Teacher Log: (P. 3 of 3)

The final destination of our cultural trip to the Northern Territory, was the famous Uluru. Only less than a full day's journey, when we arrived, the sun was bright enough to set-up camp. It's always a wonder to me, that practise does indeed make perfect, as the students and teachers, including myself, erected our tents in record time. Once the camp was completed, a large group had approached me about charging their mobile phones. On instinct, I walked to the centre of the grounds to discover a large eating area with picnic tables and several electrical outlets. The children flooded to the area, giving the teacher's the opportunity for a quick meeting. The meeting concerned, the climbing of Uluru.

The problem we were facing is Uluru is a sacred-site for the aboriginals. Many people based on this irrefutable fact, out of respect, has chosen not to climb this 500 million year old, singular rock formation. As a history teacher, I was aware of this problem, and with an instant show of hands between the five of us, we voted against climbing the rock. However, it seemed, most of the students wanted to climb Uluru despite its sanctity among the native people. Because all of our students were under age, required a chaperone. That afternoon, we had each student ring their parents, talk to a specific teacher to get permission to climb without a adult. This exercise lasted about an hour, and it felt like I had spoken to all 50 parents. Personally, I had other plans.

My wife at the time understood my feelings about Aboriginal lands and sacred sites. Before the journey, she booked a plane to fly over The Rocks and Uluru. As it turned out the small airport was walking distance from the camp. Later, 2 of my students, a year 9 and 10, found out about this, called their parents, and booked a flight as well. We ended-up on the same air-plane, and the experience was a memory of a lifetime.

On that first night, 3 of us travelled to an area designed to watch Uluru as the sun disappears over the horizon. This is a major event for one reason: Uluru changes colours, several colours, and to witness this event, it is said, is a phenomenon to behold.

We arrived and the place was crowded with tourists, sitting in lawn chairs and drinking champagne. Together with Rachael and Olga, we found a good spot, when Rachael pulled out a bottle of Champers, and 3 plastic glasses. Dusk was almost upon us, and the rock began to transform. Slowly as the sun disappears, the rock turns to a bright red. In minuets the shade changes to a hard brown-copper; in seconds, the rock becomes a magnificent purple, to then become entirely black. I turned to my colleague, Rachael, and tears were running down her cheeks. She later told me that this was a goal of hers since a little girl, and to finally see this natural display of beauty, moved her beyond what she ever imagined.

Early the next morning straight after breakfast, our group of 55 loaded-up on the bus, and travelled around 40ks southwest, to a magnificent rock formation that the aboriginal's call, Kata Tjunta, or The Olgas. From a small prop air plane flying directly above the rock's , it resembles that of ancient ruins, which might have existed thousands of years ago.

Once we arrived, standing at the head of the bus, I said, “We need to maintain order on the trail, particularly going up the path, because I've been told it can be dangerous. Stay in a single line, and please don't run”. Easier said than done, I soon discovered.

The path was indeed quite steep at first, and later levelled out on a flat area or small valley, surrounded by huge boulders. When you look though the rocks from a certain position, the blue sky and clouds contrasting the copper rocks, is a magnificent sight.

Suddenly I was bumped to the ground from behind, falling flat on my face. Looking up, I saw two boy's running, and one of them holding what appeared to be a canister. They disappeared around a corner of a cliff. I found this maddening, because not only were they risking their own lives, but the lives of the entire group. Immediately, I got to my feet, and in a small jog, went into pursuit.

After turning several corners on the path, I reached another flat area, and looking to my side, graffiti had been scrawled across the surface of a boulder. It appeared to be fresh, and once touching it, the red paint transferred to my fingers. The culprits were my own students, and specifically the trouble-maker, Kurt Stover.

Rather than bore the reader with the subsequent events with Stover and his mate, suffice to say, it was a unanimous decision to put the kid on a commercial jet, and send him home.

Once Rachel returned from the airport after escorting Stover, I could see a revolution brewing amongst the student body. Understandably, they were siding with one of their own.

After lunch, a few student's confronted me, and I explained the reasoning for our decision to send Stover home. “Okay people, graffiti-ing a national park site, a sacred site, can come with a $10,000 fine and a stint in jail. Believe me, getting Stover out of the state was the right decision.” They seemed to understand and returned to the bus for their tour of Uluru.

The rest of the trip was devoid of any further drama. All except our last stop in Adelaide.

Rather than having to set-up camp again, we were booked in a large hotel. In the outside dining area, the staff of the hotel presented a buffet of meats, salads, vegetarian, the whole lot. I remained in the dinning area with a few year 12 students, and our new bus driver. The man's stories of certain aboriginal artists, and legends about the north-end of Australia, including tribes that have never seen “civilisation” before, kept us all captivated until around 11:00pm.

I found my room, and remembered I was sharing with Rachel and Jasmine. I opened the door as quietly as possible, and closed the door to the sounds of brutal snoring.

Although it was dark, I could tell it was Rachel snoring on the far side of the room. I expect, like all of us, she was utterly exhausted. Next to her was a double bed, where Jasmine seemed to be sleeping. The women had left me the other double bed with crisp, clean sheets. I hastily undressed down to my boxers and climbed in...my god, what a luxurious experience after spending 3 weeks in a stench-ridden sleeping bag. I stretched out and after around 20 minutes, began to fall asleep when, in a whisper:

“Craig. Craig, are you awake?”

This time, I pretended to be asleep. Jasmine continued to whisper my name...but eventually I fell asleep.

We arrived in Melbourne the next evening to a welcoming crowd of parents and teachers. It felt like we were the “returning soldiers'” from some dark country in North Africa. Everyone was elated that we had come home all in one piece. My wife and son greeted me. Smiles and hugs all around, finally I could sleep in my own bed without having to sleep with “one-eye-open”. I didn't bother to unpack.

After breakfast with the family, telling both of my adventures in the wild bush's of northern Australia, I went down stairs to unpack. Pulling out my smelly clothes, a neatly folded piece of paper fell on the bed. Opening it, it read:

“Hi Craig, Really enjoyed our time together. There's something I need to tell you. Can you meet me in Shelby park this Saturday at 10:00. I hope we can meet, there's a lot I want to tell you”

The note was not signed, but in that moment, I knew...