Toilets, bathrooms, latrines, bog or “dunnies” as they’re called in Australia, have surfaced as topics of conversation in the last week. How they have changed over the centuries. How they vary from place to place, country to country. But one thing remains constant to being human. When you gotta go, you gotta go.
100-Word Challenge: When You Gotta Go
He stood up and wandered to the door.
‘Get back to your seat!’ I snapped.
‘Gotta go to the toilet, Miss.’
‘No, you don’t.’ I pointed at his desk. ‘Sit down!’
This version of Denis the Menace crossed his legs and grinned. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘You can wait.’
‘Please, Miss,’ his voice mocking, ‘I have to go.’
Sniggers rippled throughout the classroom.
I stood, pointing like a fool at his chair. Afternoon sun streamed through the dusty windows, ripening adolescent body odour.
[Day 2 of the T-Team Next Gen’s pilgrimage to Central Australia to scatter Dad’s ashes…]
Mambray Creek greeted us with a picture-perfect morning; a morning that, in years to come, we could boast about to the T-Team who missed it in all its delicate beauty. Kookaburras announced the sunrise with their manic laughter. Parrots chattered in the trees. The air was calm, but not too cold. And the shower in the stone toilet block was warm and refreshing. I wondered where the MB (My Brother) component of the T-Team had camped. If they had camped. And if they’d enjoyed a warm shower in the morning.
When I returned from my shower, Hubby was busy sizzling chops on the portable butane gas cooker. The aroma drew me in and soon I enjoyed lamb chop sandwich for breakfast.
On the way, we stopped in at Port Augusta where we bought those inevitable forgotten items such as a wooden board and soap. Now, if I hadn’t had a shower that morning…and if Hubby hadn’t cooked breakfast…
We then commenced the journey on the Stuart Highway, flat, straight, gibber plains each side and the white dividing line disappearing into the distance. Hubby was happy to tackle this new kind of boring.
Hubby’s phone tingled breaking the monotony at 11am. My niece informed us that the T-Team had already reached Coober Pedy.
‘They must’ve driven most of the night,’ Hubby remarked.
I had visions of MB and co not sleeping until they were on the outskirts of Coober Pedy.
As the phone reception was seriously patchy, the bare amount of information was exchanged. Arrangements were made to meet at the monument when we arrived. They would be spending the day at Coober Pedy, enjoying the sights and attractions of this mining town.
We continued our trek towards Coober Pedy, obeying the speed limit of 100km per hour. The Gibber Plains sparkled like silver. I took some photos of the gibber when we had a short break.
Six hours after the T-Team had called us, we arrived in Coober Pedy. In an effort to find the agreed monument, we took a scenic tour of Coober Pedy and its grid of streets. No Monument. No T-Team.
‘What does this monument look like?’ Hubby asked.
I shrugged. ‘Like a monument.’ I had a vague recollection from my youth and the T-Team’s trek with Mr. B in 1977. MB and I had our photos taken by this so-called monument, or on this monument. But finding something that resembled the fuzzy memory in my mind? Nup, not today.
I rang my niece. ‘Where are you?’
‘We’re at the playground with the giant tyres,’ she replied. ‘You can’t miss it. It’s the first thing you see when you enter Coober Pedy.’
‘We’re having a barbeque!’ Mrs. T yelled.
‘Where are they?’ Hubby asked.
‘The playground near the entry of Coober Pedy,’ I said, ‘We must’ve driven right past them.’
‘How could you miss them?’ Hubby snapped. ‘Are you blind?’
‘Must’ve been in a parallel universe,’ I muttered. Sure, there was no one there when we drove into the town.
Hubby wound his way through the straight streets to the playground with the tyres. He glanced at the giant tyre structure. ‘Did you mean this monument?’
‘I don’t know, but obviously the MB did.’ I pointed. ‘There they are.’
MB was fiddling with the barbeque hotplates while Mrs. T stood behind him with a packet of sausages. The T-ling girls played on the swings, while the boy sat in the van, eyes glued to his iPad. A sign near the picnic area warned that the barbeque was only to be used during daylight. The sun hovered just above the horizon.
Over sizzling sausages, Mrs. T apologised for deserting us. But she just wanted to reach Coober Pedy and spend the day there. We had planned to explore Coober Pedy on our way back, after spending a night camping there. However, Mrs. T had a sense that plans at the end of the trip may not work out and wanted to get Coober Pedy in on the way up to Central Australia.
‘We parked in some parking bay, just outside of the town,’ MB said.
‘It was terrible!’ the younger niece said. ‘We were all cramped in the van, and we got no sleep at all.’
‘Mum kept kicking me in the head,’ my nephew cried.
‘You were snoring!’ Mrs. T bit back.
‘No, I wasn’t. You were!’ Nephew laughed. ‘I was just imitating you.’
‘Yeah, the kids were pretty cranky that we didn’t stay at Mambray Creek,’ MB whispered to me.
‘Yeah, but, who wanted to have KFC at Port Augusta? Hmm?’ Mrs. T didn’t miss a trick. ‘I wasn’t going to go backwards once we had takeaway and had gone as far as Port Augusta.’
In darkness we drove endless kilometres to some elusive free parking bay. Mrs. T’s dream was to sleep under the stars, just as the T-Team in 1981 had done. In the pitch blackness of night, about 9 – 10pm, we settled in a spare patch in an already crowded free parking area.
On the unforgiving stony surface, MB and wife constructed their questionable number of star accommodation of raised camp bed, piles of doonas topped with a tarpaulin. A little distance from them, actually, right next door, Hubby and I arranged our bedding on that rocky ground covered by tarpaulin then blow-up mattress. We had no camp bed, but we had our minus five sleeping bags in which to wrap ourselves. We also covered our swaddled selves with another tarpaulin. Hubby grumbled about this, but he had no choice; the ground was too hard to hammer tent pins in.
Tru-Kling Creations 