[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.
Every month, I will take 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, the T-K Team once again returns to Alice Springs as they begin their journey back home.]
In Search of Gas
While Hubby packed the Ford, I prepared a “thank you” card for our friends. I found a photo of a rock formation near Mt. Liebig, then I painted a frame around the picture, and finally, sketched Mt. Sonder from memory in the middle of the card.
Hubby checked his expert handiwork at packing, and then said, ‘Ready to go?’
‘Yep, let’s go over to the FRM store and say goodbye to our friends.’
We bid our Hermannsburg friends farewell, promising to catch up with them when they returned to Adelaide. After more storytelling by P and some souvenir shopping by us, we were ready to farewell Hermannsburg.
Following a few more stories from P, then a phone call to my brother, who said they were about to leave Alice Springs, we were set for this town.
Except…
‘I just want to check out the graveyard,’ I said.
‘Do we have to?’ Hubby sighed. ‘There’s nothing there.’
‘I just want to see who’s buried there.’
‘If we have to.’
My husband trekked after me as I trudged over to the graveyard that looked more like a neglected paddock of red sand than a cemetery. We gazed at the iron crosses of the early missionaries, such as Kempe, and a sad tombstone of a 10-week-old Latz baby.
‘Vogelsang, who’s he?’ I asked.
Hubby shrugged. ‘Probably a missionary here, since he’s buried here.’
1 pm, we rolled into Alice Springs, making a beeline for the petrol station.
‘We must fill up with gas before we start on the journey back to Adelaide,’ Hubby said.
‘Might be a bit difficult,’ I pointed at the LP Gas bowser, ‘it says “Out of Order”.’
Hubby topped up the Ford’s petrol tank, and we steeled ourselves for the hunt for LP Gas. We reckoned that in a country town such as Alice, most fuel stations lined the main roads leading into and out of the town. So, down the Stuart Highway we travelled, in search of a service station which offered gas. Prophetic of a future without LP Gas, our search proved elusive.
We spent some twenty minutes touching base with the T-Team. My brother gave directions for an LP Gas-friendly service station, and we were on our way to this fuel stop of promise, and then Emily Gap. Meanwhile, the T-Team visited their friend who worked at the radio station.
The T-Team with Mr B — In 1977 Dad’s friend Mr Banks and his son, Matt (not their real names), 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 who was used to a life of luxury cope? And how would the T-Team cope with him?]
Secret Men’s Business
Mangaruka
Dad scraped up the last few oats at the bottom of his metal bowl and then said, ‘I’ve asked our guides to take us to a place which is very special to them.’
‘What? The Gosse Range?’ I piped up. ‘Are we going to that meteorite site?’
‘Better, than that.’ Dad’s mouth did his signature cat-with-bird-in-the-mouth expression. Then he explained that after discussion with our Indigenous guides, they had agreed to take the scenic route via Mangaruka Gorge; the entry to a sacred site. While Mr. B groaned at the prospect of hiking up yet another gorge, my father allayed his friend’s concerns by saying that we would only travel to the gorge’s entrance, and if we had time, just explore the beginnings of it.
Mr. B grumbled, ‘But we don’t want to be searching for a camp near Talipata in the dark.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Dad patted Mr. B on his rounded shoulder, ‘Talipata is not far from there. Besides, the cliffs of Mangaruka at sunset are stunning, especially with the ghost gums set against them.’
I remembered the exact image Dad was dreaming about. On lazy afternoons at my Grandma’s home, I used to rummage through photos and slides from her family’s time in Central Australia. My grandfather was, in my opinion, an amazing photographer. In one corner of Grandma’s bookshelf in the back room, rested a pile photo prints that were kept in pristine condition encased in special cardboard like a card; the best of Grandpa’s work. One scene that I have painted was a ghost gum, it’s white trunk against the deep purple cliffs of Mangaruka Gorge. Another slide that impressed me was the same scene with the ghost gum at sunset. No wonder Dad wanted to stop there on our way to Talipata.
After having breakfast, we packed up and drove out into the wild west. The dirt road exemplified that rugged feel.
At Haasts Bluff station we filled up with petrol, water, and supplies to last us in this virgin land. We were going where not many people, except the Indigenous, had gone before. Upon entering the land belonging to these people; there would be no shops, no houses, and no roads. To salute our departure from civilisation, we bought something to eat and drink. I ate a meat pie.
Our guides directed us off the narrow, yet graded road onto an almost invisible track. One sat on the bonnet of the Rover and directed our venture into the desert. We bumped and crawled along faded wheel ruts until a small range emerged through the low dunes and the folds and creases in the flat-topped hill, formed a gorge. We had reached Mungaraka Gorge.
Dad slowed the Land Rover, parking it just before some soft sand that threatened to engulf its wheels. The T-Team stepped out of the vehicle to be greeted by a welcoming party of small pesky flies. They were most unwelcome.
Swishing the pests away from his nose, eyes and mouth, Dad said, ‘Mungaraka, I reckon the name of the place has something to do with flies.’
‘Certainly a feature of the place,’ Mr. B sniffed. ‘Oh, darn it! I just got one up my nose.’
Richard, my brother clapped.
Mr. B glared at him.
With eyes wide, Richard looked at Mr. B. He then examined his palms. ‘Twenty.’ He flicked the flattened black flecks from his hands and then clapped again.
Mr. B then turned to his son, Matt. ‘Don’t even think about killing tha flies, ma son. They have germs. You don’t want germs, ma boy.’
‘No, Dad.’ Matt pulled his cap over his eyes, turned away and strolled down the track towards Mangaruka.
Dad, who had been laying out a spread of food on the tarpaulin, stopped preparations and ran after the boy. ‘Hoy! Matt! Wait! Lunch first, then the gorge.’
Richard laughed. ‘And for extra protein—flies.’
Lunch became a battle of hasty bites of cheese and gherkin sandwiches while trying to avoid the added bits of protein of flies that were only too willing to add flavour to our meal. After, we sipped our billy tea probably flavoured with the odd thirsty fly.
Our guides sat apart from us, and, unperturbed by our uninvited swarm of guests, they ate their bread and murmured quietly to each other. Dad perched on the tucker box and watched them.
I gulped down my last drop of tea. ‘Well, aren’t we going to explore the gorge?’
Dad stood up. ‘Right, let’s go.’
‘What about our guides?’ I asked.
‘Oh, they won’t be going. Mangaruka’s sacred to the Arunda, so they won’t go near it.’
‘What? Are they afraid of the place, Dad?’
‘It’s more complicated than that. They keep sacred stones called “Tjuringa” there in a cave. And they are afraid of spirits there.’
‘Can we go there?’
‘Sorry, Lee-Anne, girls are not allowed. Nor us. Not them. Only the elders. So, we’ll only go to the entrance of the gorge.’
Mangaruka held no ghost for us, only flies. Dad, Mr. B and Matt, and I walked up to the entrance of the gorge. Richard stayed behind to keep our two guides company. On the rocky slopes in the gorge, a smooth brown and white stone caught my eye.
‘Girls not allowed,’ Mr. B added, and then called out to Matt who had scampered further up the gorge. ‘Come on son, time to go back.’
On our return, I tried to take a photo of us all in front of this gorge, but our aboriginal companions refused. In the end, Dad took a photo of me in front of Mungaraka. Dad would have like to stay longer to wait for the rocks to turn red, but we had to move on.
[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 next few months, I will take you on a virtual trip to the Centre and memories of that unforgettable holiday, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation.
This time, the T-Team explore historic Hermannsburg, but fail to find any ghosts.]
Mystery in Historic Hermannsburg
We checked out the old school room. Mum reminisced the terrors of teaching the fellow missionary kids who were barely younger than her. They just refused to listen or obey her. Some were constantly daydreaming and never did their lessons. Mum vowed never to teach again. She escaped this teaching fate by getting married…to Dad.
T-Tummies began to grumble and so, the T-Team Next Gen decided to head for the Precinct Café which had been the Manse of the Hermannsburg Missionary Supervisor.
As we investigated the old rooms that had been converted into a souvenir shop and tea rooms, Mum said, ‘This is the room Dad and I stayed after we got married.’ I took a photo of Mum in that room which was now filled with souvenir clothes and hats.
Finally, Mum and I approached the counter and asked the young Arunda lady serving, if we could have a table for our party of ten.
She guided us to some tables on the porch where we could sit. Along the way, Mum mentioned to her that she used to live in the house. From that moment on, this lady could not do enough for us, making sure we had the best slices of apple strudel and helping us with the self-serve tea and coffee.
When she had left us to serve someone else, Mum whispered to me, ‘I think she is GW’s (an elder) granddaughter.’
Later, as we were leaving to explore more of the village, the girl who had served us ran up to the T-Team to continue the conversation with us about the Hermannsburg of old and answer any of our questions about Hermannsburg today.
Then, she had a question for us. ‘Have you seen or sensed any ghosts?’
We shook our collective heads. ‘No, we haven’t.’
‘Apparently, some people have seen a girl in period clothing, circa 1900. And some have seen an old man in this café. The young girl plays with my children,’ the lady who served us said.
I tried to think back to my previous visits to Hermannsburg. Can’t recall any ghosts then…just dreams of the olden days, way back when…And the pioneer missionaries and Afghans trekking across the desert on horses and camels.
More exploration of the Historic Precinct where Mum walked us through her childhood. First, her old home and the porch converted into a bedroom in which she slept. Now, the home is “renovated” into an art gallery. Her room fetches up to something like one thousand dollars a night for an authentic experience of yesteryear’s accommodation. To think, I did that virtually for free in the 1970’s…not her room, but…
Then, the native girls’ quarters and the native boys’ quarters. Once upon a time, one hundred years ago, they were locked in at night, so they wouldn’t escape and get up to mischief.
Then the huge shed; a museum of machinery and long-forgotten technology, for butchering cattle, and tanning of kangaroo skins. Outside, my niece sat on an old tractor.
While the T-Team Next Gen rested at a picnic table by the morgue, and Anthony filled the water canteens, Mum shared how, as a child, she and her sisters played funerals. ‘We’d dance around the table pinching our noses.’ Apparently, back then, funerals were a regular occurrence. Mum added, ‘The most eerie experience was the wailing by the Arunda when someone died. Sent shivers down my spine.’
Meanwhile Anthony battled with the nearby water pump which was situated just behind the Historic church building.
Mum glanced over and remarked, ‘Last time we visited in 2010, we were told about this competition Hermannsburg and another mission were in for who had the holiest water. Someone had drunk the water from this other mission where the water had bubbled up to the surface through the sand and was healed. So, then, Hermannsburg had to out-do this other mission and also make water with healing qualities.’
[Twelve years ago, 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 next few months, I will take 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, the T-Team farewell Glen Helen, then struggle with the concept of driving in convoy.]
Hermannsburg
Midday, and Mt. Hermannsburg rose up above the desert scrub; just red sand dotted with tee tree bushes, spinifex and the invasive buffel grass. At regular intervals, horse poo appeared in high piles on the roadside.
I read later that buffel grass was introduced to stablise the desert soil and reduce the risk of bushfire. The problem with this grass is that it is pervasive, compromising the growth of native plant species. PIRSA (Primary Industries and Regions, South Australia) has declared “Buffel Grass under the Landscape South Australia Act 2019”.
A massive animal carcass on the side of the road flitted past.
‘What’s that?’ I pointed, then placed my hand back on the steering wheel. ‘It’s too big to be a roo and too woolly to be a brumby.’
Son 2 piped up. ‘Camel?’
‘Hmmm, hate to think what happened to the vehicle that struck that camel,’ I said.
Not long after the camel carcass, we passed the memorial to Hermannsburg Mission and then a sign welcoming us to Ntaria—Hermannsburg. To our left, a supermarket, a pale brick structure languishing on the edge of a paddock near the road.
‘That’s where our friend, P, from church works,’ I announced. Our friends, P and wife, K had invited us to stay with them in Hermannsburg.
The convoy came to stop on the gravel road edge by the store.
I hopped out of the car and entered the store. Searching for P, I wandered up and down the aisles, filled with the owners of the Land, the Arunda people, but shelves empty of anything to buy. Except for the pie warmer, choc-full of pies, chips and other fast foods.
I approached the check out where an Indigenous lady served a long line of customers, who each held pies, chips, hot dogs, and burgers. I stood in line and waited my turn to purchase an answer to my question.
Finally, my turn. ‘Could you tell me where I can find P?’
The checkout lady stared past me.
‘P? I thought he worked in the supermarket,’ I said.
I waited about 10 minutes while she served a stream of customers purchasing their pies and other junk food.
So, I left.
‘Perhaps we’ll find an answer or P at the Historic Precinct,’ Mum said.
The T-Team convoy led by Mum’s hire car, then continued through Hermannsburg to the Historic Precinct. We passed a gated community. Yes, you heard right, a gated community. Houses painted in bright pastel green, yellow and pink, could be viewed through the cyclone fence, and their occupants sitting in backyards of red sand.
Further on, we rolled past another store. This one painted in pastel blue and decorated with a mural of native bush, mountains, and a kangaroo. Near a broken window, a faded sign, stating its identity as the “Finke River Mission” Store.
Mum waved a hand in the store’s direction. ‘I reckon P works here.’
The door appeared locked by a security gate of thick metal bars. Without stopping, or alighting from the car, I said, ‘I think it is closed on Sunday.’
A few metres on, we parked just outside the Historic Precinct. The wooden gate leading to the old buildings swung in the breeze, open. To one side, though, a formidable sign discouraged us with the words in black letters, “Closed”. Despite this sign and its statement, people wandered across the compound and in and out the buildings.
[Twelve years ago, 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 next few months, I will take 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, the T-Team farewell Glen Helen, then struggle with the concept of driving in convoy.]
The sound of boots scuffling in the boys’ section of the tent woke me. I wormed my way out of the sleeping bag, careful not to wake Hubby. He still puffed out the sweet dreams while softly snoring while I crept next door to investigate.
Captured more of Mt. Sonder at sunrise; this time in blue and mauve hues rising above helicopter landing pad. In 2010, Mum and her sister had splashed out and taken this helicopter ride over the MacDonnell Ranges. In some ways an easier way to have a birds-eye view of the ranges without all the huffing and puffing and effort climbing a mountain.
Mum had been there and done that in her youth when she climbed Mt. Sonder with my dad and other Hermannsburg friends. Mum shared just recently, that one of the friends was a rather luscious looking fellow. She puzzled why there seemed to be no photos of this chap in Dad’s slide collection of the occasion.
On my return from this venture down memory lane, I collected some firewood from an old campfire. Hubby narrowed his eyes and growled, ‘We’re not making a fire.’
‘Okay.’
I approached my nephew who squatted by a campfire which he had lit. ‘We’re not making a fire,’ I said and then dumped my wood collection into the fire. ‘We’re not having a fire?’
My nephew laughed. ‘I was just playing with my stick and it broke and went in the fire.’
‘And my pieces of wood just fell into the fire,’ I added.
We watched the flames grow, both chuckling at our insurrection to his Lord-ship’s ban on fire.
After a toilet break, I filled a billy can with water and it made its way onto the coals. The family gathered, enjoying its warmth and relative scarcity of flies and other insects. But for some, like my younger niece, the fire failed to ward off all the flies; especially those tiny little sticky flies that crawl in one’s eyes, nose and mouth. For her, the only solution was to put a re-usable cloth shopping bag over her head.
Following breakfast by the fire that my husband said we weren’t going to have, I washed and packed up my bedding and stuff in the tent. Having done as much as I could to pack the Ford, I walked up to the restaurant with Son 2. He wanted an iced coffee. There, while Son 2 drank his iced coffee, I bought a book about Uluru, and then had a coffee with Mum. We talked with the owner and Mum shared that she had visited Ayers Rock (Uluru) in 1953.
‘We were the only ones there,’ Mum said.
‘Was Dad there that time?’ I asked.
‘Yes, but I was much younger, and we weren’t going out then.’ Mum laughed. ‘One of the ladies lost the sole of her shoe when we were climbing, and Dad gallantly lent his shoes to her and walked down the rock barefoot.’
‘Just like my brother did in 1981 with his cousin. Only they did it as a dare.’
‘Must be in the genes,’ Son 2, who had been quietly listening to the conversation, snorted.
By 10.30am, the T-Team convoy had left Glen Helen, its red cliffs, its flies and the doused and covered fire in a distant mirage and we headed for Ormiston Gorge, again. My sister-in-law wanted to buy a souvenir magnet at the Ormiston Gorge information centre.
We parked at the turn-off, where Mum, Son 2 and I waited in Mum’s hire car for the Ford containing Hubby and Son 1 to arrive, and the T-Team in their white van to appear.
‘What’s taking them so long?’ Son 2 asked.
‘Maybe the Ford won’t start.’ A definite possibility, I thought.
‘Don’t say that,’ Mum said.
‘What about the T’s? They’re late too.’ Son 2 grumbled. ‘We’ve been waiting twenty minutes!’
I sighed. ‘Perhaps the Ford has broken down and brother is under the bonnet trying to fix it up.’
‘Should we go back then?’ Mum asked.
‘Yes, I think we should,’ I sighed again while starting up the engine. I rolled the car forward, performed a U-turn and then headed back to Glen Helen.
Just as we reached the road to Glen Helen, the Ford appeared and sailed past us on its way to Ormiston Gorge.
Down the valley we travelled until we could safely do a U-Turn, at what we had coined the “U-Turn Crossing”. This was the place where a couple of nights ago, Son 1 had collected firewood while I collected photos of Glen Helen’s iron-red cliffs bathed in the golden rays of the setting sun.
Then, stepping on the accelerator, we chased the Ford. Upon catching up to the Ford, we beeped the horn and flashed the lights of our rental car.
‘What the…?’ Son 2 pointed at a white van on the opposite side of the road, heading back towards Glen Helen.
‘No,’ Mum said, ‘we’ve all missed the turn off to Ormiston.’
More sighs. A brief park by the side of the road, our car with the Ford, and then exchange of information with Hubby and Son 1. Then with my brother who had also missed the turn off to Ormiston and had to retrace his tracks back. We turned around (in our cars) and in convoy, bumped our way down the rough track to the Ormiston where we waited for Mrs. T to buy her fridge magnets.
Transactions done, we began our journey to Hermannsburg. This time, the T-Team in their white van, waited for us to catch up. Again, this time in convoy, to Mum T’s childhood home.
[Twelve years ago, 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. One Friday every month, I will take 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, the T-Team part ways for the day, and two of us set off to explore Standley Chasm.]
Bonus! An all-you-can-eat breakfast greeted us at the Chifley the morning after. The same can’t be said about the T-Team. Richard had slept in and not much was happening in my brother’s “camp”. Meanwhile, we had made the most of the morning, walking to the town centre.
‘Gotta get tyres for the trailer, ‘n nothing’s open yet,’ Richard mumbled on the other end of my mobile phone.
‘Having a quiet day, then,’ I replied gazing around the near-empty local Big-W department store. Anthony held up a pair of cargo pants and indicated that he’d try those on. Then he began rifling through the bargain rack for more pairs to try.
‘Not exactly,’ Richard sniffed, ‘gotta get tyres.’
‘Oh, well, we’re thinking of going to Standley Chasm. Maybe we can all go together in the afternoon if your tyres get sorted.’
‘Hmm, will let you know.’
‘Okay, will hear from you then.’ I clicked off the phone and said to Anthony, ‘He doesn’t sound optimistic on the tyre-issue. Might be busy all morning.’
By noon, the T-Team still weren’t ready; Richard still had to take the car to get the new tyres. ‘At least I’ve found a place that can do our tyres,’ my brother mumbled to me on the phone before he left on his tyre-mission.
So, Anthony and I travelled alone on our quest to explore Standley Chasm. Actually, we’d barely left the outskirts of Alice Springs travelling west on Larapinta Drive to the MacDonnell Ranges before Anthony piped up, ‘How far is it to Standley Chasm?’
‘Not far,’ I replied, then retrieving the map from the glove box, I hunted for the chasm’s location and then calculated the distance from Alice Springs. ‘It’s 50km, so about half an hour’s drive.’
‘Oh, you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Cos, if it’s further, we’ll miss the red cliffs, or getting in, or we’ll be home after dark.’
‘Already have,’ I sighed. ‘But I’m sure the chasm will still be spectacular. And the hike there will be good exercise.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘Anyway, it’s not far. Besides, there’s plenty of other gorges to explore.’
Before Anthony could voice any further misgivings or regrets that we should’ve left earlier and not waited for the T-Team, the sign for Standley Chasm appeared to our right. We parked in the carpark shaded by a gathering of majestic eucalypt trees and then followed the path to the kiosk.
While waiting in line to pay the entry fee, we read the sign which assured us that we had plenty of time before the park closed at 5pm.
I nodded at the notice board and remarked, ‘All that worry for nothing.’
‘Depends how long the walk takes,’ Anthony said while nibbling a nail.
‘Doesn’t take long,’ I said. ‘I’ve been here before. Takes less than an hour.’
‘I hope so.’
I shook my head. ‘Look, we’ll walk for an hour and then turn back, okay?’
Just to be sure, when we paid for our entry tickets, I asked pleasant Irish man who ran the kiosk, how long the walk should take. He explained that it was mostly easy and would take the average hiker about half an hour.
So, rather than waste precious Anthony-time having lunch first, we set out on the adventure to the chasm. Anthony raced ahead. I wandered along the meandering path taking note of various scenes I would snap on our return. Who knows, we may make it in time for the spectacular red cliffs on both sides. Although the lack of tourists hiking either way, made me suspect that, that time had passed.
Twenty minutes later, Anthony and I beheld the awesome cliffs of the chasm; one side glowed golden orange, while the other side was a dark sienna. We sensed the peace and serenity of the place.
I scrambled over the tumble of boulders in the chasm and made my way to the pool. Beyond the rockpool, a sign prohibited us from venturing further. The deep water caught a perfect reflection of the boulders and cliffs.
Upon our return to the entrance, we munched on our sandwiches and observed a group of aspiring hikers pitch their tents and then pull them down again. What’s that about? we wondered.
Then, a group of tour guides sat to eat their lunch on a picnic bench below us on the other side of the creek. Anthony had to comment, ‘There’s seven of them and only one of them is Indigenous.’
On our return to Alice Springs, we stopped by the caravan park where I booked our sons in. We had already booked ourselves into a cabin at the caravan park and had originally thought they could stay with us. And Mum, all concerned about missing out, had her cabin organised months ago. Even so, we had no problem arranging a separate cabin for our grown-up sons who we felt would be happy with more space.
With late afternoon casting the long shadows of the approaching night, we made our way to where the T-Team were staying. We had been in touch with Mrs. T and had arranged to meet there. When we arrived at the appointed time, no T-Team. Calling Mrs. T on her mobile phone yielded no joy, nor answer.
‘’Not again!’ Anthony groaned.
‘Let’s go to the shops and buy some meat for a BBQ. Then we can find a picnic area and cook up our meat.’
My suggestion sounded reasonable to Anthony, so, off we drove to the local IGA supermarket. Just around the corner. Won’t be long. Maybe the T-Team will be back by the time we return.
‘That’s funny,’ I pointed at some bushes on the traffic island, ‘there’s a cop car hiding.’
‘I didn’t see anything,’ said he who was concentrating on driving.
I ducked into the shops to by some lamb chops and bread. Not much choice; I wanted to snag some sausages but couldn’t see any around. So, armed with the purchased, at some expense, meat and bread, I hopped back in the car.
‘While you were in the shops, a bikie guy was arrested right next door in front of the bottle shop.’ Anthony fired up the engine with the characteristic roar of the Ford. ‘I wonder what he was up to?’
Just then, Mrs. T rang back. ‘Sorry we weren’t there when you came. We was down the street and bought tea for all of us.’
So, with the chops saved in the ice box for camping at Glen Helen, we joined the T-Team for dinner, followed by a raucous game of “Chook Chook”, an educational card game trading poultry.
Afterwards, Mrs. T joined her friends on the back deck for a drink or two, the T-Lings continued with another round of card-playing with their father, while Anthony and I returned to another night of luxury at the Chifley Hotel.
In this episode, the T-Team valiantly explore as many gorges in the MacDonnell Ranges as they can…in one afternoon. The challenge, avoid the crowds of tourists while keeping Mr. B entertained.
The T-Team with Mr B — In 1977 Dad’s friend Mr Banks and his son, Matt (not their real names), 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 who was used to a life of luxury cope? And how many times would my brother lose his way in the bush?]
With our two Indigenous guides, Dad drove the Rover along the rough dirt track (probably a “short cut”) to the road that parallels the MacDonnell Ranges, Namatjira Drive. These days, the main roads are sealed, but not back then. Dust billowed into the cabin as we drove on a road that parallels the MacDonnell Ranges.
Mr. B frowned. ‘Just long enough to take a few snaps like the tourists, I expect.’
‘You sure you don’t want to start at Serpentine to our right? We could hike up while the morning’s still cool.’
‘What morning? It’s already past noon.’ Mr. B flicked his map flat. ‘Ellery Creek, I say, for lunch.’
Dad sighed, ‘Very well, then, Ellery Creek.’
Ellery Creek
After lumbering along the wider but corrugated road, Dad turned into the barely discernable trail that led to Ellery Creek. After entering the clearing for parking, we hunted for a car park. Not an easy feat as the car park was full; even the spaces in between swarmed with tourists.
Dad squeezed the Rover into what seemed the last remaining gap, and the T-Team piled out.
As he turned the Rover left so heading east towards Alice Springs, Dad smiled. Mr. B pouted and folded the map. He insisted we have lunch before we start on the hike up the gorge. Dad went one better announcing that, since it was Sunday, we’d have lunch AND a Sunday Service.
Mr. B’s response was to shake his head and mumble something not-so-polite into his red dust-stained handkerchief.
Serpentine Gorge
Less populated, Serpentine Gorge begged to be explored. Our Indigenous guides were not interested in joining us, so we bravely set off on our own adventure. To get to the narrowest part of the gorge, we had to cross a deep pool of water on our air mattresses and then walk along a rocky creek barefoot. We had forgotten to bring our shoes. Not that it concerned the men, they raced ahead leaving me behind hobbling on tender feet over sharp stones.
Then, disaster. Mud and slime replaced jagged rocks. In the shadows of gorge, I trotted on the path near creek. My heel struck a slippery puddle lurking by a pool of sludge. Next, I skated, feet flew from under me, and I landed bottom-first in the murky depths of the Serpentine Creek.
‘Ah, well,’ Dad sighed. ‘We better get back to the Rover. We need to find camp before it’s dark.’
As we hobbled back in the fading light, I mumbled, ‘Sure it’s not dark already?’
Other Gorges for Another Day
Dad endeavoured to distract me from my discomfort with descriptions of the many other gorges in the MacDonnell Ranges and tales of adventures exploring them. His stories whetted my appetite to view these wonders myself one day, on this trip, or perhaps in future journeys to Central Australia.
[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 who was used to a life of luxury cope?
*A story based on real life events but some names and how those events have been remembered have changed.]
Our Indigenous guide, Sammy jiggled his knee. He clutched the paper-bag containing his pie, his fingers curled tight scrunching the top of the bag.
‘Aren’t you going to eat it?’ I asked.
The T-Team had just left Papunya; our first contact of “civilisation” since the trek way out west to Mt Liebig and Talipata Spring. Sammy’s first meat pie for at least a week, I reckon, and all he did was hold it in the bag like a prized souvenir.
Dad promised us barbeque beef steak and sausages at Gosse Range before travelling onto Areyonga. Mr. B, our family friend who with his son Matt, had accompanied us on this trip, seemed pleased with this proposal.
‘I dare say, David,’ Mr. B said, ‘I can’t help having a certain satisfaction eating steak after what one of their sort did to us, there, camping near Mt Liebig. I mean, that beast of a bull terrorized Matt and me while you and your son and daughter hiked up the mountain.’
Dad sighed. ‘It is cattle country and we did camp on their territory.’
‘Hmm, I thought you would’ve checked that out, mate. Most uncomfortable.’
With the mention of uncomfortable, I glanced at our Indigenous guides, Sammy who I’ve mentioned, and Harry. As the Rover lurched and rumbled along the corrugated road to the Gosse Range, Sammy fidgeted, twisting the top of the paper bag in his fist, while Harry sat relaxed, rolling with the bumps.
I nudged my brother, Rick. ‘Why isn’t he eating his pie?’
Rick shrugged. ‘Perhaps he’s being polite, not eating in front of people.’
‘I don’t mind.’ I gestured to Sammy. ‘It’s okay, you can eat it.’
I watched Sammy pull the meat pie from the bag and bite into it. He chewed each piece as if a cow chewing cud. He grimaced. He looked like he was eating a pie full of worms. With each bite and grimace, I giggled.
Sammy persevered, his mouth downturned. Every so often, he muttered to Harry in their Aranda language. Harry nodded.
‘I reckon he doesn’t like the pie,’ I muttered to Rick.
‘Probably cold,’ Rick mumbled.
I snorted. ‘He took long enough to start eating it.’
A glimpse of the jagged peaks of the Gosse Range flitted past through the dusty Rover windows. I peered past Sammy who had finished his pie to catch more views of the range.
‘Hey, Rick, look!’ I pointed. ‘The Gosse Range, it’s just like the painting Grandma’s got in her lounge room.’
From the front of the Rover Mr. B asked, ‘Did you say, David that you met the famous Albert Namatjira when you lived up in Hermannsburg?’
‘Oh, of course. My father-in-law was a great supporter of Albert’s art.’
‘How did the Gosse Range come about?’ I asked my audience from the back of the Rover.
Rick sniffed. ‘A meteor, I think.’
‘Or comet?’ I added. ‘What do you think, Sammy?’
Sammy wiped his mouth and didn’t respond.
‘Harry?’
Harry smiled and also remained mute on the subject.
I sighed and said, ‘Another thing I have to look up in the encyclopaedia.’
Harry looked in my direction. ‘Sammy wants to leave before we go to Areyonga.’
‘Why?’
‘He doesn’t want to go there. No friends. Not his family.’
‘Oh, that’s a funny reason.’
The Rover began to jerk and rumble over rocks and ditches. The jagged walls of the Gosse Range towered above us as the T-Team navigated the track leading into the middle of the range.
Sammy glanced left and right and wrung his hands together. Beads of sweat collected on his forehead and temples.
Once inside, Dad built a fire for the barbeque. Rick and Matt dangled sausages on sticks over the yellow flames. I gazed around the plain, its dry flat surface dusted with red-tinted sand and golden grasses. The range in shades of salmon pink surrounded this paddock. There seemed to be one lonely tree in the vast field that spanned several kilometres, and this was the tree we found to picnic under. While Mr. B and Harry set up picnic essentials on the tarpaulin, I watched Sammy pace back and forth.
‘Lee-Anne, can you select your beef steak, please, and put it on the grille?’ Dad called.
I turned and picked out a smaller portion to add to the sizzling pieces of meat on the grill on top of the coals. Then I looked up to track Sammy’s progress. Sammy had vanished.
‘What’s the matter with Sammy? Where’s he gone?’ I asked Harry.
Harry nodded. ‘The real reason Sammy no want to go to Areyonga—there’s a big initiation ceremony, a corroboree going on there.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Dad said. ‘He’s scared.’
‘Sammy’s not from that tribe,’ Harry explained.
‘Would he get killed if they saw him?’ Dad asked.
Harry nodded. ‘Even if he didn’t see the ceremony, they’d kill him just for being there.’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘No wonder Sammy wasn’t himself. He’s usually laughing and so funny. But not today.’
Munching on my steak, I absorbed the expanse of dried grass, and the ochre range that’s eroded, yet the mystery of the rites and customs of the Indigenous of this land on this day at least, fascinated me more than a crater created by a meteorite thousands of years ago. Still, I did wonder at the devastation and effect on the Earth such an impact would’ve had. The crater spans 4.5km in diameter, so must’ve been one big rock.
This time, the customary viewing of an icon of Australia, doesn’t quite go to plan.]
Dad meant what he said; he believed we, as the T-Team were travellers, not tourists. So, when the sun began its journey to the other side of the earth, and edged towards the western horizon, Dad drove further west and far away from the popular tourist haunts for the sunset on the Rock.
‘Don’t go too far,’ Mr. B said as he glanced back at the diminishing size of the Rock. ‘I want a red rock of considerable size.’
‘I know what I’m doing,’ Dad replied.
But every vantage point that we considered photo-worthy, so did clusters of tourists. The ants may have been heading for bed, but the road west of Uluru swarmed with sightseers scrambling over the landscape to capture that momentous event of the sunset on Uluru.
‘I hope we’re not going to miss Uluru turning red, ‘cos that’s what I came here to see,’ Mr. B said.
‘Plenty of time,’ Dad said. ‘Trust me.’
‘I’ll hold you to that promise, mate.’
Dad sighed and then turned into the next available place to park the Rover.
Mr. B glanced at his gold watch. ‘I mean to say, it’s nearly six o’clock. The sun sets at six, doesn’t it?’
We joined the tourists in the small clearing to take the Uluru-at-sunset-photos. There’s one snap I took of two travellers admiring the Rock as it deepened in colour, more a rusty-red, than the scarlet I’d seen on calendars. So, it’s taken with an instamatic camera and the quality is pitiful compared to the chocolate-box number my grandpa took in the 1950’s, but I reckon it captures the atmosphere.
‘Enough of these tourists,’ Richard grumbled. Clutching his polaroid camera, he stormed up the nearest hill.
‘Wait!’ I called and raced after him.
My brother ignored me and quickened his stride. I tried to catch up but soon tired of his fast pace. I watched him vanish behind some spinifex bushes and decided his quest for tourist-free photos was pointless. I gazed at the Rock squatting behind waves of sand-hills and bushes. The view’s going to be just as good, if not better by the road and the masses, I thought and rushed back to Dad before the sun went down too far and the Rock had lost its lustre.
Uluru faded from clay-red to a dull grey and the tourist congregation thinned, trickling away in their cars and buses towards the camping ground situated east of the Rock.
‘Is that it?’ I quizzed Dad. The Uluru at sunset in my mind had been spectacular in its failure to deliver. ‘Why didn’t it turn bright red?’
‘You need clouds for that. Clouds make all the difference,’ Dad said, his lips forming a beak. ‘Glad my camera’s out of action and I didn’t waste film on it.’
‘But the photo of a red Ayres Rock taken by Grandpa had clouds around it.’
‘Yeah, well, there would’ve been clouds in the west too,’ Dad explained. ‘See, the sky is clear tonight, so that’s it for the Rock.’
‘Disappointing! A very poor show, ol’ friend.’ Mr. B sauntered past us with Matt tagging behind. ‘Come on, we better get to camp. Don’t want to be cooking in the dark. Don’t want the likes of egg soup again.’
Dad peered into the distant black lumps of hills. ‘Where’s Richard?’
I stared into the thickening darkness. No Richard. ‘Dunno, went into the sand-hills,’ I said with a shrug.
‘Oh, well, I guess he’s gone for a walk,’ Dad said.
The Rock became a dull silhouette on the horizon. We packed away our cameras and waited. And waited for Richard. Darkness settled on the land. We waited some more. The icy cold of the night air seeped into our bones. We waited but he did not appear.
‘Where could he be?’ Dad said and then stormed into the bush.
Minutes later, Dad tramped back to us waiting at the Rover. His search in the nearby scrub was fruitless.
Each one of us stood silent; silent sentinels around the Rover.
‘I hope he’s alright,’ my comment plopped in the well of silence. A chill coursed down my spine. What if an accident had befallen my lost brother? The dark of night had swallowed my brother up.
Dad grabbed the torch from the glove box in the Rover, and then marched back up the sand-hill.
I paced up and down the road. Mr. B folded his arms across his chest and scrutinised the shadows of bush that had now consumed Dad. Matt gazed up at the emerging mass of the Milky Way.
‘I hope they’re okay. I hope Dad finds Richard.’ My chest hurt with the pain of losing my brother.
Mr. B sighed. ‘Probably just a—’
‘What?’ I asked.
‘There they are,’ Mr. B said. ‘All that worry for nothing. You’ll get grey hairs if you keep worrying like that.’
I pulled at my hair and then raced up to my brother. ‘Where were you?’
‘I went out along the dunes. I kept walking and walking trying to find a good spot,’ Richard said.
Dad chuckled. ‘And when he did, he waited for the Rock to turn red.’
For the night we camped in an aboriginal reserve seven miles out of the Uluru—Kata Tjuta Reserve. In preparation for the trip, Dad had successfully applied for permission to camp there. This time Dad and I had two fires going each side of us as the previous night was so cold that I had little sleep. We hoped that two fires would be better than one to keep the chills away. Mr. B and his son Matt on the other hand, settled for one shared fire and superior fibres of their expensive sleeping bags to keep the cold out.
And Richard, after all his effort to scare us by almost getting lost, buried himself in his rather ordinary cotton sleeping bag, next to his single fire, and was the first one, after our rather simple rice dinner, to be snoring away, lost in the land of nod.
[The last few weeks has been one of reminiscing. Over the King’s (how odd that sounds) birthday weekend, Mum and I met up with my auntie in Tanunda to check out the model of the renovated historic precinct of Hermannsburg. Lots of memories for us all, but more for mum and auntie who grew up in the mission village. A couple of weeks later, we caught up with the T-Team and the next generation where we had opportunity to retell our adventures in the Centre on Safari. My dad’s amazing meals were remembered and I recalled forty-two years ago experiencing the delights of fried ice-cream…ice-cream I almost missed out on…]
T-Team series–Blessed be the Fr—Fried Ice-cream in Hermannsburg
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. ‘Your cousin 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?’
[2. Photo: Camera shock at sing-sing. Where’s my beau? Courtesy of L.M. Kling 1981]
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’s 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 (MB), and two cousins 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,’ MB 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 