[More than ten 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 monthly Travel Fridays, 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. Then, it’s about time I put this story together into a book.]
Friday 5 July, 2013
The Convoy that Never Was
T-Team Next Generation’s convoy to Central Australia only took six hours to fragment and evaporate.
The said convoy consisted of Brother T’s family Mistubishi van containing my brother (Dad), Mrs. T (Mum), and three Teen-Lings (one boy, two girls), and Mum T’s trusty Ford Falcon Station wagon with Hubby and me. Mum T with our sons (S1 and S2) would be joining us in approximately a week’s time, flying up by plane to Alice Springs.
That was the plan.
With camping at Mambray Creek in the Flinders Ranges in mind, the T-Team Next Generation Convoy, took a recess break at Port Pirie where Mrs. T checked out a craft shop. Nearby, what appeared to be a church, was in fact a Barnacle bills Family Seafood Restaurant. Mrs. T, armed with crafting supplies, allowed the convoy to continue. But thoughts of an easy takeaway had been planted in some of the T-Team Next Generation’s minds.
Then, there was the obligatory stop at Port Germein. For Brother T and friends who frequented the Flinders Ranges, a pause in the trip at Port Germein was tradition. Although the sun was fast sinking below the horizon, we braved the brisk winter air and took a stroll up the longest jetty in the Southern hemisphere.
And so, at 6.30pm and in darkness, Hubby and I turned off to Mambray Creek…
And Brother’s team, driven by Mrs. T…didn’t.
I fumbled for my mobile and called MB. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Mrs. T’s decided to keep on going,’ my brother sighed. ‘Once she makes up her mind, you don’t argue with her. Besides, the kids want Hungry Jacks for tea a Port Augusta, they have vouchers.’
Hubby had made up his mind. We weren’t about to follow. We’d be camping at Mambray Creek and would continue our journey north fresh after a good night’s sleep. In the morning. After all, they promised to catch up with us in Coober Pedy; we had mobile phones to keep in contact, after all.
Despite the darkness, Hubby managed to set up the two-man tent in minutes. Then, although suffering the pangs of disappointment, we downed a light tea of bread, with packet soup and hot chocolate using water boiled from Hubby’s eco billy. ‘We’ll have the chops when there’s more light,’ I said, ‘in the morning.’
‘Now, to see if these minus-five sleeping bags keep us warm in the desert.’ Hubby snuggled into our co-joined sleeping bag. ‘Did I ever tell you how when camping with my family in the Flinders, I had to sleep in a cotton sleeping bag? It was freezing!’
Christmas Holidays are approaching. For me it’s been party time this week. One party after another, especially yesterday with three parties, all in one day. I’m hoping that once the rush and busyness is over, I can rest, relax and start planning our next holiday. Perhaps it’s the same for you.
In the meantime, here’s a revisit to Central Australia and the T-Team. This time when my brother and I became lost on our descent from Mt. Giles.
[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.
[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.’
Tru-Kling Creations 