Pass the Jaffas

Question: What do you get when you mix two station wagons and six young men with time to kill?
Answer: Well, it usually equates to trouble—but jump in, and I’ll tell you all about it!

Look at those faces—charming, intelligent, sensible, brave, compassionate, thoughtful. At least, that’s what we’d like to believe.

One time, as teenagers, we had a party of 21 cocky kids catch a bus to Merrylands train station, transfer to another train at Redfern, take it to Cronulla, ride the ferry over to Bundeena, then walk the remaining 6.3 kilometres to Deer Pool in the Royal National Park. We were off on a camping trip—but that’s another story!

Ever since I started earning an income and had money to burn, I’ve loved weekends away. In the beginning, the usual suspects included Andrew, Dave, Phil, Eric, Steve, Tad, Gary, Paul, myself, Tommo, and Brett. The ranks would swell from time to time, but there was always a core group. Years later, there were plenty of surfing trips with my brother Neil and his mates, so I was constantly getting out of Sydney for weekend adventures.

Back in 1976, Eric came up with a grand plan. He told us about a place called Wombeyan Caves where we could go exploring. It sounded brilliant. Except, as we later discovered, we had actually ended up in a completely different cave system—Bungonia Caves.

The date was set, and off we went with sleeping bags, two torches, water, chocolate biscuits, and, of course, a packet of Jaffas. The convoy consisted of two station wagons. Eric drove the first with Paul and Tad as passengers. Steve piloted the second with Gary and me as the designated annoyances. It was a long 180-kilometre drive. Back then, the single-lane highway out of Sydney was a nightmare—bumper-to-bumper traffic, slow-moving cars, and plenty of frustration. We turned off at Mittagong and followed a few long, winding roads, snacking on biscuits the whole way.

After five gruelling hours, we reached a padlocked gate at the end of a pothole-riddled dirt track. I got out to investigate and, luckily, found the padlock wasn’t locked. I swung the gate open, and the vehicles rolled through. Just as I was closing it, both wagons kept driving—right past me. I watched, dumbfounded, as their taillights disappeared into the distance. The bastards had left me behind.

Total darkness swallowed me.

As I walked down the dirt track, the vast night sky caught my attention. The Milky Way stretched above me like a glittering highway of diamonds. It was breathtaking, almost enough to distract me from my predicament. Almost. A noise off to my right snapped me back to earth. It’s amazing how many sounds you notice when you’re alone in the middle of nowhere at night.

Another question: Which vehicle would you rather be in? Make a mental note before reading on…

I can tell you, without a doubt, that Steve would later wish he had been a passenger in Eric’s car rather than the captain of his own.

I kept walking, feeling the rough terrain beneath my feet and the long grasses brushing against my legs. Occasionally, I veered off track, my steps growing hesitant. The night was alive with sounds—crickets, cicadas, an owl, maybe even a kangaroo. But then there were other noises. Deep, guttural growls that didn’t belong. This is Australia, I reminded myself. We don’t have animals that sound like that. My mind, however, insisted on conjuring images of wild beasts from the African plains. Fear gnawed at me as I blindly stumbled forward.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I saw a red haze in the distance—the glow of taillights. My 15-minute solo trek had been an exercise in sheer terror, and I let the drivers have it when I reached them. We went through more gates before arriving at our final destination, but this time, I refused to be the one opening them. “Once bitten, twice shy,” as they say.

We pulled into a large, open, grassy area surrounded by trees on three sides. Ahead, only massive flat rocks stretched into the darkness. The engines cut off, the headlights flicked out, and just like that, we were alone in the wilderness. No toilet block, no tap, nothing.

Steve and I wandered away from the cars to relieve ourselves, only to find ourselves stumbling over rocks. Balance was impossible. Ten steps in, I decided, “This’ll do.”

After some chatter, exhaustion won out, and we set up for the night. We folded the back seats down and crammed in like sardines—Gary on the left, Steve in the middle, and me on the right.

Unfortunately, my stomach had other plans. I could feel gas churning inside, so I thought I’d release just a little—quietly. Big mistake. The smell that followed was biblical. Steve got the full force first, gagging and cursing me out. The stench was so bad that we all had to evacuate, leaving the doors wide open to air it out. It was freezing, but there was no choice. We climbed back in, and I received my first strike. Naughty boy.

But, alas, history has a way of repeating itself. This time, I owned it—loud and proud. Steve lost it. He pounded on the other vehicle’s windows, begging to be let in. No way, mate. They weren’t having it.

We reconfigured our sleeping arrangement, shuffling Gary into the middle. That’s when the sneezing started. Gary’s sneezes were something else—violent, loud, and relentless. He sneezed again. And again. And again. After five sneezes, I started counting. He reached 21 sneezes in a row, during which I managed to clear even more gas from my turbulent gut. The car was now a sealed chamber of doom.

We didn’t want to open the windows because it was freezing outside—but we had no choice. We cracked them open just enough to prevent death by asphyxiation. Sweet, sweet revenge for leaving me on that dark road!

So there we were—three sardines suffocating in a thick, wet, putrid fog. Steve was losing his mind, but I was in hysterics, laughing uncontrollably. I think, from that point on, the windows remained permanently ajar.

Finally, when the air returned to something resembling breathable, sleep began to take over. But then came the next invasion—the snores. Gary had a snore that could register on the Richter scale, and he unleashed it with vengeance. I’d barely dozed off before his thunderous rumbling jolted me awake.

By morning, I was exhausted. I awoke to a bone-jarring cold and the sound of someone rummaging outside the car. The sun was barely creeping over the horizon, casting long shadows across the rocks. My muscles ached from the night’s discomfort, and my head throbbed from lack of sleep.

What a night. Little did we know, the real adventure was just about to begin…

I got up and stepped out of the vehicle to stretch. The frigid air cut through me as I took in my surroundings. The earth just… disappeared beyond the rocks—the very same rocks Steve and I had been standing on only six hours earlier. A gnawing unease crept into my gut as I clambered toward the edge, peering over.

“Holy shit,” I gasped. “There’s a 300-foot cliff over here, and it drops straight down!” My voice echoed into the abyss.

The once menacing landscape now glowed softly in the light of day. The towering gum trees, the rugged rock outcrops, and even the lingering mist over the ground possessed an almost otherworldly beauty. In that fleeting moment, it felt as though I had stepped into a timeless realm, where every shadow whispered a story, and every breeze carried secrets of the land.

The chaos of gas, sneezes, and midnight mishaps had softened into a raw memory—a reminder that the best adventures are often born from unexpected misadventures. We exchanged a few half-jests and reflective words about our youthful bravado and the unpredictable magic of the outback.

Once everyone was awake, we grabbed our two torches, a bottle of water, and a packet of Jaffas, then set off. “Let’s do some exploring,” someone said, trying to stoke excitement. As we entered the underworld, we passed a few climbers emerging from the depths. I remember being bemused at all the serious gear they had—helmets with headlights, ropes, hooks, harnesses, quickdraws, bolts… the works. Professional climbing gear. We, on the other hand, had our dwindling torchlight and blind enthusiasm.

Down into the belly of the beast we went, idle chatter keeping spirits high. I tried to take mental notes of our surroundings to aid our return. A large, round, reddish-brown boulder—check. A long, unusual stalagmite—check. We pressed on with reckless abandon, passing drop-offs, wide caverns, and claustrophobic passageways. Back then, there were no mobile phones, no solar torches, no floodlights—just AAA battery torches and dim headlamps. Time blurred as we descended deeper.

We had just navigated an extremely steep, muddy section when reality set in. We couldn’t continue further without ropes. Anxiety gnawed at me. Huddled at the bottom of the slide, we debated our options. “Pass the Jaffas,” I said, trying to keep things light, but a heavy tension loomed over us.

Standing there—muddy, wet, and uneasy—we collectively decided it was time to climb back up. Eric went first. Halfway up, he lost his footing and tumbled back down. Paul tried next—he failed too. Panic set in. Desperation took over as everyone threw themselves at the slope, only to be defeated by the slick mud. Time slowed. “We’re stuck down here,” I blurted out, voice trembling. “How are we going to get out?!” Real fear clawed at my chest.

Finally, someone reached the top, I can’t remember who but it doesn’t matter. One by one, we were hauled up the mudslide. Jubilation! We had escaped the trap—it felt like the SES had arrived. But our relief was short-lived.

As we retraced our steps, one of our torches flickered and died. Now down to a single, faltering beam, we followed our light-bearer into a vast, cathedral-like cavern. Relief surged through us; we recognized this place. But our smiles faded as we turned in circles. Six passageways led out. We had no certainty of which was ours. Taking the widest tunnel, we pressed on. An hour passed. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. “Hey,” I stammered, pointing to a rock formation. “We passed those rocks about an hour ago… We’re going in circles!”

Panic set in. “Man, we’re going to die down here!” I cried hysterically. A chorus of frightened voices followed, escalating into a ruckus. Eventually, someone managed to calm us down. We were in serious danger—our water was nearly gone, and our Jaffas had to be rationed. “One each from now on,” someone said solemnly.

We continued single file, nerves raw, eyes darting for anything familiar. We reached the cathedral-like cavern with the 6 passageways again. This time, we took a different path. Torchlight flickered ahead, but those of us in the rear were swallowed by darkness. Shadows danced wildly, our senses heightening every sound, every shift of the air. Then came the staircase—a steep ascent hugging a wall on the right. To the left… an ominous void.

We climbed slowly, steps slick with dampness. A warning echoed down the line. “Watch out for the rock on the right. Pass it on.” One by one, we relayed the message. More warnings followed, each one heightening the tension. Then came the big one. “Watch out for the hole on the left!” Steve called. I repeated it, my voice strained, “Hey Paul, watch out for the hole on the left!” He passed it on to Gary.

Then—

A loud thud. Silence. Then a gut-wrenching groan.

“What the fuck—torch, torch!” The light scrambled back down the line, illuminating the darkness. We huddled at the edge, peering downward. The beam tilted, revealing Gary sprawled on his back on a narrow ledge. Beyond him—nothing. Blackness.

“Don’t move! Stay still, Gary!” We were frantic. If he rolled over, he’d vanish into the abyss.

Gary groaned but responded to our questions. He was alive, seemingly just winded. But now came the real dilemma—how the hell did we get him out? He had fallen three meters. With no ropes, our only option was to dangle someone over the edge.

Gary, visibly shaken, managed to stand. We carefully lowered Paul, gripping his legs tightly as he reached down for Gary. Securing his arms, we grunted and heaved him back onto the steps. We were six again.

Tad grabbed a rock and hurled it into the void. We strained our ears for impact…. just silence for ages, then we heard a crack! It was certain death had Gary landed differently. A miracle.

Finally, we poured out of the cave, the sun blinding. We looked at one another, caked in dried mud, contemplating the ordeal we had just survived.

A couple of cavers passed us. “Hey,” I called out, “do you know where we can get a wash?”

One of the men turned and pointed. “There’s a pond over that hill.”

Three hills and an hour later, we found the pond… or maybe a different one. But at that moment, none of us cared. We had survived.

Reluctantly, we turned back, our journey now shifting from exploration to homeward travel. The station wagon, with its stubbornly empty fuel gauge, ambled along the lonely highway under a sky so blue.

The drive home was filled with reflective silence, punctuated by memories of that wild, unforgettable night and the reckless, almost tragic morning. The laughter shared under a blanket of stars, the surreal spectacle of the Milky Way, and the camaraderie forged in the face of sheer absurdity—each moment etched itself into our souls. At a small service station on the outskirts of a rural town, the inviting aroma of fresh coffee and the warmth of a hot sausage roll momentarily revived our spirits. We refuelled both the car and our hearts, musing over plans for future escapades and the hope of retelling this saga to a new generation.

Even now, the memory of that wild outback night—filled with chaos, laughter, and yes, plenty of Jaffas—remains a cherished part of my story.

Pass the Jaffas is not merely a tale of youthful folly and misadventure; it is a celebration of life’s unpredictability, a testament to the power of camaraderie, and a reminder that sometimes the most memorable journeys are those that stray off the beaten track.

This story draws upon the spirit of Australian outback adventures and real-life anecdotes from Bungonia National Park. For further insights on local caving and adventure culture, see:

 NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service

[​nationalparks.nsw.gov.au]

and Australian Geographic’s coverage of caving

[​australiangeographic.com.au]