We walked past a pair of gum trees bent in homage to the sacred place. A bell hung between them. I imagined Mum as a young girl racing across the red-hot sand of the compound, bare foot. “You were a wussy if you wore shoes,” she once told me.Read more "The T-Team with Mr. B — Glen Helen"
Mr. B was not in a good mood as we headed for Kingoonya. He moaned, ‘Hurry! No more stops.’ Then he groaned, ‘Oooh, I’m feeling a bit seedy, you know.’
Dad frowned and glanced in his side mirror. ‘O-oh.’
In the front, Mr. B spread a detailed map over his knees and dashboard.
‘I say, ol’ chap,’ Mr. B cleared his throat, ‘where, exactly are you taking us?’
‘Mount Liebig bore,’ Dad replied.
‘Are you sure we can get there without our trusty guides?’
‘Eventually, we have the map.’
‘But, where’s the road?’
We continued our trek to Talipata Gorge where we planned to camp for a couple of days. On the way our two guides sat on the bonnet of the Land Rover and picked out the ancient track amongst the desert bushes and erosion.
One of our guides, H rapped his hand on the bonnet.
‘O-oh,’ Dad murmured, then eased the Rover to a stop.
‘You need time to appreciate these places,’ Dad explained.
‘Bit rough if we only have two weeks for school holidays.’ Mr. B’s voice sounded like the robot from Lost in Space.
Dad slowed the Rover to a crawl and slotted into a space at the end of the carpark. ‘Well, there’s the tourists,’ he said.
‘And what are we?’ Mr B asked.
Settling near a waterhole framed by reeds. Dad built up a fire on the coarse sand while our family friend, TR rolled up his trousers and dipped his toes in the pool. ‘Hey!’ He pointed and did a little dance. ‘A fish! I see a fish!’Read more "SALA Special"