[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 gather and multiply as we greet our adult sons and our mother (Mum T also known as Mrs T senior) for the day, and the expanded T-Team of us set off to camp at Glen Helen.]
The T-children wanted a campfire. My brother had promised them a campfire. But bushfires in the past year had made campfires, even in the middle of winter in the middle of Australia, almost extinct. On our trip up north this time, each camping ground up until Glen Helen, had restricted fires, and denied the children the pleasure of a campfire. That’s not to say the T-Team Next Generation missed out entirely of some sort of fire to cook our food. We did spend one night in one of those free parking “camps” 30 kilometres south of Marla where we attempted to make a campfire. However, the area was so well picked over for firewood, the few sticks we did scrounge together barely made enough flames to boil a billy. So, no satisfaction regarding campfires. That is, until Glen Helen.
Even far out in the bush, the Glen Helen camping grounds had strict conditions and regulations controlling the operation of campfires. In the Glen Helen camping grounds, there was a designated place for the fire, and we had to provide our own wood. Again, dead wood around the immediate camping site was scarce.
So as the sun sank towards the Western horizon, golden rays blessing the cliffs in hues of pink and scarlet, and the humps of spinifex glowing like lumps of gold, my son and I set out in Mum’s Ford station wagon, down the road in search of a creek offering dead branches for firewood.
As the setting sun deepened the walls of the gorge into hues of crimson, I hobbled down the dry creek filled with smooth rounded river stones. Hard to imagine the creek gushing with water in flood, rushing over those stones, smoothing them to the size and consistency of bocci balls threatening to twist my ankles.
With my camera, a constant companion and permanent fixture hanging from my neck, my focus was not only on dry sticks and logs, but on the scenery. While my son snapped off armfuls of tinder from uprooted river gums that had become casualties of former flooding, I collected snapshots in time of the setting sun, blood-red cliffs, ancient eucalypts towering above the banks and the dry river-bed of stones. Night stole the thin grey-blue light of dusk. With the station wagon stacked full of wood for the fire, and my camera’s memory card full of brilliant photos for my art, we returned to camp.
What joy the T-Team Next Generation family had. Well, apart from their schnitzels that had gone off. Thankfully, we were able to share the extra and expensive lamb chops we had bought the day before at the supermarket. We gathered around the fire. The fire that cooked our dinner, then warmed us and the conversation late into the cloud-free night frozen with a sky packed full of stars.
In the past, a fire would burn slowly all night, keeping animals away from camp. The rules of the camping ground forbade that strategy. Conscious that the local fauna may come foraging, my husband packed away all the foodstuffs and loose items back in Mum T’s station wagon.
Some of the T-Lings were not so concerned about the threat of such animals. During the night, though, a half-full cereal packet would prove fair game for a roving dingo.
So, stories told, marshmallows burnt and eaten, most of the T-Team Next Gen retreated to their tents and snuggled into their sleeping bags. Mum T had gone to her cabin way before the rest of us. She hoped to rise early, with my help, to catch the sunrise on Mt. Sonder.
My brother and his son stayed chatting around the campfire. A dingo howled. Freaky. An eerie haunting cry. My nephew was sure he’d come face-to-face with the dingo when he’d taken a trip to the toilets. I left my brother and his son to their conversation around the fire and with the responsibility of waking mum before dawn, I headed to the tent to join my husband and sleep.
Fat dollops of rain struck my sleeping bag, waking me.
‘Oh, al-right!’ I mumbled before peeling the sleeping bag from me. I slipped on my shoes and as I was already fully clothed, I shuffled to the campfire.
Hours dragged as we struggled to eat our cereal, drink beverages, answer the call of nature, and then pack our bags.
My older cousin, C1 was missing for what seemed an eternity. Younger cousin, C2 commented that his brother liked to read on his “business” ventures.
I laughed, ‘Our toilet is inaccessible for hours when my brother goes. He doesn’t like books, so I don’t know what he does when he goes.’.
‘Well, at least it’s only twice a week,’ my body-building brother said.
Dad’s eyes widened. ‘What? You only go twice a week?’
‘Yeah? How often do you go, Dad?’
‘Two or three times a day,’ he replied.
‘What?’
‘Yeah, that’s normal.’ Dad poked the coals and flames leapt into action. ‘Sure you’re not constipated? I’m not sure your Protein diet is a good idea.’
[Photo 2: Desert Storm (c) C.D. Trudinger 1981]
Richard shook his concoction and examined the plastic Tupperware containing Protein-powder mixture. ‘Nup, it’s fine.’ With a teaspoon, he stirred the raw egg floating on top of the bubbles, and then swallowed his liquid breakfast in three gulps.
C1 returned shovel in hand and a grin spread between his over-night shadow. ‘Ah! That’s better!’
Dad grabbed the shovel and toilet paper and disappeared into the bush. As we waited for each member to do their “nature-walk”, rain plopped into the sand.
We left the Flinders camp mid-morning in the rain, then rattled over corrugations and lumbered through water-washed floodways. An hour into our journey, we stopped at Hawker where the boys selected lollies, and chewing gum to occupy their bored mouths for the hours of travel to come.
C1 and C2 picked out miscellaneous items they’d forgotten to pack. C1 placed his purchases on the weathered bench and reached for his back pocket. He patted it, and his eyes widened. He jammed his fingers into his pocket, patted his side pockets, and pushed his hands into them and pulled out the lining. He glanced around his feet. ‘Oh, oh! I think I left my wallet behind in the creek,’ he said. While he continued to search the floor, and his pockets, we pooled our money to cover C1’s expenses.
Despite C1’s lamentations that his wallet contained his driver’s license, passport, visa, and thirty dollars, a wall of steady rain threatening floods, discouraged us from returning to the camp. Dad was sure it was too late to find it. ‘The floods would’ve washed it away,’ he said.
On the road through the Flinders Ranges, Dad stopped driving for us to photograph the ranges cloaked in mist. On one of our photo stops, the boys discovered the sport of rock-throwing.
Our family friend, TR tracked us with his film camera as we all tried to smash beer bottles with rocks.
Further north, rain pelted our vehicle and lightening flashed. At the bridge near Leigh Creek, we passed a car, bonnet jacked up, and a couple peering at their dead engine.
Richard, came to the rescue and within thirty minutes, resolved their engine issues and sent them on their way. I wish he could have been that efficient with the Rover’s pack-rack!
While Richard was repairing the car, we inspected the railroad track, the bridge of the over-flowing creek, and then watched a Volkswagen splashing through a pool of muddy water.
At Lyndhurst, we filled up with petrol. Twelve miles out from there, we camped by a disused train track. We used some of the sleepers for firewood. Birds gathered in a cluster of She oak and eucalyptus trees. Stratus and high cumulous clouds gave rise to a stunning sunset of gold, orange and flares of red.
[This postcard of the Basel Minster (German: Basler Münster) was delivered to its recipient in 1899. Theodora Bellan, the recipient was my Great-grandmother’s house maid. Imagine! Those were the days when ancestors had house maids. My grandfather who was my Great-grandma’s son-in-law, collected postcards and so, ended up with this one. I wonder if he considered, back then, probably some 80 to 90 years ago, that, one of his descendants (me) with the K-Team would visit the birthplace of my husband’s mother? Would he have envisaged the changes to this city and the challenges the K-Team faced visiting this city of Switzerland?]
K-Team Adventures in Basel — August 2014
Not so early, for once, on this particular Saturday morning, Hubby’s brother P1, Granny K, Hubby and I headed for Basel. We regretted not rising early. Near Zurich, cars on the autobahn came to a virtual standstill and continued that way till Basel.
Having taken twice as long to get to Basel, and then taking time to squeeze into a very narrow car park in the middle of the city, once released from the confines of the car, Granny went in search of toilet facilities. She found some close by only to discover they took her Swiss Franc and failed to deliver relief as she couldn’t open the door. We hunted down the street in search of a toilet. Migros would surely facilitate the desperate. No, only if you patronise the establishment do you get the code to get into the room of relief. The Rathaus? No, joy there—closed for business. Ah, MacDonald’s! Off Granny and I ran. By this time, I was becoming a tad desperate for a wee break. I had a plan. Buy some McChips and a McWrap and get the Mac-code and we’re in business. Had to line up, though. The men waited outside. We waited. They waited. Finally! Service and the sacred code of the Holy Mac-Grail, the toilet.
We fought our way through the Saturday shoppers and holiday crowd over the bridge and to the Kleine Alstadt to find a bench to sit and eat our lunch. Ironically, free benches were the Holy Grail there, but toilets, now we didn’t need one, were in abundance, including open air urinals!
We did find some ratty old seats near a playground and some youth nearby with a ghetto blaster booming out Spanish hip-hop! Oh, well, it was a seat and I enjoyed watching the people and the happy ambience of the sunny Saturday afternoon.
However soon enough we did see some sights. We saw the outside of the Rathaus with its mural artworks—the inside still closed for a meeting! Approaching the cathedral known as the Basel Minster, I exclaimed, ‘Ah, I’ve been wanting to see inside this cathedral with the tapestry roof for ages. Last time when we were here in 1998, we didn’t have time to look inside.’
‘It was Sunday, then and the Cathedral was closed for a service,’ Hubby said.
‘Oh.’
We entered the Basel Minster and marvelled at the simple beauty of the sanctuary. A service was starting in half an hour, so we had to be silent and not take photos. But I did take some anyway…
After meeting P1 in the square, we then walked through the cloisters next door to the Basel Minster and then marvelled at the vista of the Rhine, the city and the mountains in the distance. Hubby pointed out the Blauen Hoch, the mountain we’d climbed while in Badenweiler.
On our way back to the car, we walked through the Altstadt to the Kunst Museum. Too late by this time to explore but Hubby and I hoped we could return next weekend to see the museum. Never happened…Maybe next time???
And finally, Granny asked Hubby to drive past the church where she was baptised. Unfortunately, it was only a drive through, more road works and nowhere to park. At least the church bells started ringing as we crawled past to the delight of Granny.
So, if you’ve read my books and would like to give a review on any of them, please feel free to share in the comments section of my blog.
I am pleased to share a review from one of my followers, Lynne on The T-Team with Mr. Bwho writes:
“An excellent memoir that takes the reader to some of the most beautiful and remote areas of the Northern Territory. Fourteen-year-old Lee-Anne, a budding artist and writer describes the colours, sights and people with fresh eyes. Uluru, the Olgas and Hermannsburg are covered but it’s the exploration of Haast’s Bluff, Talipata Gorge and Mount Liebig, places off the popular tourist trail that make this book exceptional. All are brought alive by wonderful prose and authentic pictures in the book. Her descriptions of characters and situations provides humour and interest. A must for people who intend to visit the Red Centre.”
To whet your appetite, here is an episode from the book where Mr. B and Dad have a disagreement about lunch…]
The T-Team with Mr. B–Episode 6
Fruitless Foray
Again, we raced at 50 miles per hour along the highway boldly going where too many trucks had gone before. The graded road was a sea of corrugations. As we travelled along the road at high speed, our Land Rover juddered over the sand waves. Dad was on a mission to reach Ernabella and not even corrugations on the unsurfaced road were going to get in his way.
We paused at Indulkana, an Indigenous settlement, where we topped up the tank with petrol from one of the Gerry cans.
‘Only fifty miles or so to go to Ernabella,’ replied Dad with a sniff. He could smell his Holy Grail, and he was bent on reaching his destination. ‘Pity, there’s a school here I’d’ve liked to visit. Ah, well!’
Mr. B spread out the map on the bonnet of the Rover. He adjusted his glasses on his nose and then pointed at Indulkana. ‘Are you sure it’s only fifty miles, David?’
Dad cleared his throat and then glanced at the map. ‘Er, um, I think so.’
‘It looks a damn lot further to me. Are you sure we’ll get there? I mean to say, it’s past one o’clock and we still have to have lunch.’
‘We’ll eat when we get there.’
‘Really?’ Mr. B gazed at the fibro houses scattered like abandoned blocks in the red landscape. ‘Damn! No place to shop in this shanty town.’
I gazed at the mirage shimmering, reflecting the khaki bushes on the horizon of ochre. This tiny Indigenous settlement seemed more heat-affected and miserable than Oodnadatta. A dingo skulked across the road in search of shade. The town seemed empty—except for the flies.
I swished several of the pests from my eyes and searched for a toilet block. We had stopped, so I considered it timely to make a comfort stop. ‘Where’s the loo?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Dad said.
As far as we could see, public toilets didn’t exist in Indulkana.
A kangaroo hopped through the spinifex. Rick grabbed his rifle and aimed.
‘Hoy!’ Dad said. ‘Stop! You can’t be shooting so close to the town.’
Rick lowered his gun.
‘I say,’ Mr. B said. ‘Why don’t we go down the road a bit. We can find a few accommodating bushes for our business and the boys can do a spot of shooting. Besides, we need a break and some lunch.’
Dad sighed. ‘Very well, then.’
We piled back into the Rover and trundled several miles down the road where some trees and bushes were clumped close to the road. We all made use of the improvised “bush” facilities. Then Dad pulled out the tucker box and made a simple lunch of peanut butter sandwiches.
‘Do you want to have a go shooting?’ Rick asked me.
‘Okay,’ I replied.
My brother handed me the .22 rifle and we walked into the scrub.
Dad called after us. ‘Shoot away from the Rover, we don’t want anyone getting hurt.’
‘What do I shoot?’ I asked Rick.
‘Rabbits. Kangaroos. Birds.’
I looked at the lemon-coloured grasses dotting the red sands. ‘Where are they?’
Rick shrugged.
Matt aimed his rifle at a stump of a mulga tree. A galah had settled there. But not for long. Matt pulled the trigger and at the sound of the bullet hitting the sand, the bird fluttered into the air.
Some white cockatoos decorated the skeleton of a dead tree. I aimed and pulled the trigger. ‘Bang!’ The butt hit my shoulder and knocked me to the ground. ‘Ouch!’ I cried.
The flock of parrots squawked and scattered.
‘I wasn’t expecting that to happen,’ I said rubbing my bottom.
Rick grabbed the rifle off me. ‘Watch where you point that thing.’
‘Oh, sorry.’
Rick and Matt stalked further into the scrub in search of more prey. I was glad my hunting time was over as it was not as much fun as I thought it would be. At least no one was hurt.
The break and the lads’ fruitless hunting foray caused the night to catch up with us. After a couple more hours of driving, we camped near Mimili. A hill close by served as adventure for us young ones in this otherwise flat desert. I climbed the small rise and explored, while the boys went shooting as usual. The hill was little more than an outcrop of rocks and I imagined, something of a smaller version of Uluru. From the top, I scanned the terrain. The setting sun’s rays caused the grasses in the plain to sparkle like gold glitter and a cool breeze hinted at the freezing night ahead. I climbed down from my vantage point and ambled back to camp. As darkness descended upon us and stars flooded the night sky, the boys returned empty-handed, except for their rifles.
While Dad stirred a billy can of stew, Mr. B warmed his idle hands by the fire, his mouth busy whining at the prospect of sleeping on a bed of stones.
Dad tapped the wooden spoon on the edge of the billy can and said, ‘We are camping in the desert, aboriginal style. What we do is make up one fire for cooking, and then have our individual fires.’
So, we did in the nights to follow. Although we all had blow-up mattresses and cotton sleeping bags, we still hunted for the softer ground, and prepared it for the bedding by clearing the area of rocks. Each of us would scout around for sticks and logs in preparation for our personal fires. By bedtime, our fires were crackling away, and we only woke from our slumber to poke the coals to keep the small flame going. Still, I slept fully clothed, as the clear nights were freezing.
But did this arrangement satisfy Mr. B? Apparently not. Every night he complained of his unsatisfactory sleeping arrangements. And his back, oh, the pain in his back. Oh, for a decent bed and a warm night’s sleep. And oh, the pain, oh, the discomfort! And then, just as he sank into a deep slumber, dawn broke with Dad clattering around the campsite preparing breakfast once again.
‘Why do we have to get up so early?’ Mr. B would ask each morning.
‘It’s my mission to get…somewhere,’ Dad would reply.
[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.’
[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.
[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.
The T-Team Series — The Gorges of the MacDonnell Ranges
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.
Ellery Creek and Serpentine Gorge
[Extract from The T-Team with Mr B: Central Australia 1977, a prequel to Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981.
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.
It’s been a rough weekend. Storm, been called a mini cyclone, struck Adelaide Saturday afternoon, slaying trees all over the city and the hills, and tearing down powerlines. 100000 people were affected with no power to their homes, and even today, some are still without power.
We were without power for 24-hours, so work on the computer has been delayed. Managed to get some painting done, though.
Memories of the T-Team’s adventures without all the modern-day luxuries surface, and how we coped way back in 1977…
Dad turned to Mr. B and chuckled. ‘How would you like to sleep on this riverbed?’
Mr. B pouted, folded his arms and looked out the window.
We continued to bump over the rocks and sand where two-wheel drive vehicles fear to tread. Dad recalled his days travelling by donkey along this same track when he explored Palm Valley with his Arunda students.
‘O-oh!’ Dad uttered as the Rover’s underside scraped over some boulders. When our vehicle continued to move, though slowly, we all sighed with relief.
‘O-oh!’ Dad gritted his teeth and sucked air through the gaps in them. The Rover jolted to a stop. The engine screamed. The body rocked. The wheels spun. ‘O-oh! I think we’re bogged.’
Mr. B groaned, ‘I hope that doesn’t mean we’re sleeping on this god-forsaken creek tonight.’
‘Okay—oh, better put it into four-wheel drive. Now, for one more try.’
Dad readjusted the grip of his fingers on the steering-wheel and pressed his foot on the accelerator. The Rover leapt out of the bog-hole.
‘Good thing you remembered that the Land Rover has four-wheel drive,’ Mr. B muttered.
We crawled along the creek bed for a few more minutes, until confronted with formidable boulders where we were forced to stop. Dad reckoned we were a mile or two from the valley, so we had to hike the rest of the way.
We entered the land that time had misplaced, forgotten and then found preserved in this valley. Lofty palms swayed in the breeze. Fronds of green glittered in the sun while their shadows formed graceful shapes on the iron-red cliffs. Here a cycad, spouting from the rocks, there a ghost gum jutting from those same deep red walls. This sanctuary for ancient prehistoric palms, which had existed there since the dawn of time, distracted us from my errant brother. We trundled over the stone smoothed by the running of water several millennia ago, admired the mirror reflections in the remaining pools, and breathed in the tranquility.
Then, as if the ancient palm spell was broken, a frown descended on Dad’s face. He stood up, tapped his pockets checking to feel if his keys and small change still existed, and then marched down the valley. When he’d disappeared into a gathering of palms, I asked Mr. B, ‘What’s my dad doing?’
‘I think he’s looking for your brother,’ Mr. B replied. ‘He seems to have a habit of getting lost.’
Still in the zone of swoon, I sat beside the billabong in the shade of the palm trees and changed my film. Then I stretched, and leaving Mr. B and Matt to their rest, I ambled along the stone-paved bed looking for Dad. Again, time lost relevance in the beauty and wonder of the palms: tall skinny ones, wiggly ones, short ones, clustered ones and alone ones.
I found Dad, but there was no sign of my brother. The sun had edged over the western walls of the valley casting a golden-orange glow over the opposing cliffs.
Dad huffed and puffed. ‘It’s getting late. I s’pose Rick has gone back to the Rover.’
‘Better head back, then,’ I said.
On the way, we collected Mr. B and son. They had not seen my AWOL brother either.
We waited back at the car for Rick. Dad’s concern turned to annoyance, then frustration. Dad had plans for a picnic, but as the sun sank lower, his well laid plans were becoming remote. Dad paced the sand, hands on hips, and muttering discontentedly. Trust my brother to spoil a perfect place and time for a picnic tea. The idea of proceeding with the picnic without Rick did not occur to Dad. I guess the thought that some peril had befallen him had sabotaged any appetite. Dad nervously tapped his right pocket; at least his keys hadn’t gone AWOL.
Every few minutes Dad paused in his pacing. ‘Ah—well!’ he’d say. Then sucking the warm air between his gritted teeth, he’d resume pacing.
An hour passed as we watched Dad track back and forth across the clearing.
[Extract from The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australia 1977, a prequel to Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981.
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 our accommodation in Hermannsburg had sent us on a tour back in time…]
Living in History
I lay in bed and gazed up at the ceiling. Wish I hadn’t. A hessian sheet hung above me, pinned to the four corners of the room and sagging in the middle. It appeared the sand from the Central desert had worked its way into the sheet, threatening to burst all over me. How long before the sheet would no longer be able to contain its weight? I sat up and swung my feet to the floor. A cockroach scuttled under the wardrobe made of oak. I shuddered. Better sand fall on me than cockroaches.
I grabbed my towel and toiletry bag, then padded out my room and down the dark hallway to the bathroom. There I gazed around the small room, sealed with green and white tiles, some broken. In the 1950’s wash basin, waist-high and looking like an enamel pastel-green pulpit, a line of rust coursed from the faucet to the drain. The matching bath suffered a permanent rusty-brown ring, a reminder of how full to fill the tub. I scanned around the room and above the bath. No shower—not even a rusty one.
I heard a knock at the door. ‘Lee-Anne, are you in there?’
‘Yes, Dad,’ I replied. ‘Where’s the shower?’
Dad opened the door and poked his head through. He screwed up his nose and swivelled his head left, right, up and down. ‘Oh, no shower. I guess you’ll have to have a bath.’
‘Oh, al-right.’
‘Hurry, though, we’re off to see Mr. C and his school.’
‘Oh.’ Last year Mr. C was my mathematics teacher. Then, in 1977, he’d taken up a position teaching the Arunta children in their camps near Hermannsburg.
I turned on the tap. Water dribbled into the bath, brown and making the pipes groan. I gazed at the tea-coloured brew pooling at the base of the tub. I like baths, normally. Not sure about this one.
‘Don’t fill it too full,’ Dad said.
‘No, Dad.’ No danger of that happening. The bath looked like it’d take an eternity to cover even to the depth of an inch.
‘Don’t take too long,’ Dad added.
‘No, Dad.’
I reached in and tested the water. Cold. I then placed my fingers under the dribble from the tap. Cold. Great! Not much water and it’s cold. Yep, I’ll have a quick wash.
I stopped the dismal flow and rushed through the motions of washing. After raking dry shampoo through my limp strands of hair, I bunched them into pig-tails and returned to my room to change.
Then I walked into the kitchen. Light through the louvers reflected dust motes drifting through the air.
Dad looked up from his bowl of porridge. ‘Oh, you’re finished already?’
‘Yep.’
I helped myself to the saucepan of porridge on the ancient stove. The cooker squatted there in the corner, brass fittings attached to afford gas to the rings on top. And lime green. I could see Hermannsburg had a theme going—shades of green. Except the table, washed with the thin coat of white paint. Perhaps it was green once, at the turn of the century.
As if taking advantage of my abbreviated bathroom visit, Dad took his sweet time. So, while we waited, Richard and I played cards, on the kitchen table.
‘Mr. B and Matt are taking their time,’ I said gathering up the cards.
‘They’re sleeping in,’ Richard laughed. ‘I think Mr. B’s exhausted.’
‘He didn’t know what he was getting himself into coming on this trip.’
Richard snorted. ‘Bet he’s never been camping in his life.’
Tru-Kling Creations 