[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.
[While Mr. B and his son, Matt stayed back at camp,three of the T-Team faced the challenge of climbing Mt. Liebig. And finding their way down. After a successful climb (except for the lost quart can) to summit Mt. Liebig, (Read Part 1 of this adventure), the T-Team lose their way..]
We also diverged. Dad was confident that all gullies lead to the big one at the base of the slope. ‘Ah, well! We will meet Rick in the gully below,’ he assured me.
But contrary to Dad’s prediction, we did not meet Rick. I could not help thinking, this was not the first time as far as Rick was concerned. We’d already lost him in the sand dunes near Uluru. Almost.
Dad continued to search for his quart can. But that little friend Dad had cherished since the fifties, eluded him also.
We weaved our way down the main gully for about an hour. A huge spider in a web spanning the width of the gully confronted us. The spider, the size of a small bird, appeared uninviting, so we backtracked and decided to hike up and down the ridges.
For several hours, we struggled over ridges. Up and down, we tramped, yet seemed to make little progress; the rise and dips went on forever. The sun sank low, and so did our water supplies.
The heat drained me. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. But we had to ration water.
Dad slumped on a slab of rock at the bottom of a gully. ‘Drink?’
I took the canteen from him and filled my cup. Then I spooned in some Salvital. I chugged down the water as it fizzed. So refreshing!
‘Oh, Lee-Anne!’ Dad quibbled. ‘You didn’t leave much for me!’ He poured the last drops of water from his canteen into his mouth and gazed in despair at the lengthening shadows of the mountain.
‘Oh, but Dad! It’s not fair! We will never get out of this place! We are lost forever.’ I had visions of future hikers coming upon our dried-up old bones thirty years later. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Well, um, perhaps we better pray God will help us.’ Dad bowed his head and clasped his hands. ‘Dear Lord, please help us find our way back to the truck. And forgive me for growling at Lee-Anne.’
‘Forgive me too. Help us not to run out of food and water, too.’
‘Bit late for that,’ Dad muttered. ‘Ah, well.’
We had barely finished praying, when an idea struck me. ‘Why don’t we climb up a ridge and walk along it. Surely if we go high enough, we’ll see the landmark and the land rover.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. We need to conserve our energy.’
‘Just one ridge won’t harm us.’
Dad sighed. ‘Okay, it’s worth a try.’
I raced up the hill and strode along the ridge. I climbed higher and higher. I glanced towards the east expecting, hoping, willing the Rover to appear. But with each stride, each hopeful gaze, nothing. I resolved to climb further up the slope before turning back.
After a few more steps, still nothing. With the heaviness of defeat, I turned to climb down. Then I saw it. The Land Rover sat at the base of the mountain, glistening in the last rays of the setting sun.
‘There it is!’ I jumped up and down over-reacting with excitement.
‘Praise the Lord!’ Dad’s shout echoed in the valley.
With renewed energy, we attacked the last mounds that lay between the vehicle and us.
‘Rick will probably be sitting there waiting for us wondering what has happened,’ Dad said puffing as we strode up to the land rover. ‘Can’t wait to have a few gallons of water.’
We rambled over to the rover. Dad circled the vehicle and returned to me shaking his head. ‘He’s not here.’
[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.’
[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 after camping at Marla for the night.]
The Trucks of Terror
Morning and the dawning realisation why this campsite may not have been popular. Anthony stomped around the tent grumbling.
‘I got no sleep last night,’ he snapped. ‘Kept getting woken up by those trucks rumbling all night. And their lights. Just as I drifted off to sleep. Those lights kept shining into our tent.’
‘Will you be alright to drive?’ I asked.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ he sniffed. Anthony was a man after all and infallible.
We moved like snails packing up. I loaded the Ford’s rear with stuff. Next minute, Anthony was there unloading and repacking. Must do it right, even on the last leg of our journey.
While he played his version of luggage-tetris, I wandered off to the BBQ hut to check for any forgotten items that might lurk there. And behold, sitting rather smugly in a rather obvious position on the bench next to the BBQ facilities, Anthony’s water bottle. You just have to wonder whether the water bottle had legs and hid when we were searching for it the previous night. Then, when it realised that it might be left behind, it positioned itself in the fail-safe position to be found. The water bottle is not the first item to “hide” from me and then “reappear” in a place where I have looked a dozen times before…
There was much rejoicing over the lost water bottle that was found.
Owing to Anthony’s meticulous care in packing, we were the last to leave the campsite.
As we travelled the long monotonous stretch, I slept a bit, wrote in my diary a bit, and then stared out the window at the red earth, gibber plains and twisted corkwood trees. I even filmed the landscape flitting past a bit.
‘That’s okay, blame it on the trucks that kept us awake all night.’
‘I swear that there was a truck that shone its lights straight into our tent.’
‘Yeah, it seemed that way,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps we can stay at Woomera in a cabin tonight and get a decent night’s sleep.’
‘Yeah, why not!’
Around two o’clock and the landscape evolved from flat, and stone scattered to low-lying hills pockmarked with what appeared to be giant rabbit holes. Signs warned visitors to beware of mine-shafts.
A tour of Coober Pedy yielded no service-stations that we could find. And He who wanted to save money and eat a picnic lunch was not willing to enter a pub for the loo in case it entrapped us into eating in there.
‘What about the playground and BBQ area where we had tea with the T-Team on the way up to Central Australia?’ Anthony suggested.
Bad suggestion…
But, at the time I agreed. Lunch and loo visit in one hit.
[to be continued…next time I contend with a psycho dunny…]
[Extract from Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981]
In the morning light, we beheld the beauty of Dad’s choice of a camping spot. Giant gum trees, reeds, and flowers surrounded a large jade-green pool, beckoning us to stay, enjoy, and explore. The mysteries and wonders of the place drew me to taste adventure before breakfast.
I hiked east, traversing the banks of the Neales River until I reached a fence. Hungry, I ambled back to camp, late for breakfast, but not for cold damper.
‘I honked the horn and called for you. Where were you?’ Dad snapped.
After my damper and jam, then washing dishes, I ventured west crossing the Algebuckina Bridge. The creek bed appeared all dried up; the water absorbed beneath the surface. Cracks inches wide marred the clay bed that had soaked up all the water. In the distance, I spied majestic eucalyptus trees and decided to reach that spot, before returning. No waterhole on this side.
I trekked along the sandy plain littered with spinifex bushes. When I reached the clump of gums, I examined a shallow puddle of moss, sludge and fish.
On the opposite side of the ridge rose a steep cliff. I scrambled to see what wonders lay beyond. I mounted the hill, delighted with the sight of a deep waterhole, crystal green, stretching and winding, and disappearing behind a hill. Snap went my fingers; instamatic photos capturing this moment in Algebuckina’s history.
[Extract from Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981]
Car hunt all sorted with a Toyota Corolla named Levin, the T-K Team Next Gen turn their attention to sorting out the annual tax return. So, keeping the theme of the attack of the tacks which the T-Team endured on the unsealed highway back to Adelaide almost 40 years ago to the day…]
Once more we all dismounted from the Rover and once more Richard shook his head at the pathetic sight of an airless tyre, this time, the Rover’s, squashed flat on the corrugated sand. Once more we stood guard while Richard jacked up the Rover, removed the flattened lump of rubber, soaked it in a bowl of water, found the leak and commenced the ritual of repairs. And once more he swore as he ripped off the first, then the second, then the third patch in the set that wouldn’t take. Finally, he hurled the remaining patches and glue into the spinifex.
Dad gazed to the horizon and the sun fast sinking toward it. ‘What did you do that for?’
‘They’re a bunch of duds.’ Richard hunted through the tool kit for another packet of tyre patches. ‘How long did you have that set?’
‘Oh, er, um,’ Dad rubbed his moustache, and mumbled, ‘only a few years.’
‘Well, the glue was cactus.’ Richard pulled out a patch from a newer looking box, and then lighting a match, exposed the patch to the flame. After roughening the tube at the damage site, he sealed the patch over the puncture. He stuffed the tube back in the tyre. ‘Now, let’s see what we can do about the pump.’
After returning to the toolbox for some more tools, he fiddled with an electric pump, and then attached it to the Rover’s battery.
We all cheered as the pump chugged into action and filled the tyre with its much-needed air. Mission accomplished, we once again climbed back in the Rover and then raced towards Oodnadatta.
Weariness from the constant stopping and starting, and tyre-changing meant that not much conversation happened between younger cousin (C2) and me. The current corrugations that filled the cabin with a sound like heavy machinery didn’t help. I knew Dad wanted to drive through the night to reach Adelaide. No stopping now. We’d suffered enough delays, and Dad intimated he just wanted to get home, or if not home, at least to the comforts of a creek bed filled with soft sand, like Algebuckina.
However, Dad’s dream of sleeping in cushioned comfort stalled. Ninety kilometres north of Oodnadatta, another trailer tyre blow-out brought us to a complete halt. By this time night had fallen and the diagnosis was grim. We had run out of spares for the trailer.
The men stood at the scene of the tyre carnage. Richard combed the area and shining light from a torch he gathered up shreds of evidence. Dad and his nephews stared with mouths downturned at the remains of the victim, the rim with a few bits of rubber hanging off it.
‘It made quite a few sparks,’ I said. ‘Better than fireworks.’
‘This is not the time to be funny.’ Dad gazed at the gravel road languishing in darkness. ‘We’re in a lot of trouble and I’d appreciate if you could take this seriously.’ He clasped his hands and cleared his throat. I was sure he’d burst into prayer at any moment.
‘Sorry.’
Richard shone the torch in the direction of the Rover. I turned to look. The Rover listed to one side. Surely that can’t be the dip at the edge of the road.
‘Richard,’ I said walking over to the back-passenger side of the Rover. ‘What’s going on with the Rover?’
The torchlight landed on me. ‘Look, we’re—’ Dad began. The light fell on the tyre, a very flat-to-the-rim tyre. ‘Oh.’
I pointed at the tyre imitating a pancake. ‘See, I told you.’ I put my hands on my hips and sighed. ‘Just not our day. Four flat tyres in half a day. How can that be?’
[Extract from Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981]
As our personal car hunt takes a positive turn, Mum’s car, the one we are borrowing, suffers a devastating blow to its tyre—staked by a bolt. And so, I am reminded of the attack of the tacks as the T-Team drove the unsealed highway back to Adelaide almost 40 years ago…]
So for the first time in the entire two months of the Safari, Dad permitted my older cousin (C1) to drive. After reaching the South Australian border and the degradation of the road to dirt, he drove at a steady fifty-five kilometres per hour. Bull dust billowed on each side of the vehicle, and we kept the windows sealed.
Richard sat in the middle and I sat on the passenger side nearest the window. My feet ached. Feeling faint with the heat magnified in the confined unventilated area, I peeled off my shoes and socks.
‘Pooh!’ Rich fanned his nose. ‘Do you have to?’
‘But it’s hot.’ I massaged my foot. ‘I can’t smell any foot odour.’
A smile grew between C1’s beard and moustache, then the cabin filled with fumes of sulphur dioxide.
‘Ugh!’ I exclaimed and then reached for the handle to wind down the window.
‘You can talk.’ C1 put a handkerchief to his nose. ‘When was the last time you washed your socks?’
‘Point taken,’ I gasped, and then picked up a book fanning the air to the back of the Rover causing my younger cousin (C2) to protest and Dad to cough.
Ker-chunk! Ker-chunk! C1 eased the Rover to a shuddering stop.
I looked at the odometer. We’d travelled 180km from Alice Springs. ‘Oh, no! And we’ve only just left.’ I opened the door and dropped from the Rover.
Richard edged his way out and then paced around the vehicle. He bent down to inspect a back tyre. ‘We have a puncture.’
Dad and cousins piled out. Richard commenced his jacking up the Rover, and removing the tyre. He lifted the spare off the rear door of the Rover. He bounced it towards the axle, and then stopped.
He frowned and said, ‘The spare’s flat.’
While my brother repaired the puncture, we lingered by the roadside. Dad kicked the mound of graded dirt. C1 pulled out another book from his satchel and read. C2 stared at the long stretch of road, counting the cars that passed. I sat in a ditch and picked my nails. An hour passed. Richard continued working. He’d already used up two dud patches on the tube. The repairs seemed to be taking forever.
Dad, his hands in his pockets, shuffled over to Richard. ‘How long do you think you’ll be?’
Richard peeled off the third patch that didn’t take. ‘Oh, another half an hour.”
Half an hour times three. In real-time, one-and-a-half-hours.
Dad stroked his beard. ‘Yes, I think we’ll have lunch then.’
We gathered a few sticks together for a fire to boil the billy. With my cup of tea and cake, I deserted the group to sit under a shady mulga tree. Another half-hour dragged in the heat.
I returned to the men. They stood like statues in a semi-circle around Richard who now battled with a pump. No matter how hard or long he pumped, the tyre didn’t seem to be doing much.
Richard wiped drops of sweat from his temple and grunted. ‘Come on, you idiot, work!’ He resumed pushing the lever up and down, faster and faster. He stopped and checked the gauge. ‘Damn thing hasn’t moved.’ He kicked the pump. ‘Work!’
‘I don’t think that’ll help,’ Dad said.
‘The pump’s broken. The gauge hasn’t moved off twenty k-p-a.’
Dad kicked the tyre. ‘Is that enough?’
‘I s’pose it’ll have to do.’
Richard shook his head. He placed the half-inflated tyre on the Rover’s back axle, and then tightened the nuts.
C1 resumed his driver’s position with Richard and C2 in the front. I put up with Dad and the dust in the back cabin. My father decided to manicure his nails with his teeth. Drove me insane! Every few seconds, he puffed out a bitten nail onto the floor, the luggage, and the dirty laundry pile. I looked away as his nibbled his nail stumps, but the spitting sound grated on my senses setting my teeth on edge. I placed a pillow over my ears and rested my head on a soft bag. I began to doze.
Thudda! Thudda! Thudda!
The Rover rocked and jerked to a juddering halt. Again we piled out. This time a trailer tyre had been ripped to shreds. Bits of the tyre left a sorry trail down the highway.
Dad poked his toe at a fragment of rubber. ‘How did that happen?’
‘The rocks,’ Richard replied. Then removing the spare trailer tyre, he bounced it into position.
Again, we stood around and watched Richard change the tyre. Again, we piled back in the Rover and continued our journey. And yet again I had to sit in the rear of the Rover with Dad.
This time, Dad nodded off to sleep and snored. Richard who was driving, had barely driven ten minutes before Dad had fallen asleep. I watched Dad’s head loll from side to side, and with a snort, he’d jerk his head up, and then his head flopped followed by a deep rumble. Again, I covered my ears with a pillow and rested on my soft bag.
The rumbles penetrated my pillow. They grew louder and louder, sounding like an earthquake. I sat up and looked around. Dad wide-eyed and awake stared at me. The rumbling turned into a loud roar.
[Join us, the TK-Team, in the holiday up North, we were able to and had to have…]
Rest after mission accomplished
My husband Anthony had a mission. That mission was to buy jocks and socks. He’d been threatening this venture in the days before we embarked on our mini trek to Central Australia. As if there weren’t enough obstacles to overcome to get to Alice Springs. Covid escapees and the lockdowns that ensue when that sneaky little virus escapes the confines of medi-hotels or the eastern states at this present time in Australia.
But, with South Australia free from new locally acquired cases of Covid and the Northern Territory happy to receive us, we took our chance. Not that it wasn’t like Paris post September the 11th at Adelaide Airport when we departed. The federal police paced the concourse of the airport while armed to the teeth and touting semi-automatic rifles. Or when we successfully arrived at Alice Springs airport, we were greeted with what I’d describe as “Checkpoint Charlie” where the disembarking passengers had to line up, and then show “Passports of Declaration” that they had not been to any hotspots in the last 28 days. Took an hour for all of us to get through.
Anthony recorded the aeroplane parking lot which reveals how much the world is not travelling these past eighteen months.
So, on the morning after our epic journey north by plane, and a sleepless night on a bed of what seemed to be a hard plank, we embarked on our hiking trip of the day. This time through the heart of Alice Springs in search of the Target Store. Google maps seemed to be slightly confused and sent us marching in the opposite direction. I recalled seeing a Target sign. But where?
The township was packed with all sorts: tourists, beggars, shoppers, the sober, and not so sober. Not a mask in sight.
Finally, after twenty minutes of searching, we found the Target Store and Anthony found his socks and jocks to buy.
Mission accomplished, we headed for the Araluen Cultural Centre and to Yaye’s Café, where we were to meet an old friend who I knew from church back in the 1970’s but who has lived in Central Australia now for many years.
Over Argentinian pies, we swapped books and stories all things Hermannsburg, Missions and Central Australia.
After lunch, Anthony and I journeyed out to Ellery Creek Big Waterhole. In all the previous visits to the MacDonnell Ranges, this waterhole was one which we would visit, briefly, to tick off on our to-do list.
1977, the T-Team with Mr. B assembled in front of the hole. Tick. Then onto the more spectacular Ormiston Gorge.
This time, 2021, we would give Ellery Creek a good hour or two to absorb the beauty and atmosphere of the place.
Problem was, we seemed to be driving, driving, driving on Namatjira Drive. Kilometres and kilometres. Noticed a sign that stated that Glen Helen, where we had camped in 2013, was closed.
90 km from Alice Springs and finally, the sign to Ellery Creek, Big Hole loomed large to our left. We turned right onto the graded but dirt track. As Anthony drove slowly over the corrugations, he remarked, ‘It’s been proven by the “Mythbusters” television show that driving slow over corrugations minimises damage to your car. It’s driving fast over the corrugations that causes damage.’
We parked in a near-empty carpark, and hiked the short distance to the waterhole. The cliffs glowed golden-red in the late afternoon sun. A sign by the rippled waters warned of currents and to take care if swimming.
Anthony and I decided it was enough to bask under the shaded beauty of the cliffs, and admire brilliant reflections in the pool capturing the images with our cameras. Anthony with his phone and me with my Nikon D7000.
While we basked in the stillness of the waterhole, the birds emerged: budgies, ducks, a kingfisher, and finches. Then some of the not-so-native wildlife appeared.
‘Must get back to Alice Springs before dark,’ Anthony said.
So, in the golden light of late afternoon, we returned to Alice Springs where, at the IGA near the caravan park, we bought lamb chops for dinner. The kangaroo tails offered were tempting, but…
[Last week safety in South Australia was threatened by that all too familiar nemesis Co-vid, and again restrictions were put in place. Many activities were “verboten”, including singing. Having weathered the latest threat, I recalled forty years ago in the remote centre of Australia where trespassing on the “verboten” could spell disaster…]
[Extract from Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981]
The Consequences of Changing One’s Mind
Back at in Hermannsburg, Mrs. R presided over the kitchen bench.
‘How did the ice-cream-making go?’ I asked.
She flitted to the fridge and opened the freezer section. ‘C1 and that nice girl, J have both gone, but not together.’ She sounded far-away in the land of the fairies.
As if I wanted to know what my older cousin, C1 was up to. ‘Did it work out,’ I asked.
‘Hmm, maybe.’ She remained distant, still in fantasy land. ‘Possibly, give it time.’
‘I mean, the ice-cream, are we going to have fried ice-cream for dessert?’ I rose, walked over to the fridge and peered over her shoulder. ‘Is there fried ice-cream in there?’
‘Oh, no,’ she spoke with a dead-pan expression. ‘We ate all that. Just ice-cream for you folks, I’m afraid.’
I believed her and assumed we’d have plain old ice-cream for dessert. J returned unannounced. ‘Oh!’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Just stay there, don’t go away.’ She vanished out the door.
Lamenting the loss of the fried ice-cream experience, I comforted myself with a cup of tea. Dad buzzed around the kitchen, chopping vegetables, boiling rice, deep frying shrimp crackers and splattering oil all over the walls. I knew I should help but I just sat, sipping tea and wishing I had stayed behind. Now I’ll never have fried ice-cream. Anyway, Indonesian fried rice is Dad’s domain, his glory, and heaven help anyone who offers to help. Our job was to taste its wonders and compliment him. I could do that.
J reappeared with a small postcard-sized paper in hand. ‘It’s a photo of you.’ She handed me the image of me looking shocked by the camera flash at the sing-sing. ‘I think it’s a rather nice one of you. Don’t you think?’
Not particularly. I accepted the picture of me appearing ghost-like on a bad-hair day. Never did like pictures of me. The camera picks out all my faults. ‘Yes, thank you.’ I rose and then headed for the room holding my luggage. ‘I’ll put it in my diary straight away.’
While Mrs. R departed for business with J, and Dad slaved over a hot stove of many fry pans and saucepans creating his Indonesian meal, I wrote my diary and then retreated into the world of Wuthering Heights.
‘Dinner is ready!’ Dad rang the brass hand-held bell. ‘Come and get it.’
I left my Heathcliff to brood on the moors, and drifted into the kitchen-dining area for the auspicious Indonesian meal. Seven o’clock and three young ladies, two pretty blondes and a stunning brunette, accompanied C1 and C2 to the round white table decorated with knives, forks and plates. The atmosphere bubbled with excited chatter and introductions. In one corner, the fellers, my brother, C2 and C1 fidgeted and grinned, and the girls giggled and squealed as they stood in the other corner and checked out the talent. I sat in the middle like the referee at the table. I clutched my knife and fork upright in each hand and glared at Dad bustling at the sink.
The young people gathered and selected seats at the table. Dad presented his massive bowl of Indonesian fried rice to a chorus of ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’. The girls’ eyes widened at the sheer enormity of the rice project. The boys licked their lips and breathed in the aroma of cumin, cardamom, turmeric and chilli. Dad had excelled himself. He puffed up his chest, and strutted around the kitchen.
C1 charmed the ladies with his dry humour and subtle flirting. Stuck in their own shyness, MB and C2 remained spectators, while C1 did all the entertaining with the girls. I sat back in my chair observing the interactions, piling my plate full of rice, and shovelling the stuff down like I hadn’t eaten in weeks. The ladies opposite me, picked at miniscule portions of the fair. So what! I can make a pig of myself! No one for me to impress. Not like I had to diet. Someone’s got to show Dad his food is good, not just tell him with platitudes. Besides, got to make the most of it, only boring old ice-cream for dessert. The young lassies each passed up offerings of seconds while I was on my thirds. I bet they were full from eating all the fried ice-cream. Well, serves them right. Polishing off the plate, I felt full and bloated. There was a lull in the conversation. C1 had run out of things to joke about.
The boys joined Dad in dumping brick-tonnes of scalding and jesting at my expense. C1 played the condescending parent and elicited a laugh from the girls. ‘Now, there’s no need to make a drama out of it.’
‘You should see her when she plays games like ‘Chook-Chook’, almost breaks down the house with door-slamming,’ my brother chuckled, followed by more roars of laughter.
‘She did nothing the whole trip, just eats all the food in the camp,’ C2 snorted. More roars of mirth. As if on a roll, he added, ‘And she’s always changing her mind.’
‘A woman’s prerogative,’ I muttered.
‘Not in this household,’ Mrs. R pointed at me. ‘My three-year-old behaves better than her.’
As they all scored points at my expense, I went off in my mind to Austria and The Sound of Music and the trouble with Maria. Perhaps one day I’ll go off into the Alps with my Count von Trapp. For the moment I was trapped, demonised by the perpetuation of false perception of my image. I felt like no one knew who I really was. Glad there weren’t any eligible males for me to witness my humiliation. I held my tongue and my position at the table. Anything I said would be held and used against me.
Mrs. R served up the fried ice-cream. A bowl appeared before me.
‘Thank you,’ I whispered. I kept my head down and eyes fixed on the ball of fritter. I waited for further remarks and comments about how undeserving I was of this peace-offering, but they had moved on.
Tru-Kling Creations 