Get me out of here
Before I took the job to teach here I told my boss that I had to return to Sydney in week four for my brothers wedding. Everything was agreed upon. Flights were booked and all was good. Until the universe decided to conspire.
There is a mine which is an hour out of Borroloola and we use the mine flights to get back to Darwin but two weeks before the wedding the mine closed and flights were to be cut back, and possibly stop running completely. We called up almost every day to check if there were flights but they could not guarantee us a spot.
A week before the wedding, not only had the mine shut but the rains began to flood the area. I was due to fly out on a Tuesday morning flight and on Thursday night, the mine was still not confirming flights, and the road to the mine was underwater. With flood waters surrounding Borroloola on all sides there was no vehicle access in or out, not that I had a car anyway. I was beginning to panic. I felt like it was my last chance to get out of the middle of nowhere and if I didn’t get on a flight I may never be seen again.
So I called my ever trusty father. I had heard that there was a charter flight bringing teachers into the tiny Borroloola airstrip on the Saturday morning and I wanted to get on that plane. My fear of flying shrunk into non-existence compared to my fear of being stranded in Borroloola.
Dad said he would make some enquiries on the Friday which of course gave us less than 24 hours. While I was teaching, Dad was bouncing around on the phone between several departments within the DET. At 1pm my class was interrupted by a very angry principal. My father had secured my escape from Borroloola, and the DET had called my principal to confirm my leave. Dad was waiting for the department to confirm, before calling me. I waiting for my dad to confirm it was a possibility before approaching the principal and the department wanted to confirm with the principal before confirming with my dad. I was not particularly popular that day but I had my ticket out and I didn’t know if I was going to return.
As I left school that day I heard that the flooding had worsened and that the road through Borroloola was unpassable. The road that separated Borroloola heights, where I live, with the airport.
I went down to see how badly flooded it was. Rose was down there, bare footed, and with no shirt. She looked at the rest of the children playing in the water and came and stood so close to me that her skin was always touching some part of me. She didn’t speak and didn’t look at me, just came close. Then, I reached my hand down and took her soft little hand in mine. She looked at me in the eyes for the first time and smiled. We walked together silently towards the water. As we neared the edge I dropped her hand folded my skirt in my hand and waded in with her, praying that I had no open sores and that the crocodiles were floating elsewhere.
When we got as far as I was willing to venture, I let go of her and told her to go and swim with her friends. After some hesitation she did. She dived under the water and the insects that had been nestled into her matted hair floated away.
I decided that even if the water failed to recede, I would still be safe to cross the next day. I would just have to carry my pack on my head, take some spare dry clothes and brave Mr Bombastic.
As I was finishing my packing and getting ready for bed, another storm broke. It rained heavily for 2 hours before I decided that there was no way I could cross the road the next day. Amanda and I went to Annas house, and then we also gathered Sheree. At 10pm, I put a red poncho over my pj’s and we went in search of a boat and a driver who would be willing to get up at dawn and get me across the river. We found Shelly, a chef from NZ who used to be part of the silverferns NZ netball team. As her home made spa bubbled away, she put a beer in our hands and listened to our story. Then she made some phone calls and within minutes had found a boat, a driver, and a 4WD to drive me down to the boat ramp. The only proviso was that I had to bring back a bottle of rum for both of them.
Although my flight was at 9am I was desperately paranoid about missing it so I arranged to be picked up at 7am.
The car was waiting for me as the day dawned, a day that was much too sanguine considering the foul mood of the weather the previous night. We drove towards the boat ramp but decided, since we had time, to look at the water level. When we drove up the water was just licking the edges of the bridge. We drove straight over, our tires were barely dampened.
I cursed and thanked the heavens at the same time, not sure if I liked the bipolar nature of it all, even when it did go my way.
When I got to the airport I found the pilot already getting the plane ready. I waited in the terminal which is a picnic table under a 2 sided concrete block.
Despite being told that the flight was at 9 the pilot had decided to leave at 7.30am so it was the one time that being anal about getting to the airport early paid off.
But then he lost his fuel cards and could not put fuel in the plane. He walked back to his trailer in the local guest house in search of these cards while I lay on top of the picnic table with my head resting on my bag.
Finally the plane was ready to go. He asked me if I had been in one of these planes before to which I answered ‘not really’. Then he took me around to the side of the plane to show me the emergency procedures. He opened a hatch and pointed to a yellow pack.
‘In there’ he said, ‘is some food, water and flares for if we crash and I die’. I am not a fan of flying normally, having spent $1000 on a Qantas fearless flying course…but I was so desperate to leave that the threat of death, or surviving in the wilderness with only flares and crackers didn’t phase me in the slightest.
