Race Against Giles-Time

Ten minutes later, Dad dragged himself over the last ridge and limped to the summit. There, he sat on a rock and rubbed his knee. ‘O-o-oh!’ He inspected the damage, red and swollen. ‘I tripped and fell on my knee. I hope I can get down alright.’
‘You better,’ C1 laughed. ‘You can’t exactly camp up here.’

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The T-Team With Mr B (4)

Dad pointed at the expanse of red sand dotted with spinifex. ‘This land belongs to the Pitjantjatjara people.’
I sat in the front seat while he negotiated the corrugations, bumps and lumps of the poor excuse of a graded road. Abandoned cars, just shells really, languished in the scrub each side of the road. He waved at the wrecks that were planted in crimson fields of wild hops. ‘They run their cars to the ground. Anyway, normally you need a special permit to go onto their land.’

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