anything you want.’

The young man scanned the darkening sky and then spotted the first evening star glowing on the horizon.

‘Nay,’ Boris said, ‘further than Venus. Much further. The other side of the galaxy, if you must know.’

‘Galaxy?’

‘Come on, I’m waiting, I haven’t got all century. Then in thoughts almost a whisper. ‘Got slaves to catch, planets to conquer.’

‘What? Did you say something?’

‘Are you a dumkopf? Tell me what you want!’

Dumkopf! Dumkopf! Gunter hated being ridiculed. No, he wasn’t stupid. He sighed. ‘I hate my life. And you know, I hate this world I live in. I hate who I am. No one will miss me if I go.’ He trod towards Boris. ‘Can I go to your world?’

Boris edged away. ‘Well, now, there’s the thing. My world sort of exploded. You could say I’m homeless.’

‘Oh, sorry to hear that.’

‘Any other suggestions?’ Boris’ eyes glowed in the navy blue of early night. ‘I can change you like I did the booklet, if you like.’

Gunter picked at his nails. ‘I would not like to be a butterfly.’

‘You can be anything—anyone.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, no trouble at all.’

‘I could be a different person. No big nose. No brown curly hair. No pimples.’

‘Certainly, if that’s what you want,’ Boris said and flashed his wings.

Gunter pondered. Maybe demons do exist. Maybe his grandmother was right. ‘I don’t know.’ A shiver coursed down his spine. ‘I think I should be getting home. I am late for dinner.’ As he backed away, an owl hooted.

‘What about a free trial? Can do no harm, Herr Fahrer.’ The man-beast followed Gunter down the path. ‘Just one day, no obligation.’

Gunter stopped and turned. ‘Only one day?’

‘Yes, that’s what I said.’

‘Anything? Anything I want?’

‘Yes.’

Gunter stroked his chin. ‘Well, then, can you make me into my brother, Johann?’

‘Yes, I can do that.’

Boris pulled a stick from his stockings and plugged it into the booklet. He tapped the cover and read it for a few minutes. Then from a pocket in his cape, he pulled out a bottle. He tapped the bottle, picked out a pill, snapped it in half and handed the half-pill to Gunter. ‘Eat this and think of your brother, Johann,’ Boris said.

Gunter gulped down the pill. The slimy coating left a fishy after-taste on his tongue. He licked his lips, he had an idea. ‘I know, even better. Johann can become me. Then he’ll know how it feels.’

Boris rolled his eyes. ‘You’re a bright one, you should’ve thought about that before I gave you the Blob Fish pill.’

‘What? You can’t?’

‘I can,’ Boris said with a sigh, ‘but it will be a challenge. I do have the other half of the pill, so we’ll see what we can do.’ He rubbed the pill fragment between his finger and thumb. ‘Now, then I better hurry to do what you have requested. So, my boy, run along home, by the time you get there, you’ll be Johann.’

Gunter turned to go.

‘Just one more thing, where exactly is your brother?’

‘In the barn, always in the barn.’

‘Very well, enjoy!’ Boris said as wings sprouted from his back, he rose into the air and buzzed all the way up the hill to the barn.

Gunter pelted up the path to his home on the hill.

[…to be continued, next week for the stunning conclusion.]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2018; updated 2023

Feature Photo: Butterfly in Motion © L.M. Kling 2013

***

And now, for some Holiday Reading…

Go on a reading binge and discover the up close, personal and rather awkward relationship between Gunter and that nasty piece of cockroach-alien work Boris in…

The Hitch-hiker

See how Boris seeks revenge in…

Mission of the Unwilling

And the Mischief and Mayhem Boris manufactures in…

The Lost World of the Wends…

***

Or if you would like some free adventure…

Some real, historical adventure…

In Australia…

Download

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Free until Monday July 3, 2023

Fantastic Fiction–Choice Bits (2)

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The Choice—Bits

Short Story: Black Forest…in Bite-sized Bits

Bit 2: The Cut Lunch of Gunter

The planks of wood that resembled a door scraped on the stone floor as Gunter entered. Wailing from above greeted him, as did the damp musty smell. A rat scuttled along the wall of peeling rose wallpaper and through a crack. Gunter feared that with the damp and vermin, it would not be long before the family succumbed to Typhus. He’d witnessed the fate of his merchant friends in the village—all eight of them gone in one winter. Their two-storey home in the village square had to be demolished as no one would buy it.

Gunter strode to the fireplace, the flames crackling on the wood chips comforted him. He stood with his back to the fire and watched his grandmother, Sophie emerge from the kitchen wiping her hands on her once-white apron.

‘What’s wrong with her today?’ Gunter asked.

‘Says nurse tried to poison her,’ Sophie said as she glanced at the tall Nordic woman scrubbing a pot in the kitchen wash basin.

His mother’s screams warbled, resonating from the room above them and bouncing off the rose-printed walls. Gunter and his grandmother looked at each other. They knew they couldn’t compete with the Banshee screaming. Gunter heard his sister cooing, calming the troubled beast.

The screams subsided to moans. Sophie wiped her damp brow. ‘We really need to see the priest and get those demons out.’

Gunter tapped his temple. ‘It is nothing to do with demons, Grossmutter. Mutti has something wrong with her mind. Her brain is kaput.’

His grandmother ignored his comment. She manoeuvred her ample form through the labyrinth of tables, armchairs and Gunter’s latest model of the solar system to where Gunter stood. In her hand she cupped yellow powder. ‘See? I got this from the market. It’s called Turmeric. This is what I put in her soup that Nurse gave her. It is a spice from India. It is meant to heal Mutti.’ She lifted the powder to her nose and sniffed. ‘It is wonderful! I have some in my food every day and I swear it has cured my aching bones.’

‘Really?’ Gunter pinched a sample and licked it. ‘It does not taste so special.’

‘But when you put it in—’

The wailing started again. Gunter sighed. Grandmother waddled to the table and began scrubbing it. Despite his sister, Salome’s pleading and urging to placate her mother’s rages, the screams rose to a crescendo.

Gunter shut his mind to the agonised cries and dreamed of a faraway land, the Great South Land. His father had told him about this land. As a lad, Gunter’s age, his father had been a deckhand on a Portuguese ship that had explored the South Seas. The ship had been destroyed in a storm off the Great South continent. His father never really explained how he survived or returned to his home in the Schwartzwald. Most of his family and friends did not believe the salty sea tales of August Fahrer—they were just his fantasy. But Gunter believed his father and he dreamed of one day running away to Hamburg, joining a crew and sailing to that faraway land down on the underside of the world. He also dreamed he’d take Anna with him…so what if she was eighteen and he was only fourteen. So what if she barely noticed him in the classroom. What did it matter she was Herr Crankendinger’s daughter?

‘Gunter!’ Grandmother called, ‘Gunter!’

‘Huh?’ His mother’s warbling like a sad song still rang in his ears.

‘Go and find your brother, Johann. Dinner is ready.’

Gunter tore out of the mad house. He galloped across the yard full of chicks and hens, sending the birds flapping and squawking in all directions. The barn—Johann, since he’d returned from the army, was always in the barn. What did he do in the barn all day when he was home on furlough? Just sharpen and buff his swords? He had other weaponry, but Gunter hadn’t been allowed close enough to examine those items. Johann never allowed Gunter in the barn. That was his domain to sharpen and buff and admire his weapons. Johann possessed a cart that he stored at the side of the barn. But he neglected the cart and it sat, exposed to the rain and snow, wood rotting, leaning on its broken axle and its cracked wheel propped against the shattered side.

Gunter patted the cart-wreck and then poked his head through the wide opening and into the darkness. The stink of horse manure mingled with straw hit his nostrils. He looked around and blinked.

‘Johann!’ he called. ‘Dinner is ready.’

Gunter stepped into the darkness. He noticed propped against the wall a small canon-like weapon. He’d heard about such weapons. What were they called? He stepped towards the weapon, his fingers itching to touch it.

‘Johann,’ he said and paused.

Sounds of shuffling and muted giggles filtered down from above. Gunter jumped back from the weapon and looked up. He allowed his eyes to adjust.

More scuffles. Whispers. Was his brother not alone?

‘Johann. You must come to dinner,’ Gunter said.

‘What?’ Johann poked his head over the edge of the loft.

Gunter stared. A scene in slow motion played out on the mezzanine floor. A barrel teetered. It tipped. And then it toppled over the edge.

‘Watch out!’ Johann said, his vocal reflexes delayed by the shock.

The barrel hurtled down. Gunter woke from his brain freeze. Still in slow motion, the barrel cartwheeled in the air towards him. Frame by frame. Gunter’s short life flashed on a screen in his mind.

‘Nay!’ Gunter shrieked and he jumped.

The barrel crashed on the packed dirt of floor, beer exploding and splashing all over his white shirt, leather pants and black shoes staining their square metal buckles.

Johann appeared leaning over the ledge and buttoning up his blouse. ‘Oops!’

‘Was is los?’ a woman’s voice asked what’s wrong?

Gunter caught his breath, as if his heart had jumped out of his throat. He knew that woman’s voice, but he didn’t want to believe it was her.

‘What is going on?’ he asked.

‘This is your fault, Gunter,’ Johann said as he glared at the rivers of beer coursing outside, rivers of blood reflected in the scarlet rays of the setting sun. ‘If you hadn’t interrupted us. How many times have I told you, you are not to come into my barn?’

‘But what are you doing up there?’

‘Never you mind.’

Her small oval face loomed from the darkness behind Johann’s.

Gunter choked. His mouth went dry. ‘Anna?’ he said, his voice cracked into a squeak.

Johann flicked his fingers at Gunter. ‘Get out of here!’

Gunter took a few steps back. ‘Aber…’

‘And don’t you tell Grossmutter! It’s none of her business!’

‘Why?’ Gunter asked. ‘She’ll want to know about the mess…with the beer.’

‘Just don’t. Go! Mach Schnell!’

Gunter backed out of the barn. Blinded by the light and eyes clouded with moisture, he stumbled into the forest.

He howled and hated himself. He sounded like his mother wailing and carrying on but the crying took on a force of its own and refused to stop. Now who would he take to the Great South Land? Now who would share his dreams of adventure and fantasies of travel to the stars?

How could Anna do this to him? She’d painted his portrait, without the pimples and a less prominent Hoch-Blauen nose. Gunter blew his nose on his sleeve. So what! It’s already soiled by the beer. He thought Anna liked him. He’d convinced himself Anna understood him—Anna intelligent, artistic, hair golden like the sun, and eyes dazzling blue like a lake on a summer’s day. One day Anna would get to know him and love him…but no. He whimpered. ‘Johann!’ He smashed his fist into the moss on the log. ‘Always Johann!’

[to be continued…]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2018; updated 2023

Feature Photo: Barn-like, Bavaria © L.M. Kling 2014

***

And now, for some Holiday Reading…

Go on a reading binge and discover the up close, personal and rather awkward relationship between Gunter and that nasty piece of cockroach-alien work Boris in…

The Hitch-hiker

See how Boris seeks revenge in…

Mission of the Unwilling

And the Mischief and Mayhem Boris manufactures in…

The Lost World of the Wends…

Fantastic Fiction on Friday–Choice Bits (1)

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Bits from The Choice (short story collection in process)

Short Story: Black Forest…in Bite-sized Bits

[Black forest © L.M. Kling 2014]

Bit 1: The Centripetal Force of Gunter

Herr Crankendinger cracked the switch on Gunter’s open hand. The lad, fourteen years old, the in-between of boy and man, clenched his teeth. He locked eyes with the scowling school master. Gunter had the urge to snigger. Not a good urge to have when the school master is beating his hand. Gunter pushed down the bubble of snigger rising from his beating chest. His stomach churned, and all fizzed up, the snigger with a mind of its own, rumbled in his throat and then slipped out of his curled mouth.

‘Dumkopf!’ Herr Crankdinger screamed. He hammered the boy’s palm again and again. ‘You will learn!’

‘Aber, the water in the bucket is held by centripetal force, not magic. The man at the Show is not the devil.’

Herr C’s face glowed red and his ice-blue eyes bulged. He stomped his one foot and peg-leg (a casualty of the Thirty Years War), and cried, ‘Heretic!’

In the candle-lit chapel, thirty-nine pairs of eyes stared at their castigated classmate, and the owners of those eyes froze on their cedar benches. One boy in the back row tittered.

Encouraged by the titter of support, Gunter continued, ‘Gravity, have you not heard of gravity? Have you not heard of Isaac Newton?’

‘Oaf!’ The teacher pointed at the door. ‘Witch! And don’t come back! Your education is finished. Understand?’

‘Never learnt anything here,’ Gunter muttered as he strode between the rows of school boys towards the heavy doors made of oak.

He pushed one open, squeezed through and then bolted. Pigeons fluttered as Gunter ripped through the town square, of the small village in the Schwarzwald (Black Forest). First flush of spring made Gunter a bundle of nervous energy, especially when he saw three milk maids delivering their buckets full of cow juice to the stalls in the square. He looked at the blonde triplets in their puffy cotton sleeves and blue pinafore dresses, and he stumbled on the cobble stones.

The girls sheered away from him.

‘Oh, keep away from the plague,’ one said loud enough for him to hear.

‘Ugh, he smells like cow dung.’

‘No one would want to marry him.’

‘All he attracts is bugs and flies.’

And the three girls giggled.

‘You’re no beauties yourselves,’ Gunter muttered as he dug his hands in his pockets. He didn’t care it was bad manners to dig hands in pockets. Too bad, he thought, then tramped up the hill to his home.

On the way up, Gunter glanced in a pond. His nose like the Blauen-Hoch dominated his dusky face, and pimples gathered in clumps like pine trees on his high forehead, square chin and of course, his mountain of a nose. He pulled his thick dark curls over his face to hide the awkward ugliness, and then with his head down and hands buried in his pockets, Gunter shuffled up to his home presiding over the village, a mansion crumbling with neglect.

How long before his home looks like those Roman ruins down the road? Gunter wondered. Another victim of the Thirty years war that had dominated life in the 17th Century. So close to the sanctuary of Switzerland, and yet…his father had to go and join the cause. So did his older brother Johann. How could Gunter as a boy keep the house and home together?

[…to be continued]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2018

Feature Painting: The Choice © L.M. Kling 2013

***

And now, for some Holiday Reading…

Go on a reading binge and discover the up close, personal and rather awkward relationship between Gunter and that nasty piece of cockroach-alien work Boris in…

The Hitch-hiker

See how Boris seeks revenge in…

Mission of the Unwilling

And the Mischief and Mayhem Boris manufactures in…

The Lost World of the Wends…

Friday Fiction–Future Friend

/ lmkling / 1 Comment

[In response to today’s prompt, a friend is someone you can trust as they trust you. They are there for you, as you are there for them. You can share almost anything about yourself with them, and they can share anything with you and feel safe. You can be yourself with them and they can be themselves with you. With some friends, no matter how long it has been between seeing each other, you pick up the conversation with them from where you left off the last time you saw them.

This story is about the future and friendship.]

MESSAGE FROM MY FUTURE ME

“Grandma, can I excuse the table?” I asked.

Grandma chuckled. “You mean, be excused from the table, dear.”

I nodded and then pushed my chair from the old wooden table.

“Yes, you may, but don’t go too far,” Grandma said. “Go only to the end of the road and then you must turn back.”

“I will.”

*[Photo 1: Escapee from Grandma’s © C.D. Trudinger circa 1966]

I escaped out the back door and down the gravel driveway. The street spanned before me, begging adventure. Sunday lawns green, pungent with fresh Saturday clippings piled behind an assortment of fences.

“Go away, will you,” she said in her grimy blue dress. She leaned over the stone wall and pushed me.

I brushed off her greasy prints and walked on, leaving the willow tree and that girl snarling in the shade behind me. As I strolled into the sun, I ran my hand over cracked rendered walls, rattling cyclone fences and peering through the oleander bushes for signs of life in quiet houses.

“Don’t go over the road,” Grandma’s voice warned in my head.

*[Photo 2:  Memories of Belair National Park, Old Government House © L.M. Kling 1985]

No, I won’t. I rubbed my bottom in memory of the Belair Sunday school picnic adventure when my brother lost me. Promise! Careful not to step on the lines in the pavement. Bad luck. I tiptoed and danced along the pavement in my pink ballerina shoes.

A shadow wriggled over the pavers. Stobie pole to my right, plastered its stunted midday image on the asphalt. I halted. Casting my focus up, I spied this big girl. I squealed and clapped my hands over my mouth. This lady-girl was dressed all in lace and brown velvet as if in Grandma’s clothes.

“Hello, you must be Lee-Lee.”

“Why did you know my name?” I pointed at her; rude, I know. “Ha, ha! Why are you wearing funny clothes?”

She blushed and rubbed her stubby fingers over the velvet. “They’re trendy where I come from.” She smiled and straightened her long dress that swept past her ankles. “Actually, where I come from, I know a lot about you.”

“Why?”

“Because I have the same name as you.”

“So? I know more than you do. You’re dumb. So there, ner!” I planted my hands on my hips and poked out my tongue.

“That’s no way to talk about yourself.”

“Huh?” I pulled at my pigtail and chewed the ends of my hair.

“Elementary girl.” She flicked her long blonde strands and smirked. “I am the future you. In fact, I know more than you do because I know what’s going to happen to you.”

“Future me?” I scratched my cheek and screwed up my nose. “What does future mean?”

“I am your grown-up self.”

[Photo 3: Six-year-old self with missing tooth © School Photo 1969]

“Oh!” I wiggled a loose tooth. “Does that mean your teeth all fell out? Did you get grown-up teeth or did you get them all pulled out and get false teeth like Grandma’s?” I zoomed up to Future Me’s face and ogled at her mouth. “Come on, show me your false teeth.”

She bared her perfect row of pearly whites and nudged me back. “They are real. Orthodontically corrected, but real.”

“Arthur—what?”

“I had braces on my teeth.”

“Why? Were they crippled?”

“No, they were crooked.”

“Ugh! Crooked teeth.” I turned from her and poked stones with the point of my shoe. “I don’t think I like being you. Grandma clothes, crooked teeth that need Arthur’s braces. I’ll never be like you. You’re just pretending. ‘Sides, how could I be you?”

I squinted at this tall slim blonde who transferred her weight from one leg to the other. I noticed the worn back-pack groaning full of books, straps straining to pull the load from her waist. Future Me stroked her chin between her thumb and forefinger. “Well, it’s hard to explain to someone as little as you. You’re in Prep, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m a big schoolgirl, now.” I thrust my chest forward and with hands each side of my tummy, swung my hips.

“Well, big schoolgirl, Lee-Lee, to put it simply, it’s called T.T.T—thought, time, transportation.”

“What then?” I watched my pink dress swish as I swayed.

“You just think and instead of thinking time as moving forward, you make it move backward for you.”

“Just like that?”

“Well, actually, it’s more complicated than that—a kind of scientific experiment that my big brother Warwick invented. He put electrodes on my head and well, something happens that I can’t fully explain.”

“Oh, did you have a brother, Warwick too? Does your Warwick snort when he laughs?” I cupped my hand over my mouth and tittered.

The lady-girl raised her lace sleeve to her mouth and giggled. “Yes, he does.”

“You must be me.” Repressing the urge to gnaw my fingernails before my future-self, I clasped my hands together and looked in her eyes. “So, me, what’s going to happen to me?”

She avoided my gaze. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.

“That’s not fair! Why can’t I?” I grabbed at her, but she slipped through my fingers and drifted from me. “Plee-ease!”

“I can’t!”

I watched her move further away and shimmer in the sunlight.

“But why not? Please! Just a little bit.” I chased her and swiped at her. “Just a tincy-wincy-little bit. I won’t tell! Promise!”

“Alright, if you insist.” She floated above the greying plaster fence. “But I must be leaving soon.”

[Photo 4: Trampoline fun © L.M.  Kling 1989]

She faded, blending in with the oleander and honeysuckle bushes. I strained to see her. I attempted to touch her, but my hand passed through her.

The wind whistled through the bushes. “Have a good time with Jilly.”

“You didn’t tell me! You lied, me!” I cried.

I hunched over and plodded back towards Grandma’s house. Shouts and squeals from a yard on my left, caught the corner of my eye. A girl my age bounced on an old double-spring bed.

“Hello, my name’s Lee, what’s yours?”

“Hello, my name’s Jilly. Do you want to play on the trampoline with me?”

© Lee-Anne Kling 2009; updated 2023

Feature Painting: Somerton Beach Dreaming © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2011

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11

***

Dreaming of being transported to another world?

Time for some holiday reading?

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The Lost World of the Wends…

Travelling Thursday– Road Trip in the Charger (6)

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Road Trip to Sydney in the Charger (final)

[Based on real events but some names have been changed. And some details of events may differ. After all, it was over 40-years ago.

Finally…the intrepid road trip travellers reach Sydney.]

Feature Photo: Sydney Harbour from Ferry © L.M. Kling 2002

The conference and Rick’s never had a girlfriend

As far as conferences went, not a bad one. Lots of singing, worshipping God, that is, lectures, Bible Study, eating, and meeting new friends and old friends too. Our accommodation was down Anzac Parade, about five kilometres, halfway to the beach. I shared a small apartment with Rick and Dad. Dad drove me back and forth from the conference centre at Randwick. Not sure what Cordelia did, but I think she connected with other members of her family who attended the conference and stayed with them. Rick, I think ferried Mitch and Jack to and from the conference centre.

This arrangement becomes relevant later in the week of the conference.

One session that stands out, was the one on relationships.

Rick and I sat side by side, in the front row.

This will be interesting, I thought. Maybe I’ll get some tips on how to get a boyfriend and be popular like Cordelia.

‘So,’ the speaker said, ‘How many of you have had a boyfriend or girlfriend?’

Everyone including me, raised their hands. Everyone, that is, except my brother Rick.

‘What? You’ve never had a girlfriend, Laddie?’

‘Nope?’

The speaker pointed at me. ‘What about that lovely girl next to you?’

‘She’s my sister.’

Laughter.

[Photo 1: A lone tall ship in Sydney Harbour © L.M. Kling 2002]

Abandoned at the hostel and trek up Anzac Parade

Towards the end of the conference, one more event stood out.

Dad told me to wait for him at the hostel apartment where we were staying. After lunch we had an afternoon of free time before the final worship session.

I returned to the apartment lunch with my brother and friends eager to catch up on some rest and losing myself in a book. Maybe some journal writing which had been neglected in all the activity and excitement of the conference.

However upon my return to the dreary grey corridors of the hostel, my door was locked. Oh, well, Dad said he won’t be long.

I had nothing with me. All my supplies of entertainment and comfort were locked away in the apartment.

So I sat.

For hours.

After two hours, I began to sniff.

Then snivel.

Then finally, cry.

A lady poked her head out of a nearby door. ‘Are you all right?’

I wiped my eyes. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

She retreated into her apartment.

I looked at my watch. Five o’clock! Almost three hours I’d been waiting for Dad.

Convinced that he’s forgotten me and I’d be waiting further five hours with that lady sticking her nose in my business every so often, I stood up. Stiffening my lip in grim determination, I marched out the hostel and strode up Anzac Parade.

I prayed that God would protect me.

[Photo 2: Yachts in Sydney Harbour © L.M. Kling 2002]

Along the cracked pavement. Past long neglected houses. And cared-for ones. Over busy roads at the lights. Narrowly escaping any impact with red-light running cars. In the humidity. Under light rain. Taking a wide berth around the many hotels. And leering drunks who spilled out onto the footpath. In the ever-fading light that faded into dusk.

Five kilometres and forty minutes later, I entered the conference centre. The session where all had gathered, was concluding with prayers. All in a circle holding hands. I slipped in the circle. 

The boy next to me squeezed my hand.

Oh, he’s just being kind to poor little old me, I thought. After all, if even my father forgets me…

After, over tea and biscuits, my miffed Dad asked, ‘Where were you?’

‘What do you mean? I waited three hours,’ I retorted.

‘Couldn’t you be patient?’

‘Not when I couldn’t get into the room,’ I said. There was a limit to my patience.

‘I went to pick you up and you weren’t there,’ Dad said. ‘I told you to wait.’

‘And, what time was that?’

‘Oh, er, um, about…’ Dad’s voice faded, ‘about five.’

‘Well, I was there at five, and I didn’t see you.’ I sniffed. ‘So, I walked.’

‘But don’t you know how dangerous that was to walk here?’ Dad showing so much concern, after forgetting me for the whole afternoon.

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ I replied. ‘I prayed and God protected me.’

‘He did. Praise the Lord,’ Dad said and then wagged a finger at me. ‘But don’t you ever do that again.’

‘Yes, Dad.’ As long as you don’t forget me again.

Passing through the Blue Mountains

[Photo 3: A view of the Blue Mountains from actual trip © L.M. Kling 1979]

Our return to the less crowded and more sedate city of Adelaide, was serene and uneventful as the fair city itself. Especially at the time in 1979.

A few highlights. Mostly, in fact, all associated with the Blue Mountains. We had missed the beauty and wonder of the mountains on our journey to Sydney, so, Rick endeavoured for us to see these mountains in daytime on our trek home.

At the lookout to the Three Sisters, we lunched and admired the majesty of God’s creation. Even Rick using his polaroid camera, took photos of us admiring the scene. He was taken with the layers of misty blues and subtle greens cascading down into the depths, while the cliff tomes forming the Three Sisters presided over the valley.

I burst out in song and Cordelia joined in.

After a chorus, Cordelia said, ‘You should try out for the worship band.’

‘Me?’

‘You have such a sweet voice, although it does need to be stronger.’

On the drive home I considered the prospect of trying out for the band. Perhaps singing in front of the church would make me more popular with the boys. Like Cordelia. But in the end, I decided against it. Too hard. Too much of a challenge for plain old me. After all, the worship band was a highly coveted affair, where lead singers jealously guarded their position. I’d never have a chance. Sweet voice, but not strong voice would never cut it.

Back at school, I continued my enjoyment of music singing in the choir. But I’d always secretly envy the solos with their stand-out song voices. The stars with their melodic strong notes, the audience’s focus on them alone.

Instead, that new year of 1979, my passion turned to art…and writing. These were the gifts God had given me.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023

Feature Photo: Sydney Harbour from Ferry © L.M. Kling 2002

***

Want more, but too impossible to travel down under? Why not take a virtual journey with the T-Team Adventures in Australia?

Click here on Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981…

And escape in time and space to Central Australia 1981…

Friday Frolics–Road Trip in the Charger (5)

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Cordelia makes a brief visit to the hospital.

Jack woke and rubbed his eyes. ‘What’s happening?’

‘What are you doing?’ Mitch asked.

‘What do ya think?’ Rick said as he slowed to the 60 km/h speed limit of the town.

Mitch pointed the other way, out of town. ‘Couldn’t we just…’

‘No,’ Rick said.

‘Cordelia’s going to be sick,’ I chimed in.

Rick slammed on the brakes and skidded on the rubble on the side of the road.

‘Not yet,’ Cordelia said in a soft voice. ‘But I need a hospital.’

None of us asked the reason we needed a hospital for Cordelia. Under the light of the newly functioning headlights, I studied the strip map for the district hospital. Not much joy there. The map only showed the strip of road or highway from town A to town B, no diversions. However, we did find a 24-hour service station where Mitch asked the way to the hospital.

Upon arriving, Cordelia insisted on entering the premises on her own while the rest of us waited in the carpark. Making the most of the opportunity not to be cramped up in the car, we sat or paced around the car in the balmy night.

*[Photo 1: Missed—the Blue Mountains © S.O. Gross circa 1960]

An hour or so later, Cordelia emerged feeling better. No explanation.

And once more we piled in the car and headed for Sydney.

‘If we drive through the night, we’ll reach Sydney by morning,’ Mitch said. ‘Plenty of time for the conference.’

Rick adjusted his grip on the steering wheel and grunted. ‘As long as nothing else happens.’

I squeezed myself against the back passenger door. I had lost my place in the front with Rick to Cordelia. I had been relegated to the back seat with Mitch and Jack.

The gentle rocking of the drive lulled me to sleep.

Lost in Sydney

I yawned and stretched.

‘Hey, watch it!’ Mitch said and pushed my hand away.

‘Sorry.’ I covered my mouth and yawned again.

The Charger crawled along following bumper to bumper traffic. High rise buildings towered over the narrow road and every side street garnered either a black and white “One Way” sign, or red and white “No Entry” sign. A bridge looking like a giant coat hanger peeped through a gap in the buildings.

*[Photo 2: Sydney Harbour Bridge before there was an Opera House © S.O. Gross circa 1960]

‘Where are we?’ I asked.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Rick said.

‘Oh, Sydney,’ I said. ‘How come we’re not at the conference?’

‘You tell me,’ Rick muttered.

‘We’re having trouble…’ Mitch began.

‘It’s all these one-way streets,’ Rick said. ‘Who ever designed Sydney must’ve had rocks in their head.’

Jack suggested we head for Bondi Beach for a swim as it’s so bleeping hot, reasoning, that if we hadn’t had the car trouble, we’d have had a day to take in the sights and go for a swim.

‘Aren’t we late for the conference?’ I said.

Rick rolled his eyes. ‘Rate we’re going, we’ll never get there.’

‘But, if we go to Bondi,’ Mitch said, ‘perhaps we can find a park and work out where we are and how to get to the conference.’

‘But how do we do that?’ Rick asked. He moved the car at the speed of a tortoise along the road chock-full with near stationary vehicles.

I pointed at a sign which read, “Bondi”. Head east, follow that sign. I’d given up on attending the conference, and believing we’d be stuck in Sydney city traffic forever, resolved to content myself with the promise of the beach sometime in the next week. Not sure how Dad would feel about us not turning up, though. He’d made it his mission to persuade our little tribe to come. And, here we were, lost in the city traffic, wandering in circles around one-way streets.

*[Photo 3: Speaking of circles, Aquarium at Circular Quay, Sydney © L.M. Kling 2002]

I imagined Dad pacing the floor of the conference centre, wearing a groove in the carpet, glancing at his watch and peering out the window. ‘Where are those children,’ he’d be saying, ‘they should be here by now.’

‘Where, exactly is the conference?’ I asked. ‘Is it near Bondi?’

‘Have you got rocks in your head?’ Rick said. His face was flushed with beads of perspiration dripping from his temples. ‘Of course it’s not. And at this rate, no matter where it is, we won’t get there. We’re stuck.’

‘Um,’ Jack interrupted Rick’s rant, ‘I think it’s at Randwick Racecourse.’

‘And where’s that?’ I said.

‘Perhaps, if we go to Bondi, find a park, then we can study the map, and work out where to go,’ Mitch said.

‘Or we could lob into a corner shop and ask someone directions,’ I suggested.

The guys ignored my idea, as guys do. All this time Cordelia remained silent, contributing nothing to the discussion. Perhaps to be more popular with the boys as Cordelia certainly was, I considered I should remain silent. But, me, being me, I just could help myself. Being one of the “lads” and voicing my opinion, that is.

We reached Bondi. Early afternoon.

I remember the weather. Warm, cloudy and humid. Specks of rain assaulted the windscreen. Despite the inclement weather by my Adelaide standards, the streets around this beachside suburb were cluttered with more cars, and even more people. It seemed to me that Bondi was crowded with the entire rest of the population of Sydney; the ones who were not still stuck in traffic in the city centre.

As a result, no parks. Nowhere. Not a thin strip anywhere to put the Charger.

Rick sighed and drove through the park-less and crowded Bondi, along some coastal road and then up a road heading east again.

*[Photo 4 and Feature: What else, but the Opera House with the Sydney Harbour Bridge © A.N. Kling 2016]

Jack, who had been studying a simple map of Sydney that the RAA strip map provided, pointed at a road on the map. ‘I’m pretty sure if we turn down Anzac Parade and follow it all the way down, we will reach our destination.’

Rick followed Jack’s directions and we arrived at the conference just in time for afternoon tea. And, I might add, a roasting from Dad who could not understand how we could get lost in Sydney.

Mitch, though was philosophical. ‘It could’ve been worse, but I was praying the whole time, and God got us here safe and sound.’

Dad sniffed and tapped his trouser pocket. ‘Hmm, yes, you are right Mitch. Ah, well, praise the Lord.’

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023

***

Still Free…

Journey to The Lost World of the Wends

Free on Amazon Kindle till May 7, 2023

Wild Wends-Day–A Celebration Treat

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Wild Wends-Day — A Special Celebration Treat

Travel to The Lost World of the Wends for Free

A Story where the past and present, and vast distances in space intersect…and Boris does what he always does…

Eastern Europe, 1848

Prussian War raged, and the Wends as a village, left their homeland, with plans to set sail for Australia. From the Eastern edge of Prussia, they journeyed on a barge destined for Hamburg’s port, where they hoped to catch a cheap fare in the cargo-hold of a ship destined for the Promised Great South Land.

These villagers, never made their Australian destination. No one ever noticed, nor missed them. The neighbouring villagers assumed they had arrived in the Great Southern Land, and considered them so far away, and too distant to maintain contact. In Adelaide, also, the city for which they headed, the inhabitants were blissfully unaware of their existence. Migrating Prussians had taken their place in the over-flowing cargo-hold and were sailing across the Atlantic to Australia.

On this barge, headed by a man, Boris Roach, the Wends sang hymns of praise to God for their liberation from religious persecution, and the war. They looked to the promise of prosperity and freedom to worship God according to the Word. Their hope that their children and their descendants may thrive in their faith in the Promised Land of South Australia.

A tale where the nineteenth century meets the twenty-first…

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2021

***

Read more, and lose yourself in this tale where the nineteenth century meets the twenty-first…

Free from 3 — 7 May 2023

Just click on the link:

The Lost World of the Wends…

Easter Treat

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Mission for Free – An Easter Treat…

If you are wanting space adventure and the mischief and mayhem that alien cockroach Boris creates…

A Taste from Mission of the Unwilling (2nd Edition)

Avoiding Monica’s Playroom, (I thought Maggie might be lurking there), I headed for the Driver room. Would Günter zap back to a Grey and be piloting there? Or would just his apes be in the Driver room? I approached the junction where the right passage led to that room of monitors and Günter. I sensed someone sliding along the wall behind me and looked back.

A lump lodged in my throat. Not the Grey Nurse again!

‘Where is he?’ She tugged at my collar choking me. ‘You go to him—get him. I want him.’ Does she ever give up?

‘If you’re that desperate, find him yourself.’ I veered the other way, ducked around the next corner, and lost her.

I headed for the Engine room. I had to see John and talk to him about all my troubles. And warn him Boris might be back. What I liked about John was he didn’t talk much; he just sat there and listened.

I entered the maze of towering machines, pumps, and raw veins of bound wires. Anxious, at every sound of a swish behind me, I checked my back. Every wheeze, and I slammed myself up against the closest engine cowling, flattening myself for cover. I reached John’s small office and lurched through the entrance.

Hands gripped around my eyes. Darkness, even darker.

‘We must leave here,’ a deep voice said. ‘Now.’

‘Why?’

‘It is not safe; there has been an accident.’

‘Günter, is that you?’

He pushed me, guiding me. Something oily underfoot made me slip. He held me. Then carried me out.

In the light of the corridor, I blinked. Günter appeared pale. His forehead was covered in beads of perspiration. And as he held me, he trembled.

My shoe stuck to the floor. I lifted my foot. On the tiles, a bloodstained shoe print.

‘W-what’s going on?’ I asked.

‘I-it is J-John…’ Günter rasped. ‘I-didn’t want you…to see…’

‘John? Is he…no, not John…he can’t be…’ I moved to enter the engineering room.

‘No danger.’ Günter pulled me back. ‘He is…he is gone.’

Günter cradled me in his arms as we both wept.

***

Continue to feast on this story over the Holiday season.

A treat for all my friends and followers.

Download for free (from April 9—13) from Kindle

Click here on Mission of the Unwilling

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2022

Feature Photo: Mission of the Unwilling cover © L.M. Kling 2022 (UFO © Liz Maxted)

Travelling Thursday–Road Trip in the Charger

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Road Trip to Sydney the summer of 1979 – Episode 1

[Based on real events but some names have been changed. And some details of events may differ. After all, it was over 40-years ago.]

Lost Control

A conference on the gifts of the Holy Spirit. I wonder what gifts God has for me? I pondered while dozing in the back seat of my brother Rick’s Chrysler Charger. And Dad…why was it that Dad had to go all on his own by car to the conference? Oh, well…much more fun travelling with my peers.

Crunch!

I sat up. Rubbed my eyes. ‘What happened?’

The car fishtailed. Rocking the carload of us back and forth.

‘Hey, mate!’ Rick, my brother yelled at the driver, ‘Jack! You trying to kill us?’

Without reply, Jack, bit his thin upper lip and swung the Charger to the right, and into oncoming traffic.

I gasped.

A truck bore down on us.

Jack, who reminded me of Abraham Lincoln, clenched his strong jaw and corrected back to the left. Keep left, that’s what you do when driving in Australia. Jack’s usually blonde curls appeared dark from perspiration.

The semitrailer gushed past us, sucking the air out of our open windows.

Rick held up his thumb and forefinger in pincer mode. ‘You missed them by that much.’

[Photo 1 and feature: Rick’s Charger in strife © L.M. Kling circa 1984]

Rick’s navy-blue tank top was soaked with sweat around the neckline under his mouse-brown curls, and under his strong arms. Mid-January and the full car with only open windows for air-con, steamed with heat. And body odour.

To my right in the back seat, Mitch, taller and thinner than my brother but sporting dark brown curly hair, wiped his damp mauve polo shirt and then sighed, ‘That was close.’

Cordelia, in the briefest of shorts and tight-fitting t-shirt, showing off her classic beauty and assets, sat the other side of Mitch.  She clutched her stomach. ‘I feel sick.’

Mitch leaned forward and tapped Rick on the arm. ‘How long till we reach the next town?’

‘I think I’m going to throw up,’ Cordelia said.

Rick nudged Jack. ‘I think you better stop.’

Jack rubbed one hand on his blue jeans, straightened his long white shirt, placed his hand again on the steering wheel and kept driving.

Cordelia cupped her hand under her chin and groaned.

I smoothed my white wrap-around skirt, and then brushed my light cream-coloured blouse patterned with blue roses. No way did I want Cordelia to mess up my most flattering-to-my-slim- figure clothes.

[Photo 2: In my slimming white wrap-around, Clealand National Park © M.E. Trudinger 1979]

‘Stop!’ Rick shouted.

‘I can’t!’ Jack said and continued to speed down the highway. The golden expanse of the Hay Plains dried out by the fierce summer heat spanned the horizon. White posts flitted past. The red-brown line of bitumen of the highway stretched to its vanishing point on that horizon. A faded white sign flashed past. Dubbo, 265 miles. How long had Australia been metric? A few years at least; not that one would know travelling in outback Australia in early 1979. Still…

Another groan from Cordelia.

Rick screamed at Jack. ‘Stop!’

Jack slowed the car and rumbled onto the gravel beside the road.

Cordelia leapt out and hunched over a shrivelled wheat stalk. I looked away and covered my ears from the inevitable sound of chunder.

‘That was close,’ Mitch said.

‘Remember that drunk guy, your brother brought back to Grandma’s?’ Rick said. ‘Took me a week to get the smell out of her Toyota.’

‘Hmm,’ Mitch replied. ‘That was unfortunate.’

‘You mean, the guy who kept singing “Black Betty”?’ I asked. I remembered that fellow. He had messy blonde hair and a moustache. He lounged on the back seat of Grandma’s car while I sat all prim and proper in the front waiting for Mitch’s brother to drive us to Lighthouse Coffee Lounge. ‘He kept saying I was so innocent.’

‘Well,’ Mitch said, ‘you are.’

I guess I was at 15; but hated to admit it.

Cordelia stumbled back into the car. ‘That’s better.’

[Photo 3: Proud owner of his Chrysler Charger © courtesy of R.M. Trudinger 1983]

Rick and Jack arranged to swap places. So, after a brief stretch of legs and a nearby scraggly-looking bush receiving five visitors, we set off on our quest for Sydney. After all, we still had ages to go before arriving there for the Revival Conference. We hoped to arrive with enough spare time to see the sights Sydney had to offer.

[to be continued…]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023

***

Easter, the season for holidays and intrepid road trips…

Or for a reading adventure…

Want more, but too impossible to travel down under? Why not take a virtual journey with the T-Team Adventures in Australia?

Click here on Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981…

And escape in time and space to Central Australia 1981…

Or

Is Sci-fi adventure more your thing?

Come along for an Easter holiday where a road trip goes wrong and off the beaten track in…

The Hitch-hiker