Every year on Boxing Day we would pack our bags and head off to Mathoura for our two week vacation. My mom, dad, sister, the dog and I would pile into the big white valiant with an over-filled blue trailer attached, ready for a four hour trip. We would arrive at Willow Bend first and were later joined a few days later by my Uncle, Auntie, and cousins, Kane and Amy.
We stayed in a humble log cabin known as “Acacia.” All of the cabins had names and were very old and rustic inside and out. Warm showers were made with burning logs and curtains took the place of bedroom doors.
The dunny was far away from the cabin, a tiny solitary building consisting of an old-fashioned toilet with a chain-link flush. We would often find frogs in there and lizards everywhere else.
Willow Bend is situated right on the Murray River and we had a lot of fun swimming there. This year had been very dry due to a nationwide drought. My cousin Kane and I were only nine years old and full of mischief and adventure. Everything was a game to us and we couldn’t wait to start playing.
Every morning Kane and I would wake up early and ride our bikes to the kiosk at Picnic Point Caravan Park. This was our daily ritual – in return for purchasing much needed bread, milk and the morning paper we would get money for ice-creams. Friscos were our favorites.
On this particular morning, as we weaved through the dense trees on this tiny bush track, we were forced to stop. There, before us lay the biggest puddle we had ever seen. The most amazing stretch of water we had ever seen. We stared in awe at this gigantic pool. It was clearly very deep and ready to be desecrated.
We must have spent a solid hour powering through the mud on our bikes and splashing through the water, creating massive cascades of sludge. Every inch of us was brown and we were saturated with joy. We screamed loudly as the water parted and entered our mouths, splashing our faces. We couldn’t believe that we had found the only puddle on the drought-stricken countryside.
By the time we got home we were covered in filth and higher than kites. Our parents were less than impressed. They made us shower and change before lunch. My dad refused to believe that such a puddle existed in this dry weather. He thought perhaps we’d been playing in the cabin owners’ fish pond. We promised fervently that we weren’t and begged him to come with us the following day to witness the miracle himself. Dad agreed.
The next day we eagerly led him down the bike track towards the phenomenal puddle. Our excitement grew as we came closer to the area. We could not wait to prove him wrong.
“Here it is!” We announced proudly, when we finally reached our destination.
My dad’s expression changed from disbelief to shock.
“Not here!” He bellowed. “You didn’t ride around in this, surely?”
“Why?” I asked, confused and disappointed by his reaction. “What’s wrong?”
“That’s not a puddle. That’s sewerage.”
We stayed in a humble log cabin known as “Acacia.” All of the cabins had names and were very old and rustic inside and out. Warm showers were made with burning logs and curtains took the place of bedroom doors.
The dunny was far away from the cabin, a tiny solitary building consisting of an old-fashioned toilet with a chain-link flush. We would often find frogs in there and lizards everywhere else.
Willow Bend is situated right on the Murray River and we had a lot of fun swimming there. This year had been very dry due to a nationwide drought. My cousin Kane and I were only nine years old and full of mischief and adventure. Everything was a game to us and we couldn’t wait to start playing.
Every morning Kane and I would wake up early and ride our bikes to the kiosk at Picnic Point Caravan Park. This was our daily ritual – in return for purchasing much needed bread, milk and the morning paper we would get money for ice-creams. Friscos were our favorites.
On this particular morning, as we weaved through the dense trees on this tiny bush track, we were forced to stop. There, before us lay the biggest puddle we had ever seen. The most amazing stretch of water we had ever seen. We stared in awe at this gigantic pool. It was clearly very deep and ready to be desecrated.
We must have spent a solid hour powering through the mud on our bikes and splashing through the water, creating massive cascades of sludge. Every inch of us was brown and we were saturated with joy. We screamed loudly as the water parted and entered our mouths, splashing our faces. We couldn’t believe that we had found the only puddle on the drought-stricken countryside.
By the time we got home we were covered in filth and higher than kites. Our parents were less than impressed. They made us shower and change before lunch. My dad refused to believe that such a puddle existed in this dry weather. He thought perhaps we’d been playing in the cabin owners’ fish pond. We promised fervently that we weren’t and begged him to come with us the following day to witness the miracle himself. Dad agreed.
The next day we eagerly led him down the bike track towards the phenomenal puddle. Our excitement grew as we came closer to the area. We could not wait to prove him wrong.
“Here it is!” We announced proudly, when we finally reached our destination.
My dad’s expression changed from disbelief to shock.
“Not here!” He bellowed. “You didn’t ride around in this, surely?”
“Why?” I asked, confused and disappointed by his reaction. “What’s wrong?”
“That’s not a puddle. That’s sewerage.”
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