My Missing Life

To Milford Sound - NZ South Island

2012-01-23T13:20:00.000+10:00

Playing with Fire

2012-01-14T16:35:00.019+10:00

Barry Lopez has a story in his book "About This Life" which recounts his year experiencing the community of potters in the wilds of Oregon who use an ancient firing technique called 'anagama'. It's a Japanese wood firing process which takes between three and six days. The Japanese seek to make the process as controlled as possible while the lead potter in Lopez's story values the wildness and unnpredictability of the same fire.

I was reading this as we made our way north from Christchurch . In Picton I picked up a brochure on the potters of the Nelson area, our next stopping point. There were more than twenty listed. I was aware that the Nelson area was home to numerous craftsmen and women.

My interest was ceramics. My partner was more inclined to the jewellers. So it was no surprise that when we saw a sign on the Picton-Nelson road telling us a potter and a jeweller were located on a local back road we took the turn-off.

The pottery was closed but a short distance further we pulled up outside a charming house overlooking one of the waterways, part of the Marlborough Sounds, the shoreline of which the road was following.

We stepped from the car and were met by Verena. She was Swiss, having arrived in NZ some twenty years previously. she'd met a Kiwi and stayed. An eighty's backpacker who never went home. Today she would be politely but firmly asked to leave - no job, no skills, no future.

Her jewellery was simple but had the hallmarks of craft made with love rather than driven by the market.

Andrea browsed, I talked, and the more interest Andrea showed in the jewellery the more the conversation flowed. 'What other artists would you recommend in the Nelson area?' I asked. 'What are you interested in?' she replied. It was then I remembered the brochure in the car. 'We have quite different tastes, Andrea likes fine work , I like chunky tough stuff'.'

She looked through the brohure and circled three or four studios and galleries one, in particular, she drew my attention to. 'This might interest you, Darryl Frost, he fires his raku ware in a wood fired kiln. An anagama kiln' she added.

Ninety dollars and a quirky pearl necklace laterVerena bad us farewell reminding us to say hi to Darryl if we looked him up. I was hooked. Andrea was less enthusiastic. She thought his work looked like he'd thrown it at the wall and let fate decide the outcome. 'I would not want that in my house'. She was adamant.

In Nelson I found that his studio was an hour out of town on a peninsula off the main road. It was out of the way, Andrea was the navigator, and I resigned myself to reality. quietly storing Darryl as an opportunity missed in my mental journal.

Maybe Verena was on my shoulder guiding me because I was unconsciously being lead step by step closer to Darryl's lair. That afternoon we took a drive to Rabbit Island - neither the wild beach nor the bird filled forest the guidebook enthused about; rather, a windswept muddy beach backed by an ugly pine plantation. Andrea, still navigating, suggested we travel a few ks further to Mapua, a small seaside village with a wharf area, a former cold store and fish maket, an apple store and a harbourmaster's building converted into cafes and gallery spaces.

Darryl's work was at the far end of the "Cool Store Gallery". There were only a few pieces and the proprietor seemed bemused when I asked if she had any more. When I asked about him she was not flattering. 'He'll give you an interesting time if you find him' she said dismissing me. Andrea was even less impressed when confronted by these rough pieces in the flesh. I hinted that his studio was only twenty minutes up the road but to no avail.

Barry Lopez used the anagama story to explore the idea of community and humanity in its simplest and most grounded form. I was beginning to think that my anagama experience was the opposite. The anagama was not bringing people together but generating tension and distress. I needed to be a little more zen and let my desires go; allow my experience to be in the moment, not find every opportunity to feel thwarted.

Relaxed I can be; zen I am struggling with. Later the next day, after a nine hour day of driving, walking a ten kilometre section of the Abel Tasman (National Park) track and three hours at sea, some in a strong northerly swell aboard a small boat (Andrea suffers from sea sickness), we headed home to Nelson.

A sign that Andrea had regained her land legs came half way on the return journey when she suggested we stop briefly at a local art and craft shop. It was pretty awful but it did give me an opportunity to have a quick glance at the map to discover that serendipity was on my side. Kina Beach, Darryl's hideaway, was close by.

'Do you mind if we just do a quick side trip to Kina Beach?' I asked gently. Andrea was exhausted. I was in luck. Her energy for resistance had expended itself.

Darryl's byline is "Playing with Fire". I pulled into his entrance drive and followed it fifty metres to a point where it petered out in a scattering of junk and the remains of old machinery and timber offcuts. Andrea setttled into her seat for a snooze. 'Won't be long.' I said.

A piece of ceramic art slumped over a metal frame formed a letterbox and signage to the entrance. Twenty metres beyond that I entered an open space. On the left was a door to a studio crammed with art pieces. Straight ahead was a series of large sculptures. and behind all this lay the mysterious ten metre long 'anagama' kiln. Darryl was nowhere to be seen. The door to the studio was open. I entered to find myself surrounded by a hundred ceramic sculptures, some two dimentional, most three and all apparemntly inspired by nature and organic forms. Each one exhibited the furious energy of a man possessed of a will to wrestle with his medium in the most physical way imaginable; a series of giant pieces of ceramic art, many of them combined with recycled timber or steel or boulders were located around a large area where pathways wound through a wild garden.

About half an hour later I re-entered the studio. I was intent on a purchase. I selected a semi-functional piece hoping that it might find a comfortable place in the household. Still, there was no sign of Darryl. I gave a blast on his air-horn as suggested at the door; I considered leaving sixty dollars but was unsure of my ability to make a reasonable estimate of its value. Eventually I wrote a note leaving my email address and headed for the car empty handed.

Andrea groaned and surfaced as I opened the door. My ten minutes had turned into an hour. At that moment a tractor roared up the drive and a balding man jumped from the saddle. I met him mid-stride and followed him. I pointed to the piece I had chosen and, to my embarrassment, discovered it was one of only half a dozen in the room which was not Darryl's. He was happy to sell it for his anagama colleague for fifty bucks but I was determined to possess part of Darryl. It was an awkward moment. I had hoped that my anagama connection with the artist would flow; that we would click; that he would invite me to inspect his kiln; that we would discuss the finer points of his artistic vision and that the communal experience of the anagama firing; of spending six days and nights together stoking the kiln with small mountains of forest timber and driftwood would somehow be seamlessly imparted to me through some mysterious and magical process.

I chose a Darryl piece, a mashed up vase form with lumps and cuts and furrows and unexpected colourings intending to buy both his and his mate's as a package; Sadly, when I put them side by side his mate's looked like a poor cousin. I put the cousin aside. 'A hundred dollars for my piece' said Darryl. And that was that.

or some reason I slid it behind the back seat as I got back into the car, out of Andrea's sight.

'Did you buy something?' Andrea asked when we got back to our motel. I looked sheepish and began to unwrap my monster.

Franz Josef Glacier

2012-01-14T15:04:00.004+10:00

Franz Josef from a distance (left) and closeup (right)

Glacier

Falling from a precipitous sky
Hurtling headlong towards a fragile me
Frothing tumbling popping splashing
A milkshake poured from an almighty tumbler
Flowing nowhere

Destructive urge suspended
In crystalline blue
Awaiting another ice age.

(c) Steve Capelin

Blue ice (left), ice tunnel (right)

Fox Glacier - neighbour to Frans Josef

Yearning

2012-01-14T13:40:00.001+10:00

I'm sitting on the side of my bed at 4 in the afternoon at the Mt Cook YHA looking in the direction of MT Cook (New Zealand's highest peak).

It's raining cool January rain and the mountain is hiding. A Korean man I spoke to last night said as he stood at the door of the Hostel "I just want to see her". He had such yearning in his voice.

He left this morning unsatisfied.

Unrequited

South Korean gentleman
Peers into the mist
A vigil for his lost love

Never quite there.

2012-01-14T12:40:00.005+10:00

Mt Cook

Picton and Queen Charlotte Sound

2012-01-08T19:41:00.004+10:00

Queen Charlotte Sound - almost impossible to capture on film. The vistas and secluded coves go on and on and on. When we departed Picton it took an hours driving to escape the inlets which seemed to keep pursuing us.

So much water pounding through the valleys and repleninsing the already fat waterways.

And a clue to my great grandfather Lorenzo and his family's shipboard experience on their journey in 1881. The Edwin Fox was built in 1853 and travelled between Europe, Australia and New Zealand as a cargo and passenger ship (later a coal haulage vessel in New Zealand). It was the last ship to transport convicts to Australia (Western Australia) and carried 180 passengers in steerage class, 20 first class and a crew of 40.

Robert Louis Stevenson's wrote a vivid account of the life of the 'steerage class'passengers during his trip from Britain to Canada in the late 19th century. It was hell.

Kaikoura

2012-01-08T19:11:00.008+10:00

A sliver of coastal lowland

A line of impresive peaks (snow capped in winter)

Fur seals lazing on the point

Orcas playing lazily in the shallows

Vans with makeshift kitchens on the foreshore

Selling fresh whitebait and mussels

And kelp, as thick as leather in greens and yellows

Decaying, stinking.

Christchurch

2012-01-05T13:38:00.015+10:00

In the queue to check my bags in at Brisbane airport a young lad from New Zealand turned to me looking confused. In his clipped New Zealand vowels he said' Um I un the right pluce?' 'I wus supposed to be un thus flight bet the numbers don't mutch.' I was able to help. In our modern competitive world Air New Zealand was the carrier for the discount Pacific Blue mob. 'in my broad Australiain vowels I reassured him 'Yer in the roight place mate. No worries.' 'Where're you frum?' 'Christchurch' he replied. 'Jest been vusiting sum mates fur a wik.'

'How did you fare in the earthquake?' I asked observing that the city had just been hit by another big one on christmas eve as I was thinking about packing. 'Yeah, alright eh? My house is looking a bit the worse for weir but it'll be alright eh? I'll hafta move inta a motel for a while but the govenmentuis paying for the wirk.' He seemed very philosophical. I discovered that by worse for wear he meant that his house was sitting at a 45 degree angle having been tipped off its stumps. 'Sum people got hut real bad though eh?. On the coast there's houses where half is at the top and half at the buttom of the cluff eh?' 'I was lucky.''

We chatted on as the line inched forward. 'You jest get on wuth it eh? We get a few shudders now und then but mostly it's alrighteh.' I discovered later that Christchurch has had more than 7000 tremors in the past twelve months since the first big one in November 2010.

'How long are you in christchurch?' One night was our answer. We had planned to get out of the earthquake zone as quickly as possible. He seemed disappointed. 'You should have a wee look before you go. I could drive you around if you like.' Reluctantly we declined. We'd booked all
our accomodation in advance and would need to head off first thing next morning for Kaikoura. 'Too bad,' he said.'It's worth a look to see what it's like now. They've set up a new shopping precinct using shupping containers. It's not too bad.'

Next morning, after a fitful night's sleep at the Airport Motel where every plane landing or taking off woke us alert to the posibility of the need to evacuate at short notice we did go for a drive to the city centre. It was New year's Day so the traffic was light but even so there was an air of absence, of people of traffic of vitality. Everyone in the centre was a tourist come to look. the heart of the city was locked down. wire fences blocked what woulod normally have been main entrance points; vacant lots were more common than standing structures; the me3ss had been cleaned up but the effect was to create a ghostly environment whre everything seemed to be on hold, waiting.

Strangely, while the heart of the physical centre had been destroyed the resilience of the locals seemed to live on. People were carrying on about their normal lives; dogs barked, kids rode their bikes the suburbs, largely untouched, hummed with quiet life. Later on we begin to meet refugees from the stress; people who had taken a weeks holiday to escape the ongoping trembles, the daily expectation that the next one could be the really big one; three major earthquakes in 12 months and over seven thousand minor quakes in one year - the nights are the worst.

Last night we went to see a documentary at the Picton Cinema, "The Fall of a City", which captures the past 12 months in Christchurch. It's quite beautiful in a strange way; full of hope and wisdom and community spirit. I left the cinema both exhausted and exhilarated.

A Passion for Place

2011-12-28T12:06:00.017+10:00

I picked up a book I've had for 10 or more years the other day. It was "About This Life', the autobiographical writings of Barry Lopez a North American storyteller and sage. He writes about the landscape and about people with an intimate knowledge of their land or their world. He moves from artic landscapes to intercontinental air freight and subjects them to the same incisive gaze and sense of discovery.

I was reading his essay "The American Geographies" where he grapples with the question of what is the land we live in? He sees that his country is often glibly represented by billboards and, in film by internationally recognised emblems of North America and he argues that this devalues the true nature of the landscape. He observes that true understanding 'resides with men and women more of less sworn to a place.' In saying that he also says that it's not an encyclopedic knowledge that these people have but a deep love and familiarity. They inhabit real spaces rather than inhabiting an idea of a place.

That got me thinking. I have an uncle Paddy like that. Every time I visit him in the Richmond River Vally where he was born he constantly talks about the weather and the river and the fish and hunting and seasons. It's as if he is a bird hovering above the land taking it all in. He can describe the route from his place to anywhere in the district as if by touch and feel rather than by street signs. Barbara Kingsolver does that in 'Prodigal Summer', the most remarkable book I've ever read. Everyone else in my circle loved 'The Poisonwood Bible' but I was captivated by her intimacy with the landscape and the people in 'Prodigal Summer'.

Barry and Paddy got me thinking. Thinking about what I'd read and written this past year. I realised that the books I most remember were set in places I knew or could know: "The Body in the Clouds" - Sydney; " All That I Am" - London and Germany between the wars; 'Spirit of Progress' - Melbourne. These are all Australian authors (I'm in a local Australian Authors Bookclub) but their stories are universal while specific to real places. I also read a series of books by young authors which were well constructed, well written and with interesting plots but, while they were set in recognizable landscapes, these landscapes were not named and the sense of place was not the same. I want to learn about a concrete world as well as a psychological world.

In terms of blogs, I've read less this year but the few I read I read regularly. On reflection I am drawn to sites which are grounded in place or accounts of place. Two of my favourites have been Sara Toa's 'A WineDark Sea' and Jennifer Morrison's 'Realia'.

Sara writes and photographs her fishing life and fishing community on the southwest coast of Western Australia. It's her writing I love. It is so true to daily experience. It is so deeply simple in the way she captures moments like launching a boat as the sun rises over the bay or loading crab pots or reading the weather. It's much more than notes about a good days fishing. Hers is writing with the intention of telling a story and capturing the reader in the moment.

Jennifer, similarly, captures moments in a very intentional way. Her moments are often about people she encounters on the bus or train on the way to work. Small observation of real life in Toronto, Canada. Jennifer teaches writing to adult groups and has a passion for storytelling and, in naming the streets and the destinations, she builds a picture you can step in to or could step into if you visited and followed in her footsteps. None of this is new. Writers have been documenting and capturing the world they live in since well before Dickens. I can still, forty years later, close my eyes and find myself in Steinbeck's 'Cannery Row'.

For my part I realised that my writing has also followed this path. I am more interested in writing stories of real experiences and real people than fictionalised accounts from my imagination. To my mind my stories are no less creative; the fundamentals of good storytelling are the same and that's where the craft and the creativity reside.

At this point my focus has been on my personal experiences and encounters I have with the interesting and absurd. Family and memoir has been a large part of my writing this year. It occurs to me that the landscapes that Barry Lopez talks about do not need to be the exotic; they could equally be the immediate locality, my community. How can I know my community and my local history better? What better way than to examine it, observe it and write about it.

I don't make New Year's resolutions but I'm hoping this idea might have a life beyond this immediate blog.

Happy New Year for next week.

Link to Barry Lopez on Storytelling

Earthshattering

2011-12-27T14:35:00.007+10:00

I'm off to New Zealand for a few weeks from 1 January so see you all in the new year.

I'll take my computer but hopefully I'll be too busy to blog. That, or I'll be writing from the bottom of a crevasse after another South Island earthquake - we fly into Christchurch which has had another big one this week. But as one article reminded us all recently - the landscape we love in NZ is the result of milleniums of earthquake and volcanic activity.

Here's to fate, fun, rain, and unused travel insurance.

Cryptic Christmas

2011-12-19T13:28:00.005+10:00

2011.

I've aged only one year
but my children's combined tally
creeps closer to my maturing years.

I've written a small mountain of words
but the memoir in me
grows faster than I can capture it.

I've been a teacher in a Pacific idyll
but I've learnt more
than I've imparted.

I've immersed myself
in the history of my community
only to discover that I know very little.

I've lived my 37th year
in a partnership both
baffling and satisfying.

I've read a lot
becoming a better reader,
more discerning and insightful.

I've spent more time alone
and found good company within,
and out and about.

I haven't been paid
but I have worked hard
hoping the tax man is losing interest.

There were things lost -
a job, or two; a son leaves home
But I have no memory of funerals.

I have valued relationships and relatives
I have valued time and also tide
I am again a fortunate man.

Have a great holiday season everyone.
See you in 2012.

steve aka 'little hat'

Starting Point

2011-12-16T14:59:00.005+10:00

Is it possible to take inspiration from anything as the beginning point of writing a blog or a piece of creative/reflective writing?

Right now my toilet cistern is hissing at me. It's been hissing for a few weeks now as precious water flows constantly down the slightly stained porcelain walls through the S bend and on a journey ultimately to mix with waters polluted by poo and pee and other waste products.

Can I learn anything from this?

At the most practical level I have learnt that toilet cistern valves are not as easily sourced as I'd presumed. Two weeks later and a series of excuses and my local Tradelink plumbing shop still can't provide me with a simple piece of rubber. I could have flown to Malaysia, tapped a rubber tree, cured the sap and shaped a perfectly ordinary seal in the same time.

Of course I'd still be cursing and ruining the world on a number of fronts. One, the piece I would have made would be too big or too small or the wrong shape or too rough and I would have made no progress at all. Two, my trip to Malaysia would have added tons of carbon to the atmosphere and, so, more than counter balanced the good I am trying to achieve by stopping the leak. Three, let's leave three to your fertile imagination, because mine has run dry.

On the spiritual level I have learnt that acceptance of life's S bends, while challenging, can lead to an inner harmony and this, in turn, is good for one's bowel movements. I have also learnt that a calm reply and a logical account of progress to date can sooth the ire of those to whom saving the planet (not to mention the dollar cost of wasted water) is of paramount importance.

Finally, and there is always a final irony in most things (though I am told my friends in North America - the USA in particular do not get irony), my hissing toilet cistern has chosen to coincide its flush and flow with the release of tens of thousands of megalitres of water, not officially waste water, but certainly wasted, from the Wivenhoe Dam west of Brisbane to reduce its capacity to 75%.This is a precaution against a possible repeat of the January 2011 flood which devestated the community.

Are my efforts in vain. Can one person's cistern make a difference? Is the Kyoto protocol wasted on me? Did it ever get signed? What has waste water got to do with global warming? Answer: it can help keep things cool - for a while?

And to answer my opening question: The answer is yes. But the value of the result may very likely be questioned.

Harry loves Bindi

2011-12-11T11:45:00.009+10:00

I've just spent a week watching a DVD of Bindi and the late Steve Irwin of Crocodile Hunter fame. I never was a fan but Bindi, age about 8 in the DVD, and Steve were quite a team. She's the mature straight man (if I can use that term) and he's the playful child messing with dangerous animals (and finally getting too close to one particular stingray).

I can remember where I was for a small number of major events in history as they unfolded over my lifetime.

I was walking past Our Lady of the Assumption Church, Norman Park, as a 13 year old when I learned about the assination of JFK from a passing motorist. (November 1963)

I was in the Music/Media Room under the University of Qld Refectory watching Neil Armstrong step on to the moon in the late 60s. (July 1969)

I watched the 9:11 drama unfold on my home TV screen early in the morning of that terrible day in 2001 and then watched it replayed hour after hour at work in my office at Indooroopilly. (September 2001)
In 2006 I was camped in remote Central Australia at Kings Canyon having a glass of wine in a camp chair watching the sunset when news swept the campground that Steve Irwin had died. there was no TV, no radio, no media. Someone had picked up the news via their CB Radio. The camp ground was stunned. (September 2006).

For a period Steve sat beside JFK, Neil Armstrong and the 9:11 event as a moment of international significance. How do you figure that? They all occured in the second half of their respective years; Steve and 9:11 both in September. It's not a hugh step to develop a conspiracy theory around those facts.

No I haven't gone potty - just the price of a visit from 7 year old nephew Harry all the way from London.

Brisbane born and London raised he has an unusual take on his birth country - this last week we had daily visits from wallabies grazing in the backyard of the house we were renting on Stradbroke Island (plus families of kookas and butcherbirds which we fed from the verandah).

As far as Harry's concerned it's true, we have kangaroos bounding down our main streets in Australia. And Bindi is set to become the second female Prime Minister with young Harry as her consort.

Now what to buy harry for Christmas? A date with Bindi?

Mortality

2011-12-02T17:19:00.005+10:00

I am surrounded by reminders of my mortality. I decide to visit Sydney to track down some family sites which I hope will help me fill in some gaps in the family saga. I call my cousin and suggest we spend a couple of days together exploring. The visit will coincide with an old friend's 60th birthday celebration.

I arrive three hours late after my flight out of Brisbane has been cancelled and a seat found for me on a later plane. Cousin Steve picks me up at the airport and we talk about the state of the nation and his state of health. The economy is pretty shaky and Steve's year hasn't been much better. He's had a hip operation and then a strange virus which doctors couldn't identify but which attacked his heart. He makes light of it but later his wife tells me he's definitely not running on all four cylinders. This is ironic for a man with a passion for cars. He has a 1950 something MG TF convertible in his garage which he has done up and in which he goes touring. He and the car both look pretty good but they are, to be honest, both getting on.

Steve and I spend a day mooching around inner city Leichhardt uncovering a series of Italian and Irish connections. Leichhardt was, and is, Sydney's 'Little Italy' and was the first port of call for many migrants looking for affordable housing. The Fruit and Vegetable shop from 1910 has gone but a few locals tell us there was still a fruit and vege business on the corner of Paramatta Rd and Norton Street until the recent past.

The Kilcoyne family (two Kilcoyne girls married two Capelin boys) had settled in Leichhardt in the early 1880s, about the same time Lorenzo, the original Italian connection, was disembarking from his disastrous venture to the Pacific with 200 other Italians. Their house is still there and the woman living there is home and shows us through. We are following a warm trail. We visit the local Catholic Church, St Fiacres, where the weddings took place and confirm that the wedding photos were definitely taken in front of a backdrop featuring fake pillars. I check out St Mary's Cathedral the next day hoping to find the very pillars there - but am again disappointed. We track down two other houses built by various members of the family and have a coffee at Bar Sport, a place that my Sydney friends tell me later is an icon of Norton Street. The coffee is good.

The next day I am at my friend Mark's house in Glebe, having slept on the floor overnight. He's the one turning 60. His family have arrived from Rockhampton and Perth and we are 11 in the house over three days. Well, most of them have. His sister in law can't make it as she is nursing her sister who is seriously unwell. I also learn that a cousin of Mark's wife has been knocked down by a car and taken to hospital the day before. She's from Israel and looked left instead of right as she went to jog across the road on her morning run. Her partner was well in front of her and didn't know she'd been hit, only that she never arrived back from the run. Sydney's like that. People disappear all the time. After a series of frantic phone calls they track her down. She's okay. It was only a glancing blow.

Around mid morning a call comes from another relative apologising that they won't be able to make the party. The husband has just been taken to hospital having suffered a heart attack. It's turning out to be quite a weekend.

Understandably the conversation for the remaining two days often revolves around health. The party goes well. No one is taken to hospital, though a few are going home a bit worse for wear thanks to Mark's generous bar tab.

I visit the Police Museum and am disappointed to find I don't have a National Security file - I was always too afraid to really stick my head up too high during the Vietnam protest years.

Next day Cousin Steve and I drive to Woollongong to visit our only remaining uncle on the Capelin side. Cyril is 83 and pretty unsteady on his feet but he has a memory of a teenager and tells us stories with people's names, dates and even the time of day. He swears his longevity is based around his heavy diet of dairy products and cream.

On the way back to Sydney for my flight home I get a text message from my wife, Andrea, telling me that my younger brother has completed his angiogram procedure and that they've inserted a stent into one of his major arteries. He's going to live. He retired three weeks ago and has been at the hospital every other day since then having tests after some chest pain. Can I pick him up from hospital the next day as his wife is on crutches after foot surgery and can't drive; Andrea isn't available as she'll be at work - its her third last week; she's been retrenched.

It seems I'm the only one left standing. I feel fine. But I do have strange thoughts as I swim my twenty laps of my local pool where I wonder how long it would take the other swimmers to notice my body on the bottom of the pool if I karked it mid swim.

Reminders

2011-12-02T16:56:00.003+10:00

I facilitated a sharing of stories at the AGM of my local community organisation last night. I began by noting that, while the January flood had defined the year, it was not the only thing we had all experienced in the past 12 months. I asked people to think about how the flood may have influenced their year. What had they learnt about themselves? About their community?

I didn't want people to re-experience the flood. It was hard enough the first time without doing it all over again in our imaginations. Still, the flood did dominate the conversation.

Two women who had never met before January had ended up working alongside each other for the whole year in a Flood Recovery Centre, 5 months of that as volunteers. They are chalk and cheese and yet now best friends. They met the Queen. One was overcome with excitement; the other, of Scottish heritage, was completely uninterested in Her Majesty. They laugh a lot and finish each others stories.

Norma is 84. She spoke of the good things to come from the flood; the people who had helped; the relatives rallying around. She's moved on. She is still reminded of the experience in strange ways. "Yesterday I wanted to thicken some cream but I couldn't find my eggbeater anywhere." Gone. Thrown out by helpful volunteers in the days after the flood. It's become her convenient excuse for not doing things she doesn't want to do. " Oh I can't, sorry, that got thrown out after the flood."

My neighbours moved in 12 months ago - November 2010. He had a book collection and stored them under his house while he organised shelving upstairs. He lost the lot. They moved out last week, 12 months to the day. I haven't spoken to them since the week of the flood when we delivered some food to them. I guess the thought of a repeat experience was too much to bear.

January will be a strange time for many people.

Vanuatu 8 Week's End

2011-11-16T16:15:00.006+10:00

This Vanuatu story could go on for many more posts such was the fullness of the week. A funeral; a full on tribal dance finale including a Johnson's Baby Powder surprise ending; more taro on my plate than I could carry in a wheelbarrow; and some fascinating conversations - but I'm going to jump to the end and leave you to imagine the missing bits.

Contrasts

The week is full of bizarre contrasts. A delegate arrives wearing nothing but a woven lap lap. He attaches his name tag to the pandanus string circling his waist. No one takes any notice (except me).
My mobile phone runs out of credit. At morning tea we eat french crepes cooked on the open fire and filled with island cabbage and capsicum while a local chief takes my money and recharges my phone via his mobile. He is a 'Digicell' agent. Digicell is the local carrier.

One of my colleagues has, for some inexplicable reason, decided to do his presentation as a Powerpoint. We have spent the past three days in the training room in, at times, near darkness - there is no power, no power-point. He runs a cable the 100 odd metres from the village generator to his laptop. The power keeps cutting in and out. He has no Plan B. It works

In a village proud of its Kastom ways and commitment to Kastom language and Kastom names the chief's 11 year old son is named Zinadine - after the French captain of the succesful 1998 World Cup soccer team. Pentecost is not even a French speaking island.
The building we are sleeping in has a kitchen, bathroom, and flush toilet all plumbed in. Each morning at 5am, one of the young village girls spends half an hour carting in buckets of water from the water tank nearby to fill the large tub we use each day for bathing and flushing the toilet. The plumbing has never been connected nor a pump installed. We flush and wash bucket by bucket. I love it.

I fear I have become one of those tragic westerners who romanticises the simple life of the native. I have fallen in love with this place. I sit on the porch of our concrete accommodation block and gaze misty eyed at the village green - there a young girl in a dress in need of a wash throws a rock at a half inflated soccer ball in a contented game she has made up.

Chickens and chicks and roosters scuttle about pecking at unseen morsels; laughter reaches me from my ni-Vanuatu colleagues who sit and wave at the odd utility filled with locals passing by on its way up or down the one road.

In the Nakamal men lie on benches, snoozing after lunch. They are dressed in the same shorts they have worn all week. Their chests glisten cocoa brown in the filtered light seeping through the woven walls.

Even the singing of Happy Birthday to our admin worker is suffused with island magic. The group sings the song in 10 part harmony, each person following their own melodic path. It becomes a sacred choral piece as they sing it slowly and with deeply felt meaning. I feel tears welling in the corners of my eyes. I join in with a joy I cannot fathom. I hate this song sung every year in such unattractive variations back home. Slow and rich and harmonic, it feels like a hymn.

I am a convert.

My Found Family?

2011-11-15T11:36:00.007+10:00

Oh my God! Talk about the potential for the internet to disseminate false information.

I have just finished a conversation with a lovely lady in Sydney. I am searching for documentation of my Grandfather's birth. I knew he had been born in a northern suburb of Sydney (Thornleigh). I am not able to source any official record of birth through the normal Birth Deaths and Marriages State records.

He was born to illiterate Italian parents in the mid 1880s. I decided to pursue Catholic Church parish records as another avenue. I started by phoning St Mary's Cathedral in Sydney figuring that they must get enquiries all the time and would give good advice.
'Hello. I'm looking for some advice about what records you have. My grandfather etc etc.'
'Go to the State Library.' the woman said bluntly.
'I've explored the NSW Births deaths etc do any parishes....'
'All our records are in the State Library'
I had hoped for a gentle helpful historian or to be referred on to one.

A sucker for punishment I made three more calls. The St Agnes (Pennant Hills) lady was nice enough.
'You should call the Waitara Cathedral. They're the regional centre. We only go back to 1925'
The Waitara lady (all women so far) said 'Call Sacred Heart at Pymble. They were the central church for that district in that period.'
Jenny at Pymble was very helpful.
'Send me some information and I'll see if I can find time to hunt something down in our archives.'
So off went an email.

And then the phone rang.
'Hell. It's Georgina here. I'm calling back from St Agnes. You called us a little while ago. I've done some searching and found your fathers birth date.'
Whacko I think.
'I googled his name and found information on the "Roots" website.'
'Wait. Let me have a look.' I was excited but couldn't figure our how she'd found this information so simply.

Oh my God (again)! There it was in all its inaccurate detail. My grandfather's birthdate was there, apparently official; in addition it told me he died in Sydney. Truth is he was in the front room of our house in Brisbane the week before he died in a local hospital.

Roots is part of Ancestry.com and there, listed in detail, were dates ages birth death details and much of it wrong or at least contestable. Some well meaning family member has simply put up the best guesses and hand me down information with little attempt at cross referencing or the establisment of fact versus fiction.

I don't want to bag my relatives. They are just sharing what they know. It's the power of the internet and of sites such as Ancestry.com I have a problem with. I know how unreliable even the reliable information can be. I am immersed in the unrelaible details of family life, trying to put the puzzle together for a book following my great-grandfather Lorenzo. He changed his name twice; left an unreliable trail of confused information and has at least three possible birthplaces in Italy recorded in varying documents. No birth records for him either. Like father like son.

I must be more cautious in the future when I read the 'truth' on Wikapedia and kindred websites.

By the look of the photo I may be related to the Jackson 5. That my grandfather on the right looking like a the little spiv he was and his brother and sister beside him. Where did she get that hair? My pops hair was always like a wire brush in crew cut style come to think of it. If only he'd let his hair grow.

Bus Bliss

2011-11-10T11:40:00.007+10:00

My blog friend Jennifer at Realia has entranced me over the years with her snippets of life observed from the seat on a train or walking along ordinary streets to work. It's so easy to 'not notice'.

I'm on the City Glider bus this morning on a banking errand to the city. The City Glider bus service has a sugar glider as its emblem and, as with any flying possum, they slide past many passengers only picking up at limited stops. It's a prepaid service. You can't get on and pay cash.

The service follows Montague Road, a main thoroughfare through the industrial strip along the river and avoids the local traffic snarl. Half way along the bus pulls up and, though I'm engrossed in my book, I hear a voice from outside the bus say to the driver, 'Can you give me a ride to the supermarket mate?' Pause. 'I hav'n got a ticket or nothin'. Pause. 'Cos it too hot'. I can't hear the driver but can guess at his quiet questions. The passenger's words slur like he's been drinking.

Another pause. The driver says nothing and a midde aged man in a black t-shirt and black jeans carefully climbs aboard. His hair is mussed and his chin is grey stubble. He has the look of one who has seen a lot of hard times. He's not been drinking, just living.

'Thanks mate' he says and sits in the front seat for the one stop ride to Coles, his destination.

As I get off in the city five minutes later I make a point of walking to the front exit to compliment the driver on the good thing he's done for the 'mate'. 'Yeah,' he says, looking a little world weary himself, 'I see him pretty regularly'.

It's a beautiful simple thing this being human; and I offer this to Jennifer in her quest to reach 100 beautiful things in her Toronto life.

Suburban surprises

2011-11-09T15:02:00.007+10:00

Went for a drive at lunchtime today to scout some of the elements I'm writing about for the forthcoming 'Walkers Guide to West End'. I needed to check out a couple of buildings built in the 30s as the area's first apartment buildings. One, Carmel Court, is a lovely simple Art Deco place on Vulture Street (I know a little more about Art Deco as a result of researching this project - more about the progress of the project another time).

I took a detour into a dead end street and drove to the end and as always it was the human presence which caught my eye rather than the houses. Buildings have stories and in my view that's what makes them interesting - even the story about why a designer might have chosen to build a modernist Art Deco building in the middle of a suburb of timber colonials. But I digress.

I saw
a man
under a floppy hat
wearing swim trunks
in a green backyard
sitting on a yoga mat
cross legged
straight backed
baking under the burning Brisbane sun

meditating i thought
until he reached out
to touch
the computer screen
resting on the grass
before him.

Photo courtesy of Cara and Brisbane Daily Photo blog.

Old friends over lunch - Brisbane

2011-11-03T19:10:00.005+10:00

Old friends are marvellous aren't they? Had lunch today with a pair of work colleagues. We first worked together 21 years ago and last worked together 17 years ago. We were in the drama department at a university together. We are, each of us, very different. One, young, beautiful, talented and full of spunk, another, warm, energetic, a long term academic (but not a wanker) and the third always sitting slightly outside the mainstream though not loud and angry.

We like each other. Two women and a bloke. We shared a view of the academic world back in the 90s, seeing it for what it was (a place full of ambitious and often self serving people - with a smattering of the genuine and balanced) and could laugh about it. Feels like there is a more than an average representation of narcissists and mildly aspergers types in academia.

Today was the third time we'd got together in three years. The last time was in January this year at someone's retirement bash. Yes, it was one of ours.

Today was was so easy. What is that? Shared history. Shared disillusionment. Common interest in our children, in theatre. A mutual respect for our differences. An interest in listening to stories. None of us has changed (or so we tell each other). We're all growing to be more like ourselves year by year and that feels comfortable.

At the end of our 90 minute lunch we said let's do this again. One said that she'd be in the UK for five months next year enjoying her second grandchild due in early March. She suggested August.
We all looked at each other thinking the same thought. That seems like a long time I said. So we said lets try for February before she goes. But it probably will be August, or later more likely, by the time we all get in touch again.

Funny but it feels kind of normal. At least we have plenty to talk about in our 90 minutes per year.

Vanuatu 7 Kava

2011-11-02T08:35:00.019+10:00

Monday 26 (evening)
The drum sounds its hollow call again. I hear no difference in the rhythm but everyone knows that this heralds dinner. Its 7:30pm. Paul and I accompany out ni-Vanuatu colleagues once more through the entrance to the Nakamal. This time the building hums with quiet activity. Smoke drifts towards the high roof from the three fires. Women busy themselves over steaming pots and among piles of banana leaves. Groups of men sit on the side benches sharing stories. The kava makers continue grinding.

We sit on the slatted bamboo bench on the right hand side of the building and watch and wait. There are about forty people in the building. Half of us are visitors, the rest, our hosts. Time is not of the essence here. My gaze traverses the scene and I become mesmerised by the slow kava ritual in front of me at the men's end of the building.

Outside two young men with long machetes slice and prepare the thin tubers of the kava plant. Each stroke peels away the earth coloured surface to reveal the pale flesh beneath. Inside four or five men sit on the earth floor, each with an oblong shaped wooden tray before them. A small mound of shaved roots sit beside each tray. The kava preparation continues without interruption. In one hand the craftsman holds a clutch of tubers and in the other a grinding tool. The village proudly follows century old traditions in this ritual. The tool is a shaft of coral about ten centimetres in diameter (a natural handspan) and forty centimetres long. It is tapered at one end. This tapered end sits int the cup of the kava filled hand and, one twist at a time from the right hand, grinds the roots to a pulp. These islands are mountains of volcanic rock and ancient coral deposits. It is slow rhythmic work. If kava is a relaxant this ritual is perfectly suited to the task.

I watch the pulp on the tray slowly grow in size. Then watch as water is added to the tray and kneaded to a wet doughy consistency. Finally the maestro takes a half shell of a small coconut, places it on the ground and, wrapping the kava pulp in a spiral of pandanus leaf, pours another cupful of water through the mixture and directs the filtered juice through the pandanus funnel to the cup.

Kava is drunk every day in these villages. Originally used only for ritual purposes to mark the resolution of a conflict or a significant event (marriage, achievement of chief status, death) it now has a central place in the daily life of the men of the community. It's a relaxant and mild hallucinogen. Pentecost kava is reputed to be the best and strongest. Our colleagues have mixed connections to this ritual, and much of it stems from which missionary group held dominance. The Seventh Day Adventists (SDA) eschew alcohol and intoxicants and decline, others only drink at traditional ceremonies, and others are willing regular partakers. I choose to be SDA for the moment.

I am already in a mild state of shock without the benefit of kava. My experience of travels in India and Indonesia in the seventies with associated stomach and bowel disruptions is still fresh in my mind thirty years later. I have premonitions of medical emergencies and dashes to the latrines and the last thing I need is a gutful of a mind altering substance.

As well as my Indian bowel experiences I am catapulted back to Nepal (on the same trip) where I walked alone to a remote village (having left my now wife to her own devices hovering over a squat toilet for two days - she has only recently begun to forgive me) and foolishly shared a joint being passed around a room full of young overland travellers. Anyone who remembers the streets of Katmandu lined with hashish in those years will understand that this was not a gentle local Australian mix of grass clippings and marijuana. This was a potent brew chipped from a block of refined and condensed chocolate coloured 100% madness. I had succumbed to hippie peer pressure. That night I clung to my straw covered bed, tied my foot to my backpack as I resisted the mad urge to walk out of that hut and traverse the ridges of Pokhara in the pitch black. I was not keen to repeat that episode.

I'm not sure why I'm so fearful. In two days I'll look back on this and wonder why it seemed such a big deal. My colleague Gideon promises to keep tempting me. "you haven't experienced Pentecost until you drink a shell of kava." he says. Tonight I decline.

Vanuatu 6 Death

2011-10-28T14:42:00.008+10:00

Monday September 26 (evening)

Bong Bong Bong. A drum sounds across the evening air. It's five-thirty. At six-fifteen it sounds again. I know this slit drum with its low throm will call us to the evening meal but no one moves. I am waiting for a sign. My colleagues will call me, I'm sure. Before seven it sounds twice more.

I'm wondering if the cooks are getting impatient with our tardiness. I crawl out from my mosquito net cave to see what is happening. I wander out to the front of our accommodation, pause and take in the scene of clusters of men in quiet conversation and go back to my room. By now it's dark.

Soon, one of my colleagues comes by to explain that the drum announces more than a call to meals. What we are hearing is the announcement of more deaths in the region. The news has reached us through neighbouring villages and, no doubt via the ever-present mobile phone. The drum marks the arrival of this information. It is a mark of respect.

I am told that a big chief has recently died and that the belief is that this will herald a string of other deaths. The big chief, it is held, should not travel unaccompanied into the next life. A wise man, a magic man, who claims to see the fiture says ten people will pass away over the next week. I am a sceptic when it comes to the paranormal, but sure enough the drum will beat out new deaths each day we are here. I lose count.

I am reminded of my parents deaths, both of which held an uncanny sense of timing. My mother's descent into a coma was slow and painful to watch. The dreaded breast cancer had come back to take her years after her masectomy. Though it was inevitable, the timing was unknowable and yet, she seemed to know. In her final hours she held on until all the family had arrived back from holidays and other out of town activities before offering us her last breath; my father, a man who acceded to my insistent urgings and lived two years more than he would have chosen, eventually made his quiet exit two weeks before my long planned overseas trip with my wife.

He was our big chief. He was also a believer in reincarnation so he knew he wouldn't lack company on the other side - requiring none of us to accompany him. He was always such a considerate man.

Vanuatu 5 Mourning

2011-10-22T14:33:00.012+10:00

Monday 26 September (late afternoon)

Our plans for the week have been thrown into some confusion as the mother of the project coordinator has passed away. She died as we traversed the blue Pacific. We unpack our bags and create a rudimentary sense of home in our concrete floored room. We don't have any family photos to hang on the wall but with a rearrangement of chairs and the rough bush-built side table it feels pretty good; despite the fact that our tent style mosquito-proof beds dominate the room. It feels like we should be outside under the stars with these contraptions but, as the area has a reputation for sudden heavy downpours, the locals advise against it.

Our colleagues ask us to follow them to the Nakamal. The village has been summoned by a series of simple strokes on a slit drum, a hollowed out log with a lengthwise cut in the top to create resonance. The length and diameter of the log determine the pitch. Our coordinator's mother lies in Port Vila but there will be a Kastom mourning ceremony here this afternoon as a mark of respect for this well known old woman. She was a Pentecost woman (woman blong Pentecost). I am 'man blong Australia' - 'man Australia' for short.

As we approach the entrance to the large unlit building we are greeted by a wailing and crying which sets my teeth on edge. Our group enters quietly with Paul and I at the rear watching for cues as to what is expected. We join most of the group sitting on a bamboo bench sited along the side of the building. As I take my seat, two or three of my colleagues join the mourning with such intensity and suddenness that I am taken by surprise. A moment ago I had been in conversation with them seeking a little advice as to where I should stand, what was the local custom re head-cover etc.

I can remember being intimidated at large Catholic funerals by rows of elderly women, the stalwarts of the church, chanting the Mysteries of the Rosary from the Sorrowful through the Glorious to the Joyful, from beginning to end, for over forty minutes in the lead-in to the funeral of a local 'big man' of the community. But this was beyond that. Their chanting was just a mumble, a burble compared to this.

I see a woman rocking back and forth and swaying as she sobs and presses a handkerchief to her reddening eyes. One of my colleagues is transformed, transported into another state. Other women, and men, close relatives, are also sobbing and convulsing in a deep and shuddering tribute to the deceased. It is an odd feeling. I am a stranger. I have no real emotional connection. I am intent on being respectful, but at the same time I am a curious bystander.

As the keening settles our host Chief John, invites Paul and I to follow him. He leads us through the mourners to a small slightly built woman standing alone. She looks to be in her eighties. Her eyes meet mine. They carry a deep sadness in their brown and still gaze. She extends her hand. John introduces her as the sister of the deceased and she clasps my hand above the wrist and gently holds on. I know this is a moment of introduction and of expressing condolences but we have no shared language. My rudimentary Bislama deserts me. Sori, I say, and wait until I feel her grip relax and we softly let go, our hands sliding apart, the touch exchanging a kindness that my words are not capable of.

John then directs Paul and I to a rough bench-top table occupying the centre of the upper half, the women's half, of the Nakamal. Paul and I have missed the traditional welcome ceremony earlier in the day and this is our combined welcome, introduction and expression of condolence. We are being invited to share this food first. I feel humbled. I should not be given this status, especially given the circumstances, but John is clear. We must eat. I select something from two dishes. On one side of my plate I place a piece of chicken, on the other a rectangle of lap lap, a ground tuber (manioc or yam or taro) mixed with coconut milk, formed into a slab and baked in coals. It's soft and mild, not beyond my Western palate, but an acquired taste nevertheless. The chicken, highly prized I expect, is bony and chewy. In my stay in this and other traditional locations I will never see chicken breast - I wonder if the nation has a population of wingless chickens, chickens whose wings miraculously grow back, as this is the chicken piece served consistently with rice and in other dishes.

I eat respectfully. I eat everything. After a period people begin to drift out of the Nakamal leaving a team of men sitting on the dirt floor hard at work grinding kava roots to prepare kava for later consumption. Kava is a mild relaxant and hallucinogen, a drink consumed by the men as a sunset ritual. The women exit from the top of the building, the women's end ; the men from the bottom, the kava end.

Outside I learn that the older woman I have met is, in fact, Chief John's mother. John expresses his deep and sincere thanks for observing the traditional customs of the village. I also know that kava drinking is part of traditional culture and I will be faced with a decision about participating in this men's business before the end of the evening. I am conscious of being under observation. It's four thirty.

Vanuatu 4 Ataftabunga Village

2011-10-18T17:41:00.021+10:00

Monday 26 September

The trip up the range from Sara airport is a demonstration of the toughness of Japanese 4WD vehicles. Standing and hanging on to the cabin rails Paul and I ride in the back of a Toyota utility seeing ahead of us what looks like a path only passable on foot. A brown strip, graded and cleared of vegetation and then left to fend for itself. It looks like my worst efforts at cooking pavlova. Every peak is outstripped by a trough twice as deep, the roadway ahead crumbling and cross hatched with holes big enough to swallow a small car. I stand bracing myself for every ditch, every bump, every certain roll-over as we inch up the path. I am planning my exit as we approach each obstacle. Will I leap left or right?

In the meantime a few locals in the back with us chat and laugh and introduce themselves. One is a young chief, the other confides that he thinks the whole chief thing is a bit overrated. On Pentecost there are a series of rankings that a young man can progress through. If you can provide the required number of pigs and demonstrate your wealth by hosting a big celebration you can get to the next level. The younger one thinks this is a waste of good pigs and money - both of which are hard to come by in a largely subsistence economy.

Forty minutes later we have travelled about ten kilometres and reached the level road which follows the ridge to our village. When we suddenly swerve off the road and pull up on an open expanse of grass I am taken by surprise. A collection of thatched huts are scattered across a plateau, their browns and ochres creating a rich contrast to the deep green of the grass and the surrounding wildness. Everything is in order. Family huts are surrounded by a cleared area freshly raked free of leaves and sprouting recently planted saplings sporting an array of variegated leaves. They appear to be off cuts which have simply been stuck in the ground. If only gardening were so simple back in my tough burnt off back yard in Brisbane.

A series of rectangular mounds marked out by piles of volcanic rock, sit in front of the concrete building which will be home for the next seven nights. I'm told they are burial sites. Someone has had the poor judgment to build this building (a former kava export business) over a pre-existing burial ground.

Inside the blockhouse I inspect the room Paul and I will share. It has two beds, two mattresses and a thin cotton blanket with each. We've been told to bring an extra if we feel the cold. The building has four former office spaces which are now accommodation. There's a pedestal toilet and bathroom at one end of the building and a kitchen beside that. The kitchen has a sink and crockery and a few pots. Everything is plumbed ready for water but there's no power, so a pump has never been a reality; nor is there any high point or tank stand to create any water pressure. Each morning and afternoon, one of the young women of the village will cart a dozen buckets of water from a rainwater tank nearby to fill a large plastic drum in this toilet/bathroom for manual flushing of the toilet and for beautifully simple bucket showers. A thermos of hot water appears every morning in the kitchen for coffee.

There is a large open space which takes up half the building where fifty people will gather to join our community workshop. No power outlets, no light fittings; John supplies us with a battery powered light for each room. Paul and I set about setting up two free-standing mosquito proof tents in our room and move the mattresses off the beds and on to the floor. I text my wife to describe our arrival and paint a fairly basic picture.

She's joining me for a week after this workshop. She wants reassurance that I haven't planned one of my 'challenging' or 'extreme' experiences. She hates sleeping on floors. She's looking for a relaxing week. She wants to be pampered. I assure her that the bungalows I have booked on Efate will be simple but delightful.

I have no evidence for this save the comments of people I've never met on a website I've stumbled across in the week before leaving Australia. In Australian parlance I'm trusting that "She'll be right mate".

Vanuatu 3. Flight

2011-10-17T15:42:00.007+10:00

Monday September 26.

Yesterday we flew from Port Vila on the island of Efete to Sara on North Pentecost. The Twin engined Hawker de Havilland (Twin Otter) roared and strained as it took to the skies and headed towards our destination.

Like my carnivore life, I am out of touch with the up close and personal aspect of flying. I've been seduced into a false sense of complacency by many trips on large interstate and international carriers alongside hundreds of fellow passengers with faith in the gods of engineering and electronics. In these sardine cans I relax and listen to my iPod or watch the films on offer while sipping wine and eating altitude food. I'm only ever a little disconcerted on these flights; mainly when I turn my mobile phone off and wonder how such a simple device could be the cause of my demise. What if someone on board accidently overlooks this apparently serious request? What if someone accidently dials home as they toss and turn in their allotted one square metre of cabin space (dreaming of falling). Why haven't the stewards frisked each of us for these devices? why haven't we been required to stow these lethal weapons in our check-in luggage? why haven't these killers been confiscated?

On board the Twin Otter I have the dubious pleasure of sitting in the front seat. I am seated behind the two pilots who have left the door to their cabin wide open (or perhaps there is no door). I would like to be reading my book (I'm reading 'Atlantic' by Simon Winchester and here we are only a few thousand metres above the much bigger Pacific) but I'm transfixed by the scene before me. A dozen dials offer themselves and I have no idea what any of them tell me.

The younger of the two pilots keeps reaching above and behind him and making adjustments to various knobs and levers. He seems relaxed and after a takeoff, having reached an altitude of about 4500 feet (metres?) he pops open a packet of Twisties and settles in for the afternoon. About half an hour into the flight, with my eyes still glued to the altimeter (the only dial I have guessed the name of - only because it is the only one whose dial rotates and rotates clockwise as we rise) I notice the very dial begin to wind backwards. I have understood this to be a direct flight and my ticket tells me it is an hour plus trip.

The dial rotates back through 4000, 3500, 3000, 2500. 2000. I have a feeling of unease as we continue to lose altitude while still clearly over an unbroken expanse of water. Baby pilot seems unaware of this development and continues to stuff his face with bright orange Twisties. 1500, 1000. 900, 800. I can see the dark shapes of cruising sharks in the water just out of reach below.
I am tempted to reach out and tap him on the arm and point to the altimeter with a quizzical look on my face. Or I could just scream. But I look around at the 19 other passengers, all of whom show no signs of panic so I suppress mine in the interest of 'not looking silly'. I later wonder at the wisdom of 'not looking silly' in a critical situation. I would look even worse if we did ditch in the Pacific and I could have been the one to avert certain disaster.

As it turns out we make an unexpected landing on Ambae. We're island hopping. What a relief. Ten minutes later we take off and turn sharply eastward and head over more open waters. I am less concerned by the altimeter this time and get back to reading about the Atlantic and the perils of flight over expanses of open ocean, but this is short lived. Before us, fifteen minutes later, what I presume is Pentecost looms below and we begin another descent; this time towards what appears to be an alarmingly short grassy runway.

The Twisties completed, our twin pilots wake up and, out of my sightlines, daddy pilot eases the steering wheel forward and back (is there another name? Joystick - sounds right but feels all wrong) and places the Twin Otter gently on the volcanic and coral runway and with the engines working even harder than on take off slows us before we run off the end of the green strip and into the fast approaching jungle and taxis us towards the terminal, a concrete building the size of the average footie change room. I love flying.

Vanuatu 1.Kastom House 2. Butcher

2011-10-14T16:58:00.010+10:00

I've returned from three weeks in Vanuatu with a swag of notes and a journal swollen with stories. My week in a remote village on Pentecost was quite amazing.

I'll post a few and write up the rest for my "one day I'll publish a book of travel stories". Some of the early ones are a bit graphic. I hope you enjoy them.

1. Kastom House

Tuesday September 27

The dismembered carcass of a bullock lies at one end of the Nakamal, its eyes staring at me from its head lying alongside a bloody pile of flesh.

Three fires burn at that end of the meeting house. A small one burns 24 hours a day and has spiritual significance. I am told it is the same fire that burns in the national council of chief’s Nakamal in the capital Port Vila on the island of Efete. We are on Pentecost Island.

The other two much larger fires occupy the far end of the 30 metre long building. One is a pit fire in which the bullock will be cooked wrapped in banana leaves on hot rocks. The other is a smaller fire used to heat giant iron pots of hot water, of rice, of kilos of taro, enough to feed the fifty attending the five day gathering in this remote highland village.

Seen from the outside the smoke and steam rising through the thatched roof creates an ethereal feeling in an environment infused with magic and the forces of nature. Above us, storm clouds swirl across the rainforest slowing the passage of daylight and time.

2. Butcher.

A group of young men, shirtless and wielding large machetes, work to one side carving and preparing the sides of beef hanging from the bamboo beams.

It’s like any butchery in any culture except the offal lies in a pile on the dirt floor and there is no refrigeration. I recall the sawdust strewn floor of butchers’ shops of my childhood and am comforted by the similarity; and yet I am somewhat disconcerted, a little confronted.

As a meat eater I know perfectly well that the meat on my plate has been slaughtered for my consumption. I know that the best meat is slaughtered in abattoirs where animals suffer minimal distress. I know that the best meat is fresh and, a day previously, will have been wandering a paddock or standing mutely in a holding yard awaiting its fate. I know all this but have never been quite close enough to witness the process.

My father was brought up on a farm and worked in a small goods factory as a young man. He had seen animals slaughtered, had begun his working life on the factory floor in the killing room. For him this was life. I too worked in the boning room of the local bacon factory as one of my stints of student employment. This was one step removed from the slaughter yard but as a young 18 year old the scene of lines of men carving and preparing the sides of beef was mesmerising, not to mention the loud and cheeky banter between the lads and the young women. The atmosphere was charged with energy.

My father had no hesitation in helping, what had become, the pet duck to the chopping block in the backyard. This waddling feathered friend had shared our sixteen perch block for a month or more leading up to Christmas unaware of its fate. We fed it bread and water and scraps and became quite comfortable with its company. But when the time came, I remember the sight of the headless body careering around the yard after my father's swift and accurate blow with his axe, as comic rather than tragic. I can still smell the rich musky odour of the feathers plucked soon after, having been scalded in my mother's large copper full of boiling water. The copper was a family essential, one day scalding a duck, another boiling a sugar bag full of crabs and then another boiling the white coats my father wore as a small goods salesman; heavily soiled from lumping sides of beef and pork into local butcher shops on his daily round.

This afternoon I had become distracted from our workshop program in Ataftabunga by a parade of young men, like my father (even of his then age), crossing the open village green-space, each carrying a hind leg or a side of beef towards the thatched roofed Nakamal. The last of these carried the head, horns circling his own head like a pair of reindeer antlers.

I'm here for seven days as part of a community development project. I am one of the two westerners who are accompanying the team of thirteen Ni-Vanuatu facilitators who will deliver a training program. My colleague Paul and I are here as the back-up team. We'll help when asked.

Pentecost Island Vanuatu

2011-09-18T18:25:00.010+10:00

I am a lucky man. I am off to Vanuatu for the fourth time in twelve months to work with the local National Council of Chiefs (Malvatumari) on a community development capacity building project. My colleague, Paul Toon, and i will spend three days in Port Vila working with our twelve ni-Vanuatu colleagues to review and develop a five day Komuniti Aksen workshop to be delivered to a group of forty leaders on Pentecost Island.

Pentecost is the home of the original bungy jumpers. Young men dive from tall towers built from local materials and hurtle towards the earth attached by a length of vine tied to one leg. It is a fertility ritual and to be most effective the diver is required to graze the ground below with his head. Predictably this sometimes goes terribly wrong.

My wife will be joining me at the end of our 12 day program for a week of well deserved R&R.
We will rendevous in Port Vila andl then spend eight days exploring the island in an anti-clockwise direction ( I'm not superstitious!). We'll have four nghts in P. Vila, then three in a village bungalow on the beach in the north, and a final night at a resort within striking distance of the airport. Andrea wants to relax, snorkle and be pampered. I hope we get at least two out of the three in spades.

Pen Pals - Byron Bay

2011-09-15T10:53:00.014+10:00

It’s kind of old fashioned isn’t it, to write to someone you’ve never met. A pen-pal, in this era, just doesn’t quite fit. I was reminded of that this weekend just gone, when I encountered a woman standing on a platform overlooking the beautiful beach at Byron Bay (where Andrea and I had gone camping for three nights).

I walked past her as I was heading for a swim and, out of the blue, she announced out loud, to no one in particular (though i was the only person within earshot) how wonderful it was to be standing there and being in Byron Bay. I hesitated and we got to talking. She was in her seventies and had always wanted to visit Byron and wander the streets with the hippies – it was once the home of the flower people, though it’s now more likely to be over-run by backpackers and boozing young people whose parents may have been into peace, and mind-bending drugs in a former life (now most likely high flying solicitors or stock brokers). This is the area where the Australian version of Woodstock (the Aquarius Festival) took place in 1973. The hinterland is still full of alternative life-stylers living life in rainforest retreats and surviving on love and organic vegetables.

I suggested that, perhaps she had once been one, and she quickly assured me that no, that was never the case. She was from Western Australia, five days drive away on the West coast of Australia. She was having her exotic late life adventure.

I asked her what her plans were and it turned out she was doing a trip down the East coast with her husband and, I assumed, towing a caravan. But no, she was visiting her ‘pen-pals’.

She had already dropped in on one in Hervey Bay (about five hours drive North) and stayed there a few days and was now visiting another in nearby Ballina. She had her next lined up somewhere near Newcastle, another five hours drive South. These were people, she told me, she had been corresponding with for over twenty five years but had never met.

She was absolutely confident that her friendship with these strangers was genuine and felt no hesitation in assuming that she would be a welcome visitor for a decent stay in each place. She certainly hadn’t come all this way to drop in for a cup of tea and a biscuit.

It reminded me that facebook and internet friendships were preceded by other forms of international and distant connections with unseen strangers – people who craved links to other cultures and who became friends by dint of written correspondence.

Driving 1953

2011-09-05T18:32:00.004+10:00

Parking was never dad's strong point.
he saw cars as toys
rides to enjoy
a dodgem car bust up derby
a metal missile pointing us
home from a newly visited destination
or creeping along darkened streets
after emptying a keg of beer
at a birthday party
guided by gutters on either side
each bump left or right
a reminder to an inebriated brain
to make a correction
while we clung
white knuckled to the upholstery
screaming advice and
crying out in terror

More Magpie Tales click here or on the stamp

Hellenic House

2011-09-05T09:03:00.011+10:00

I'm part of a group who are developing a series of history walks around my home suburb, West End. Last week a group of us did a dummy run of our next proposed route. As we rounded the final corner Tim (ex Lord Mayor) pointed out a set of soaring Greek columns set high above the footpath. A bit like the Parthenon in Athens (if you have a good imagination and have never seen the real thing). Strange, I thought, I've never noticed that before. 'That's Hellenic House' says Tim. 'I think it's the original Greek Club - before they built the grand one in Edmondstone Street.' I paused and noticed a sign with a list of traditional Greek meals - chicken souvlaki, haloumi, Greek salad and the obligitory Greek coffee. And another handwritten sign declaring Hellenic House OPEN. 'Do they do meals?' I asked Tim, ignoring the information before me. 'Yep' says Tim. 'Pretty simple but good.' Hmmmm, I thought, must give it a go some time.

A week later and it's father's day. My kids are taking me to dinner. My choice. So I've rung Hellenic House (they're not listed in the phone book) and made a booking for a table for four. The sun has set as we park opposite the Parthenon and my son says 'Looks like that place in Athens'. 'The Parthenon.' I add by way of helping him. My daughter says 'What?' 'The Parthenon,. You know, in Athens' he repeats. Nick has a good memory. He had seen it as his bus sped past in 2006 carrying a load of young inebriated Australian on a whirlwind tour of 11 European countries in 15 days.

Hellenic House is lit up like a christmas tree. We climb the concrete steps cut into the rock, alongside the overgrown embankment (just like Athens). There's not a lot of noise inside. I'm expecting it to be packed with Greek dancers circling and bobbing with traditional scarves in their hands while old men play backgammon on the terrace drinking strong black coffee.

We enter the foyer, past a wall decorated with a handful of old notices. There's the list of the committee from 2001 and a faded review from about the same year. Andrea has slowed to a stop and, as I catch up, I see what she sees. An empty hall with a kitchen two thirds way down on the left and an array of bare tables scattered between us and a besser brick wall at the other end. I notice an elderly Greek man with white hair sitting at a side table alone. I enter the space and smile at him and sort of nod. He looks up but shows no interest.

A petite Asian girl appears from nowhere and asks if she can help. Like, 'are you sure you're in the right place?' We inform her, rather unnecessarily, that we have a booking. She smiles and indicates for us to follow her, leading us to a side table close to the open portico (is that a Greek word?) which is set for four. We have been expected. We sit. She leaves and returns to the open kitchen.

I am a little embarrassed as I have talked this place up and now I offer my family the option to leave given that I am fearing that the young Asian girl might also be the cook and, well, there is a certain lack of ambiance despite the Greek music emerging from a very old sound system sitting fully exposed adjacent the entrance.

West End has at least ten Greek cafes, restaurants and clubs and most of them are packed most nights. We've driven past two on the way here and they are bulging with customers. I fear there is something they know that I don't. I've lived in the area for over thirty years and I've never heard of this place. Perhaps there's a reason.

Our Asian waitress returns with some wine glasses and four menus. We glance at them. They are short but have the basic traditional food minus the pasta and the lambs shanks and the stuffed capsicum. It's all food which can be cooked at short notice - souvlaki, grilled octopus , calamari, haloumi cheese and a few things I don't recognise. We decide to stay. The wine has been poured, the initial shock wears off and we proceed with fingers crossed.

Miss Asia has disappeared so I wander inside to order our selection and as I cross the floor I notice a second Greek man sitting outside on the right hand side of the main space drinking a coffee. That makes two Greek men. I join Miss Asia at the counter and give her my list, which she writes down and then asks me to pay on the spot. It's not much of an expert when it comes to restaurants but I'm used to paying as I leave and, as I'm a little bit suss of the likely quality of the food, I'm a little bit taken aback. But being a serious wuss I hand over my $48.00 without complaint. As I do I calculate in my head that we've ordered seven dishes and a soft drink for less than $50.00 so it's hardly a fortune.

Back at the table we chat. Miss Asia brings us the large Greek salad and we are surprised to find it, not only fresh, but very good. Lots of olive oil, good quality olives and fetta cheese, red onions and three large pickled green chillis. I compliment our hostess and ask slyly if she is also doing the cooking. She smiles sweetly and takes me for an idiot. 'Oh no, my boss do that'.

We're beginning to relax and enjoy our own company (we don't have many options). The next plate arrives, then the next in quick succession and each is beautiful. The grilled haloumi and grilled calamari are exquisite. We are all falling in love with the empty Parthenon and wondering why only we are enjoying this experience. I'm feeling priviliged.

As we near the end of our meal Miss Asia returns and, it not being a busy night, we engage her in conversation. 'Are you a student? How long have you been in Australia? Where do you come from? Do you miss home? Is it father's day in Korea? She is happy to chat and her English is remarkably good. In fact she is very appreciative of our interest. 'Most people doan wan to tok' she says. 'Only wan to be serve meal.' She's a real sweetie. She fesses up to being a little lonely living alone so far from home but being far from home is why she came here so...
Andrea is moved and wants to take her home.

We arrived at 7pm and it's now 8pm. We've spent an hour as a family on this little Greek island, far less crowded than the madness of Athens or Corfu (though I've never been there), and only having had to climb a few steps to enter this remnant of the Acropolis. It's been a pleasant surprise as is much of my emerging knowledge of my local community which the history project is revealing to me.

Have the Greeks really been in West End since 300BC? Some claim thay have.

Postscript
I visited Greece once. It was June 1977. Andrea and I arrived there from Istanbul after 6 months crossing Asia beginning in Indonesia and touching down in every country on the way (including Afghanistan and Iran). It was high season and the only accommodation we could get was on the rooftop of a rundown backpackers joint open to the weather (we were young. And poor). It had a view of the Acropolis but we never made it there. Andrea turned yellow and was diagnosed with Hepatitis and the local Greek doctor advised us to flee the country. It was a notifiable disease requiring mandatory hospitalisation. He told us "Leave now or face a worse fate. The local hospital does not have a high standard of medical practice and it's highly likely you will not get out alive." We caught a flight to London the next day.

Pina

2011-09-04T17:06:00.007+10:00

I have always been embarrassed by my back. From the front I am normal ( I am making some assumptions there but I can probably get away with that claim). Behind me lurks my secret shame. My scoliosis. It's not major. Nor is it minor. If I was a woman I'd be horrified but as a bloke I can get away with clothes that don't accentuate this deformity. I could never carry off a slinky silk number with form hugging low cut back. I've worn some weird stuff in my years but that I haven't tried. Maybe my back has protected me from some terrible decisions. I should be thankful.

So there I am in the fourth row of the audience waiting for the lights to dim on a dance piece celebrating one of my favourite choreographers of all time, the late Pina Bausch. Pina was famous for her non mainstream approach to dance using voice and ritual and gesture to evoke essences that catch you off guard. I only saw one piece in 1981 and I can still conjure up that experience - a dancer standing facing the audience cutting up an onion on a china plate held close to his eyes, a strange parade of dancers weaving in and around the audience doing repetive hand gestures drawn from everyday life.. That piece ("1980") as it turned out was quite lyrical.

Last night's piece "Out of Context - Pina" was about the boundary between the animal kingdom and we humans and at a fundamental level about opposites = Beauty and Ugliness. The performer's movements were not graceful. Their bodies jerked and convulsed and tic'd and took on groteque forms. At the same time their animal/human instinct to connect, to mate, to bond played out. It was both beautiful and harrowing.

And then, without any pause in the performance, a young woman rose from the audience and slowly, painfully, with the help of a pair of sticks, made her way to the stage. On the way she was offered a chair and carried it to centre stage. Dressed in a dark blue silk dress she sat and arranged her slim body in readiness. I knew what was coming but I was still not prepared for it. I was already silently sobbing.

She began to move her arms, tracing curves and angles through the space around her. She very deliberately crossed one knee over the other with the help of her mobile hands. She uncrossed them and, tilting her head to one side, allowing her long dark hair to fall towards the floor, she traced a final movement with her upper body.

Once an outstanding dancer who had worked with Australian choreographer Meryl Tankard, who herself had been in that 1981 Pina Bausch show I had seen in Melbourne, this young woman has Multiple Sclerosis. She has not danced since her diagnosis. It made the dancers, working so hard to achieve distorted forms, seem both technically amazing and at the same time irrelevant.

How she could sit in the audience and see her pain portrayed on stage I can't start to comprehend. The joy she showed helped me comprehend that there is a power in us that allows us to meet the most challenging events in life with dignity and a positive spirit if we can tap that aspect of ourselves.

For my part, as I get older my vanity has fallen away a bit. Though I still don't like department store change rooms or getting undressed in front of strangers (the first time). Funny I still love swimming at the beach in my budgie smugglers, so my ego must be pretty healthy.

Marina returns

2011-09-02T17:44:00.031+10:00

The name Marina Battistuzzi might not mean much to you. In my mind she is one of the marvellous examples of how small is our world; and the positive side of technology. Technology, a double edged sword, has changed the world dramatically but some things, the fundamentals remain the same

I recently read a review of a book (Shakespeare's Blackberry) which examines the impact of our addiction to technology. The author argues that we need to learn how to step away from this addiction and find space in our lives for doing less, perhaps even doing nothing. He says that the sign of real wealth in our modern society may lie in being part of the group who can afford to turn off. People who can live independent of technology. In some cases this might be because being independently wealthy reduces the need to engage in employment and its associated technological demands. Or it could be that those who choose to live simply, self sufficiently, relying on face to face communication and resisting the need to have 200+ "on line friends" are rich in ways only wealthy people can imagine.

What's this got to do with Marina? Well she is a young woman who I met in person once and to whom I sent a single postcard. That's two contacts over a period of 23 years and yet, she holds a special significance in my life.

I've written about her previously and won't repeat the story. In summary she was a 25 year old who assisted my wife and I to look for my Italian ancestors when we visited her town. We had the good fortune to find Marina at the local Orsago Municipio (Town Hall). She shut up shop for the afternoon and drove us from village to village knocking on the doors of Catholic Parish churches and practicing her English on us.

By a serendipitous event (involving a middle distance relative) I had recently acquired her email address (something which she didn't have in 1988). So I sent her an email asking her how her life had unfolded. Now three months later she has replied.

She is now forty eight. She says her English is poor but it's a lot better than my Italian. She says:

"Dear Steve

.. my God .. I remember and I will amaze you. I conserve your post card with your address. There isn’t the date, but the memories does not to delete."

I love that Marina speaks about not deleting my postcard from her memory. I value being in her memory much more than being in some data bank.

"I work in the same office and in the same writing-desk and I like a lot my work. I had a good life, not many money but I had a good health."

I have moved jobs four or five times since 1988, and, while I've enjoyed every move, there is some comfort in the thought that one can be happy without constant change. Marina is not sedintary as she goes on to talk about travel and driving tours of Europe seeking out "the beautiful things make by nature and by the man"

She goes on:

"Orsago, my lovely little country, is the same.

Now the population are about 4000 persons.

In Orsago there is 10% of foreign people, above all from Albania, Macedonia, ex-Jugoslavia, Romania, Marocco, Egitto, Ucraina, Moldavia, Nigeria, Senegal, …

They are not very accepted.

Italian People don’t remember that many years ago, from Italy, from Veneto, from Orsago also many family go away to look for work.

They went in Australia before, after in Brasile and Argentina in the end of 1800, more recently (in the 1950-1960) in Canada, Svizzera, Belgio, Francia, …

Italian People don’t understand the we are the citizen of the world, non only citizen of our house."

A comment is hardly necessary. My great grandfather was a refugee escaping poverty in northern Italy for a better life in Australia. We humans seem to go around in ever decreasing circles generation after generation driven by fear of those different from us. Ironic given that many of us live in immigrant and colonial countries.

"So our meeting with mail and internet after 23 years had provoke in me emotions, surprise, delight, astonishment, and I don’t know, I understand that even we are distant thousands of kilometers Orsago and Australia are near"

How neat is that?

Sons ,Sport and Lost love

2011-08-27T22:41:00.013+10:00

I am about to write about sport. This may not figure large in many of your lives but bear with me. I'm trying to both celebrate the end of the Australian Football League (AFL) season for my local team and to understand why I still keep going back. Does sport have a bigger meaning for me than merely a Saturday evening adrenalin rush?

This could be a thesis but I'll try to limit it to my whole life and not the history of sport on the planet.

Okay. I was once a young bloke who spent every waking hour (when not at school) running jumping kicking hitting bouncing rolling racing pedalling swimming diving and catching things. As a fourteen year old it was everything. Call them my innocent years.

As I got older I became aware of the world as an imperfect place. I learnt that men could be bastards, that money and capitalism were evil and, among many other things, that competition was at the core of many of these ills. I still enjoyed sport but it became a silent pleasure. A guilty pleasure. To love sport was not cool for the enlightened man.

Then I had a son. A son who emerged from the womb carrying a tennis racket, cricket bat, a selection of balls, a compulsive need to be active and a drive to compete. And win.

I was amazed. This was not of my doing. This was either innate or learned from someone else. But i was powerless to stand in the way of this pint sized force. So I bowled balls to him until my arm ached; I kicked balls around parks until I knew every possible place a ball could get lost. I raced him in and out of the surf; I forced myself to play tennis - a game for which I have no talent. At first I was reluctant but finally I gave in. I saw that this was a deep need in him. I saw that my role was to manage his attitude to this competitive spirit and to celebrate his love of life and movement.

At some point 15 years ago I found myself a season ticket holder and a member of the Brisbane Lions AFL club. I had regained my love of sport and overcome my 60s guilt. Sport, with all its limitations (and there are many, particularly in professional sport) was again part of my life. So with my son (and my daughter) I have watched motor sport, The Tour de France, rugby league, rugby union, AFL, netball, volleyball, baseball, tennis, cricket, Summer Olympics and Winter. I have watched American Football, a game that completely baffles me. And I have watched the Mighty ducks movies more times than is healthy in one lifetime. I have seen some remarkable feats of courage and drive and moments of sublime humanity. I have also taken up sport. As often as I can I sail on the river, ski, swim, surf, bushwalk, climb mountains, ride my bike. Some of these are more of a hobby or an interlude than a sport. But I enjoy being physical.

I have even developed an analysis of organisational structures based on sport - along the lines of how different sports and their rules constrain play and set boundaries. From the hightly structured and heavily rule based (Rugby League or American Football), to the more open and 360 degree games such as Soccer (or football as the world beyond Australia knows it) and Basketball. I personally am in love with organisations who encourage creative opportunities where almost anything is possible within a minimal set of rules. Of course this works in some but not all circumstances. You can't run a jail system with minimal rules ( though some would say we could apply much more creativity to their operation - and for the better).

Anyway. My team came almost dead last this year in the national competition. Having won three premierships in a row in 2001, 02, 03 (the threepeat) we're going through a tough period of rebuilding as the old and bold retire to make way for the young and feckless.

These lean years contain other things sport can teach us: perseverence, loyalty, patience, that life goes in cycles. I intend to continue to indulge my love of things in life which allow people to strive for attainable and unattainable goals. I wonder, is Utopianism a sport?

AFL (a variation - left) and Soccer (right)

Coloured

2011-08-18T16:47:00.007+10:00

Dark stories of scarlet lives and
secret liasons driven
by unfulfilled dreams
and blind self deception

white lies and blackened reputations
told by the ambitious
for the expedient
without a care for consequence

no interest in the gray
of circumstance
or the glare of reality
illuminated by the reversing lights of history

Enamel hides blemishes and
lies that lay beneath
the manicured surfaces
of shining private lives

More magpie tales click here or on the magpie stamp.

Strange bedfellows

2011-08-16T09:19:00.008+10:00

Pillow talk. Arch enemies. Tony Abbott - Leader of the Liberal Party in Opposition and Bob Brown Leader of the Greens.

B: Tony, about these coal seam gas companies. They're just bullies.
T: I agree Bob. An Englishman's home is his castle. Someone has to draw the line.
B: You don't know how happy that makes me feel Tony. You and I, we think the same way about things.
T: About the farmers?
B: And the miners.
T: But you hate miners
B: I don't hate the miners Tony, only their dirty filthy habits.
T: I hate filthy habits too Bob.
B: I won't take that personally Tony
T: Look Bob, What I really meant was that farmers should have the same rights as us.
B: Consenting adults?
T: Bob, you're making me nervous.
B: What then?
T: To say no.
B: Aw, c'mon Tony.
T: Bob, you are deliberately misconstruing my intentions.
B: Well , can you be a bit clearer Tony. I'm confused.
T: Bob, not all farmers are the same and ... it's complicated.
B: Don't tell me. You've been seeing a few miners on the side.
T: Well, yes. But I'm getting exhausted trying to satisfy them all.
B: I feel for you Tony.
T: And now this.
B: You're so fickle Tony. C'mon snuggle up. I'll show you what we did to the loggers.

Cartoon by Bill Leak The Australian newspaper Monday 14 August 2011

Demolition Man

2011-08-11T22:04:00.005+10:00

I'm on a mission. I'm searching for a length of moulding to match the architrave lining the bedroom ceiling in my house where I've had a new built-in wardrobe installed.

I've visited The Renovators Centre, a second hand yard on Old Cleveland Road. It's very well organised. I ask for help and I'm directed to the rear of the warehouse where the skirting boards and architraves are sorted and marked. I have a drawing of the profile I need but I can't find anything which matches. "They're all different", the yard man tells me. "Every timber yard in the 192os developed their own style. You can try over the road if you're game" he says. I've run out of time and 'over the road' looks like a dumpsite so I decide to leave it for another day.

I'm back again today. I've visited three other places before returning here to try my luck. I'm ready to give up.

I park in front of the Renovators Centre and cross the road. There's a bloke sitting on the footpath at a table working at something with a screw driver. He's intent on his task. He looks like he's in his late sixties. He's dressed in a flanelette shirt and his grey trousers are held up by a piece of twine. His dirty gray hair is tousled and his skin has seen too much sun. He's sitting in full sun with hundreds of cars passing within a few feet of him. It's not an ideal work space.

His yard fronts this arterial road 100 metres before a railway crossing. There's often a line of cars idling outside his place waiting for the trains to pass. "Is this your place?" I ask. "I'm looking for a piece of moulding to match this". I show him the drawing and he pauses. "Yer might find something in there if yer've got a couple of hours" he mumbles. "Down the back , turn right, then left and go up the plank to the second level."

I see what is masquerading as a doorway and, looking inside, hesitate when I see a narrow passage barely wide enough to walk through. It's lined with old doors and window frames and steel shelving lined with boxes of every shape and size. I cautiously navigate the first room and cross an invisible threshold where the path, what once would have been a hall way or corridor narrows further and this time I take extra care to place one foot in front of the other brushing the sides as I progress.

It's getting harder to see. There are no lights, only the natural light which struggles to find its way to me via holes in the roof and the fading shaft of afternoon light following me from the road. Turn right I remind myself. I seem to have come to a dead end. I look right but its pitch black and, as far as I can tell, leads to a dead end.

I'm confused. I step back, looking for another way forward and decide to retrace my steps. Allen, as I later learn is his name, has not shifted his intense concentration from his task. This time I see he's straightening metal guides for louvres using a pair of pliers and a small hammer. Who would want those I wonder? I ask him again to confirm his previous directions and he repeats exactly as before "Straight ahead, turn right, then left and up the old aluminium painter's plank". He says this with a tone which clearly has me pegged as some kind of idiot. "That door?" I ask, pointing to the place I recently disappeared into. He doesn't answer; he simply looks at me wondering what it is about his instructions I don't seem to understand. I answer my own question with 'That one" changing my tone to affirm what is obviously the answer.

My second attempt mimics my first with the addition of some sense of doubt and dread. I have this picture of all this stuff collapsing in on me, trapping me in a landslide of discards. At the end of the corridor I again look right and can see that, yes, there is a way through, but narrower than the previous route requiring me to support myself on the miscellany of stuff as I tread carefully through the dard corridor towards a sliver of light. The walls of doors and window frames and assorted rubbish slope back from the floor on both sides, almost meeting at floor level. I have less than a shoe width to work with this time.

Turn left. Having come this far I'm not about to stop. Five wary steps along a much lighter path, eight inches wide, leads me to a sunfilled space packed full of timber lengths and open to the sky. I ascend the ramp, as directed, and find myself literally surrounded by an ocean of timber. Its as if a huge wooden ship has foundered here and I am amidst the floating flotsam and jetsam of the ruins. In one direction lengths of timber are stacked on a large storage system built from lengths of four by four, but in another direction timber is arranged in no order, simply seeming to have arrived and been dropped from the sky onto the pile. Some giant scotsman has been playing 'toss the caber'.

I feel overwhelmed as I stand in front of this mess of possibilities. A makeshift path of timber lengths leads from the aluminium ladder across the storage frame, each peice wobbling as I step from one to the next. I take out my piece of paper and begin to scan the ends of hundreds of lengths of timber mentally seeking to find a match. There are so many. I want to believe that there must be one here that matches. I pull a few out only to find each is too short or too wide and invariably not a good or even passable match. I work my way along the sections and as I go I get more and more inclined to take anything which even remotely resembles my drawing. However whenever I find what I hope might be my solution the piece is less than the three metres I need. There are lots of short pieces.

Allen is obviously a man who has never refused a piece of timber, or, as I make my way back to the front of the shed any other item of hardware or any building related object. He has boxes of old taps, screws, washers, garden fittings; light fittings hang from the ceiling; knobs, basins, handles, corrugated iron, more doors and even more windows fill every corner. Sadly there is no way anyone could possible identify any piece without considerable effort, which partly explains why Allen is sitting quietly on the footpath straightening disfigured metal louvre guides. This is the only way he can continue to have a sense of purpose. to remain in control.

I interrupt him again. "Any luck?" he asks knowing the answer. "How long have you been here?" I say, looking to keep him company for a moment. "About thirty years" he replies. I feel a sadness in him and a rising empathy in me. How has his life come to this? " How's business?" I say realising it is a stupid question. His reply is a series of hesitations. He agrees that there is not a lot of scope to sell anything from his decades of collecting. "Flat out finding anything in there" he observes. "Needs someone to take it apart and organise it.'

I return to my car over the road and decide to have one last look at the 'Renovator" collection. I find a piece with some resemblance to my drawing and it's the right width. It's probably the best I can do so I part with ten dollars fro two lengths giving me about four metres in total.

"What's the story with the bloke over the road?" I ask the yard man serving me. "How old is he?" I add. Turns out he's well into his eighties and owns some pretty significent pieces of real estate along this strip of road frontage. "He can't get anyone to work with him. It's too hard. Too far gone." Turns out he lives somewhere nearby to the Renovator man who has taken to picking him up each morning and delivering him home each evening as his charitable contribution to the world.

There is a code among demolition men. I am warmed by that discovery.

Fluorescent - Magpie 77

2011-08-09T17:03:00.014+10:00

I touched your hand
you smiled and turned your head
your eyes drove straight through me
moths circled the verandah light.

From the street we must have looked like lovers
from where I sat I was merely hoping
your skin glowed in the luminous light
heat poured in from the recently disappeared day

Inside the house your mother called your name
I knew you wanted more than conversation
you leant back on the ledge beside me
a car horn sounded in the street

You flicked your hair, I avoided your gaze
I see your shoes are blue
I hold my breath you turn and tilt your head
the fluorescent light flickers More Magpie tales click here or on the magpie stamp

Dear Mick

2011-08-01T17:16:00.017+10:00

Dear Mick,

We've been brothers for 60 years today. As a tribute to those years I thought I'd set down sixty special moments, one for each of those years.
Then I thought NO. I need to get this written today.

Mum was a counter - counting her way through her daily shower; counting how many pegs she used at the washing line; counting the number of steps to the bus stop. A little odd but then she did work as a comptometrist, an occupation I never fully understood but there was machinery involved and .... numbers. So, following in my mother's footsteps - I've reduced the sixty to about ten.

Before I begin I'd like to say thank you for giving me an 18 month start which allowed me to have the undivided attention of mum and dad for a period. I don't remember those months but I believe there was a lot of breast time involved and I imagine lots of cuddles and bouncing on Kev's knee.

I remember sharing a hard wooden stool at a small table in a tiny kitchen for the first five years of our brotherhood. It was one of dad's masterpieces , designed in such a way such that if either of us stood up without notice, the other would be catapulted off the other end. Dad was a salesman, a handyman but maybe not a carpenter. I believe we have both inherited his enthusiasm and lack of skill.

I remember playing with you every day for what I calculate were over 5000 consecutive days - backyard footie, cricket, marbles, monopoly, made up games using the garden hose as a speedway, go-karts made of junk we scavenged from our local dump - the best playground ever invented; we even created a nine hole golf course in the tiny back yard and got away with it. Dad was very tolerant and backyards were for play not display. We learnt so much mucking about with hammers and nails, bits of timber, axles and wheels; whatever we could lay our hands on. Broken pieces of asbestos fibro became frisbees when we visited the dump. I still have a hidden fear that those asbestos toys may come back to claim me. As I get older and my lungs slow down each cough or shortness of breath reminds me of those carefree days..

I recall being crowned BODY SURFING CHAMPIONS at Currumbin beach in 1965. You and I were the only competitors and dad was the sole judge. Still we deserved the accolades.

I remember drifting off to sleep in the twin beds in the room we shared for 15 years. It had one dresser and one small wardrobe. We had simple needs. We'd talk about the meaning of life and school and girls until one of us stopped talking in mid sentence, exhausted.

Those memories of childhood are so intertwined that I sometimes find it hard to distinguish your life from mine. We were like twins.

And then at university we lived parallel lives but we were still connected by mutual friends and in listening to the same anti Vietnam speakers and sharing a set of values. And later we married two girls who we hadn't met at uni but who together had been uni friends themselves.

We shared the terrors of parenting and watched our children (your three and my two) grow up as cousins as we too grew older - watching our lives take different paths. You into the sciences and me into the arts and humanities.

It was the first time I really knew we were different. That was hard at times but we still found ways to stay connected, even into our fifties;

Where we found ourselves sailing together on Saturday afternoons on the Brisbane river in our four hundred dollar last in the fleet NS14 dingy. We talked about our kids and our lives and not the meaning of life but superannuation and the concept of life after full-time work. It was like we were fifteen again and in that bedroom. But no - we would never be that innocent again.

So sixty years later we're still good mates. We've remained friends. Something we take for granted. We've made choices along the way, sometimes consciously sometimes unconsciously which have helped make this a reality. We can thank our parents and perhaps some mysterious force for having a hand in that. For whatever reason, we did it. Not all siblings have the satisfaction of achieving that.

Now, with my eighteen months advantage, I can welcome you to your next life and assure you that, from my vantage point, there's nothing to be apprehensive about. There's a world of things out there which are yet to be discovered.

Happy birthday brother.
love
steve

White walled - Magpie Tales 75

2011-07-28T22:06:00.012+10:00

white walled wheels
inflated tyres.

white washed flesh
pneumatic breasts.

siriusly sexy
cycling.

Who's to blame?
Paris. Je t'aime.

More? Click on the Magpie stamp. You might also like this "Me and My Bike"

IKEA Flatpack

2011-07-25T19:05:00.015+10:00

My son and I spent the afternoon putting together some 'flat-pack' furniture this afternoon. It was a nice opportunity to spend time working together. Father passing on some of his highly developed technical skills to his son.

There are too few opportunities for father-son bonding in my life. I keep busy, Nick keeps busy. We occasionally go to the football together; two years previously we spent a week at Carnarvon Gorge walking and camping with my mate Denis and another 'old fella'; last year we spent a weekend camping in the high country of Stanthorpe freezing our butts off in the middle of winter visiting wineries and climbing granite outcrops.

It's winter again and though the sun shines each day the cold gets into your bones. This year our bonding looks like being an IKEA experience. Nick has moved out. He moved out for the first time eighteen months ago when he got a teaching contract on the Darling Downs, the fertile tablelands one hundred kilometres west of the coast. He was terrified of living in the country so chose to live in Toowoomba, a regional centre, ahead of Clifton, the tiny one street, six shop, grain silo siding where his teaching job was located. He survived his year and discovered the joy of living in a household other than with his parents.

He quite liked Toowoomba and learnt a lot from a year in a tough country high school where talented young sportswomen were forbidden by their fathers from competing at the state athletic titles because they were needed for early morning milking duties; where one young fella chose to sleep on the footpath outside the Principals residence because he figured he'd be safe there. Those places teach you about the best and worst aspects of family life.

He came home at the beginning of 2010 as the Clifton contract, a maternity leave back-fill, was not extended and he was desperate to return to the city and his mates. He moved back in with mum and dad for a couple of months. And stayed eighteen. Mum and dad then went away for two weeks over Easter in 2011 and he rediscovered the delights of independence.

So he's gone. He's signed a 12 month lease on a two bedroom apartment in the neighbouring suburb of Yeronga, an inner ring suburb five minutes drive away. Funny, it's been less than two weeks since he left and we've done more together in that time than we normally do in a month.

Furniture is our common bond. I have a tow bar and access to a trailer and he has a bed, and a fridge and a washing machine which need moving. Saturday morning we head to Springwood, a half hours drive south on the motorway. The IKEA showroom is less a building and more of a football field with a roof. We find a park (under the football field) and head upstairs. I nearly turn back to the car when I see the crowd. It's like it's grand final day and it's a sellout.

IKEA is designed to sell you stuff. You enter one end and can't deviate from a preset path until you reach the exit 30 minutes later. As a maze it works well. I wish I was a kid again and maybe I could enjoy it. We do some aisle surfing, swerving in and out and around families who seem to have come for a sightseeing trip. A day out at IKEA. We're efficient. We spot the table we want, sit on four seemingly identical plastic chairs and select the cheapest and head towards the pick up area and the exit. Nick has noted the code and pick up aisle on his iPhone. Things are going smoothly. We find the aisle, load the flatpacks on to a trolley and head for the cashier. We're all done in twenty minutes. We've broken the official land speed record for shopping at IKEA.

That afternoon the fun begins. We carry the rectangular packages up one flight of stairs to the flat and feverishly begin to pull the boxes apart. Ten minutes later the floor is awash with discarded plastic and cardboard and we've laid out the pieces we need to put together. We start with the table. IKEA instructions are designed to work as well in China as on the coastal plains of Australia. Everything is set out as a series of diagrams.

At first glance it looks like a simple task and the first few steps flow freely. We chat and laugh and line things up together, the only challenge comes with attaching the legs. Hey, who needs legs on a table? We choose to continue, deciding eating Japanese style is probably not our ultimate goal. We do manage to finish the job and set it up in the corner of the room. It's white melamine and looks good. Our struggle with the legs was a simple case of alignment - bolt with socket. We've made a few false starts but it doesn't prepare us for the chairs.

These chairs are SIMPLE. Four pieces of black metal plus a plastic back and a seat. We also have two screws, four bolts and an Allan key. We follow the large diagrams. They are designed for children and could translate into a childrens illustrated story book - "My Chair". Sadly these two adults have lost their ability to read children's books and the first horizontal metal rod connecting the left and right frames across the front takes twenty minutes to attach. We've explored sixteen variations in our attempts and finally have them in place.

We then turn our attention to the rear cross bar and after five minutes have managed to complete the second step. Next comes another straightforward task. The diagram tells us we need to "slide a plastic sleeve up the back upright, rotate and attach it with the screw provided". This takes another seven minutes. Nick is impatient and keeps trying to force the screw, consistently missing the intended destination. I take over and demonstrate to him the art of gentle persuasion. 'It like making love to a woman' I tell him, 'don't force it. It's all about touch. Be gentle'. He looks at me bemused.

I may be older and think myself wiser, but my eyesight is not my best ally. The black plastic sleeve and the black metal frame contrive to turn me into a blind man. I can't see the hole. I resort to closing my eyes and working by touch, caressing the pieces into place. The final step in constructing the chair is to slide the plastic back over the metal sleeves and then over the plastic guides until with a final 'CLICK', the only words included in the instructions, it will be finished. But there is no way the plastics will fit, let alone 'CLICK'.

We try the same step a number of times until out of the corner of my eye I spy the instructions lying beside me as I work on my hands and knees and the penny drops. 'Shit', I say to Nick. 'We've got the frame reversed'. 'Are we dumb or something?' asks Nick, beginning to lose confidence in his intelligence and his fathers. I assure him that IKEA has set out to achieve this outcome on a global level. The Swedish pointing out to the rest of the world how intellectually and visually advanced they are and how far we have to go before we catch them.

We start again, unscrewing all the connecting screws and bolts until we again have a pile of bits strewn around us. It's now thirty five minutes we've spent on this one chair. Luckily we have learnt something from the previous excruciating experience and our second attempt achieves an outcome in five minutes. The sun is sinking. We decide to proceed, attacking the task of putting the final two chairs together with enthusiasm.

We have succeeded in completing our task. We have managed to avoid serious damage to our relationship and I have demonstrated to my son that my sixty one years of life have taught me many things, about women, relationships, trailers and tow bars, curtain rods and light fittings, cooking and budgeting but clearly I have not reached full competency in the IKEA department.

It's then that Nick digs into his pocket to check for messages on his iPhone. His face drains. It's not there. I pretend to stay calm. We retrace our steps and realise that he must have put it on the shelving in the aisle where we loaded the table on to our trolley. We've been so busy he hasn't paid attention to his favourite toy. 'How much to replace your iPhone if you've lost it' I ask gingerly. '$900' he replies, his body language giving away his despair.

It's a forty minute drive down the highway at this time of day. We're part of the endless sets of tail lights as we have another opportunity for extended father son bonding and we have IKEA to thank.

Phoenix

2011-07-22T13:35:00.010+10:00

I've arrived at 'the framer' to pick up a print for my wife's birthday. It's a piece from Vanuatu. I like this artwork. I'ts as a woman's story. I sense a strong feminine essence in this work. I see children sheltering in a safe place from a menacing presence. The children are fish and shelter in the centre of a breadfruit plant. There is security in this womblike haven. The world is a dangerous and wild place. I'm quite chuffed with myself. For once I'm thinking of her tastes and not mine in selecting a gift, an art piece.

'Be with you in a moment' calls Kerry as I enter the shop. She's tall, fit and wearing navy jeans and a dark t-shirt. She is an artisan in artisan's clothes. Her eyes glimmer with excitement at the prospect of framing another loved piece brought to her by another stranger.

The shop was once a butchers shop in the days when the butcher had his own smoking room. It's still there behind the old timber structure. These days its painted in shades of cream and heritage brown. It fits in with the new West End where style is gradually pushing out the old grunge, the old charm. Still Kerry is okay. She's had a connection with the area for many years. She understands the place. She has kept the business simple. For her it's about making things, not a glossy and superficial shop full of baubles.

I wander around the open space while I wait. She has some local artist's work on the walls and a pile of cheap, ready made frames propped up against the wall. There are two other people waiting. A young woman about five foot three with long blonde hair. She's wearing jeans and a singlet top. It shows off her strong young body and seems to accentuate her quiet presence. There's a tall bloke with her. Nothing much to report about him. They talk quietly.

'Okay' says Kerry as she turns her attention to the three of us. "Won't be a moment' she again says to me. I'm in no hurry I think. But she's making sure I know she hasn't forgotten me. She disappears into the back and brings out a number of large images which have been mounted on lightweight foam sandwich backing. The only image I can see is of a young blonde woman with a shoulder smashed with tattoos. Only then do I notice the tattoos creeping across the shoulders of the young woman in front of me and flowing down the inside of her upper arm. They are flowers and vines and abstract designs - not roses and romantic flowers. These have a tough edge and the red reminds me of blood. There's not a dragon in sight.

When she speaks I am shocked. I expect this pure sound to fill the room but her voice is thin and its American. This is not the voice of mainstream America. No movie comes to mind which could help me. It's a little girl's voice, almost innocent but there's somthing not right. The voice shouldn't have a tattoo on its shoulder. I try to imagine the map of North America. and struggle to find a state to place her in. I realise how limited my knowledge of geography is. I imagine she's from somewhere remote but the best I can do is to picture a large expanse of desert. She's a survivor of a harsh environment. That's my guess.

The exchange is over in less than a minute and she exits with her male friend carrying the collection of images. 'Thanks Phoenix' says Kerry. 'All the best with the show.'

I watch her walk out into the soft afternoon haze and turn back to Kerry who has retrieved my piece from the storeroom. 'Phoenix' I say out loud for no one in particular. I turn to Kerry. 'What's Phoenix's story' I ask, sensing something here than I am not aware of. Kerry lets out a short breath and arches her eyebrows. 'Oh. She's getting ready for 'sexpo'. She's got a stand. She's a stripper.' Kerry is wrapping my frame and shares this with me as if I should know.

'So those pieces are her backdrop?' I probe. 'Sort of' says Kerry. 'There's some beauties there' she adds. 'I wrapped them up so the most discreet one was at the front. There's a couple of pretty hot ones' she adds as she prints out my invoice.

My present looks good. We've made the right choice with the frame. My women's piece seems rather demure beside Phoenix's.

At home I do a little research. I google Phoenix and Sexpo and there she is. She's a cover girl for the news-stand mags that men love, Picture and People. She has a bio that tells of a body which has travelled the world. She's selling what she's got while she can.

I can't get that voice out of my head. 'Good that she's a dancer' I think.

Waste Wealth and Art

2011-07-19T20:26:00.013+10:00

I read an interesting article in the Weekend Australian last weekend about wealth and art. It argued that collecting art has, for some people, become a substitute for spirituality; swapping mere money for something on a higher plane.

The poor, he argued, buy things they need; the rich pay large sums of money for things they don't need. He argued that the spiritual conversion rate was higher when the work purchased is intrinsically worthless: "Spending on nothing is the ultimate demonstration of wealth". He refers to the work of Michael Landy shown here on the left, "No Frills Drawing", as a good example of paying a lot for nothing. I can't see this piece surviving the test of time myself.

Why do people buy art? Why do I buy art?

Well it does mean I have disposable income beyond my basic needs. It might indicate that I am seeking some deeper connection with meanings beyond the immediate and the everyday.

I recently bought two small pieces by an artist friend, Tony Rice. Tony has been an artist all his life, beginning as a potter then drawing and painting and then, over the past twenty years, making kites as artworks. Now he has become absorbed in the detritis of the beach. That and the impact of our waste on the wildlife on our doorstep.

Tony makes art because he has to. He's obsessed. He sees everything as colour and form. He has spent the past twelve months collecting rubbish from beaches and has studied the impact of these discards from our material lives on marine life.He has combined his kite-making talents with his sculpting skills and created a series of large pieces - dolphins, manta rays and dugong using cane and wire - and then threaded a tube of rubbish through the guts of the each piece. The result is quite evocative.

What did I buy? Well I couldn't afford these beautiful pieces so I bought a set of sun bleached cigarette lighters arranged to follow a rainbow sequence. That, and an abstract piece made of string and foam and a cigarette lighter and plastic.
Why? My search for beauty perhaps? The excitement of seeing one man's imagination caught in a moment of time.? Some sense of finding meaning in nothing? And a desire to support Tony and make some recompence for the works he had given me in previous years for nothing.

Mr Wilkins revisited

2011-07-15T15:23:00.004+10:00

The world is a mysterious place. I posted a story about a Mr. Wilkins on July 1 and told how this 89 year old man, whom I'd met on the plane to Vanuatu, was travelling to a remote island to reconnect with old friends from his days as a colonial administrator. And then this week I found a comment on my blog from his son, Simon from Tweed Heads (40 minutes drive from where I live) who had read the story, enjoyed it, read it to his father (Mr. Wilkins) who had just returned from his three week trip. How can that happen in a world of countless millions of people? What's the liklihood of finding a reference to your father on some obscure blog site?

I had said, rather presumptuously in my post, that Mr. Wilkins was probably on his last visit to Vanuatu. I had him with one foot in the grave already. Turns out he, his son and siblings, are planning to set up a tourist B&B venture in Vanuatu as their next big adventure, with Mr. Wilkins at the helm. They have such strong and fond memories of the people and lifestyle that they've decided they can't sever their ties.

Remarkable!

Eruptions in Tanna

2011-07-07T20:07:00.004+10:00

I wasn't expecting too much from Mt Yasur, Tanna's active volcano. I thought I might see a pool of lava far below me. I thought maybe some volcanic ash (and maybe a QANTAS flight plunging to earth); maybe some rocky lava fields from eons ago. Not much. But I was determined to see it. I mightn't 't get a second volcano in my life I figured.

I was not disappointed. One and a half hour drive in the trayback of a Mitsubishi 4WD ute over the worst oficial roads I've ever experienced brought us to a black ashen plain at the foot of the monolith. A further ifteen minutes up a 30 degree incline past walls of steaming earth lining the road and we were parking a mere 250 metres from the summit.

We climbed the lava strewn path and reached a plateau which gave us a view of the crater below. It was smoking with occasional jets of sparks and associated huffing and puffing from the fissures below. I ventured closer to the edge. And then the f....ing thing went off, exploding with a thunderous blast, sending shockwaves through the ground under my feet and lava shooting about 200 metres into the sky above us. F...k I thought and scuttled back a few meaningless metres to save myself from certain death. I was hooked.

We stayed another hour and a half watching transfixed as this beast of the earth coughed up clouds of lava and belched black sulphorous smoke into the sky above. It seemed like it took a breath after each blast and prepared itself for another magnificent belch. The sound was disconcerting, as if the mountain was warning us off.

We stayed until the sun had set. we got a final sunset performance and stumbled back down the slope to our waiting 4WD for the rough ride home with my collection of photos - every one a variation on the same theme - KAPOW!

Doctors inTanna

2011-07-04T19:22:00.004+10:00

Vanuatu is a simple country. People largely still live subsistence lives. The government has very little income, tax wise, and therefore very little cash to invest in more than basics. Roads are mostly dirt, secondary schooling is fee paying and medical supplies and medical practitioners are in short supply.

I was told that there are no ni-Vanuatu doctors. An exaggeration perhaps? Or perhaps not. There is no medical training available in Vanuatu. Fiji has the nearest medical school and the fees are prohibitive. And so the voluntary efforts of Australian (and other) medical practitioners are often the only medical treatment on offer.

I met two groups in the past week. One was a group of 25 Australian health practitioners - doctors dentists and other specialists, who had travelled to Vanuatu at their own cost to work in remote communities for a week. They were part of a pastoral Christian group and drew members from across the nation. The two I met were from Kalgoorlie in Western Australia, a gold mining town remote enough in itself. They spoke of seeing thousands of people in the week including some babies and young children with malnutrition due to a diet of powdered milk and milo. The dentist was particularly busy extracting teeth.

The other was a group of medical students from Wollongong University. This group of second years was spending two weeks on Tanna attached to the Lenekal Hospital. One of the young men had a connection. His father is the administrator/head clinician at the hospital, even though his skills are in biochemistry. Things are desperate.

These eight students have set themselves the task of collecting samples from villages across the island to test for the presence of TB. It’s not a simple blood test but the collection of sputum samples. Not pretty work. The men of Vanuatu are not averse to a good cough and spit, mind, as this is the after-effect of drinking kava. They have identified about 15 cases from about 100 samples analysed in their first week.

This is the first stage. They hope to use the data to support their application for funding to return and begin a treatment program. They have established their own charity to raise money to continue to support this work into the future. They reckon they need $60 000pa to continue.

People are amazing.

Welcome to Tanna

2011-07-03T15:19:00.003+10:00

Paul and I almost missed the welcome our host had arranged for us and our group. We walked across the tarmac in the drizzling rain and entered the one room arrival area, a room about 5 metres square. We watched as the ground staff loaded and unloaded the baggage from the twin engine plane we’d just arrived on. As we had checked in early it stood to reason that our bags would be the last to emerge from the bowels of the aircraft.

Before they arrived I heard a call: ‘Stif, Pol, over here’. We followed the sound of Franklin’s voice and headed back through the entrance gate towards the plane. As we emerged through the doorway there, lined up beside the building, were four young women in make-up and traditional costumes, two chiefs in tribal cloth , and Seth our Tanna host. We were greeted, swathed in fresh garlands of greenery and given a feathered adornment which was supposed to be held in our hair. Problem was our hair was short and soft. The feathers were designed for tight curly hair. We improvised, me by putting mine into the band of my hat and Paul by arranging his behind his ear.

So began our visit to Tanna.

We then travelled 20 minutes along the coastal dirt road over a series of fast flowing creeks in 4wheel drive vehicles finally arriving at the Nakamal where we would be working for the next week. Here we again were treated to local hospitality with a morning tea of peanut butter sandwiches, fruit and French style donuts. Next was Tanna Lodge, ten minutes awy.

We were shown to our thatched roofed accommodation on the black volcanic sand beach and then spent an afternoon in the drizzle enjoying the view, dark clouds hovering low over the Pacific.

A group of mature women who had been stranded at the airport when their transport from the eastern side of the island failed to materialize were unexpectedly accommodated at the Tanna Lodge. They had hit paydirt. Unbeknown to them or us Seth and Hugh (owner of the Lodge) had arranged a surprise performance for our group of facilitators.

First was a family string band singing fabulous harmonies and that, ewe thought was the end of that. Suddenly our coffee was interrupted by a group of eight warriors who invaded the dining area and proceeded to perform a series of traditional and at times funny contemporary dances accompanied by chants similar to the Maori Haka and then danced to a sound track – the ni-Vanuatu version if a John Travolta soundtrack. The local ladies were in fits.

I went to bed at 10pm the music and dancing continued until about 11”30 when the party animals in our group were ushered off to bed.

Big day in Tanna.

Black sand

2011-07-02T19:09:00.004+10:00

I'm staying at the Tanna Lodge with 13 Ni-Vanuatu workers and Paul from Australia. We're here for 7 days. The beach is black. Volcanic sand smashed by thousands of years of wave action along the east coast of the island.

Strangely, to my ears, the main township, Lanakal on the map, is known locally as "Black Man Town". My friends explain that this is the claim the local indigenous Tanna tribes have made over the township, stating to all comers, that this township is not for sale.

We'll be working in "Black man Town" for the next week as the support workers to a five day Community Development workshop (Komuniti Aksen) being delivered by the Ni-Vanuatu facilitators to about 40 island leaders from across Tanna.

I'm white I say. That's okay says Christian, We'll help you change colour for the week.

Mr Wilkins

2011-07-01T20:26:00.005+10:00

With ten minutes to go before we land at Luganville on the Island of Santo I strike up a conversation with the man I’ve been sitting beside for the past two hours.

I’ve decided I need to find the toilet at the rear of the plane before we land. The beef casserole with mashed potato a la Air Vanuatu, accompanied by the requisite side dish of coleslaw, a bread roll, block of dry chocolate cake and a lukewarm cup of tea has arrived at its destination early forcing me to disturb my white haired and elderly companion in the aisle seat.

I squeeze past him then, five minutes later, squeeze back. Then Paul, whom I do know, decides to make the trip to the southern end of the flight deck and crawls over both me and the old bloke. We’ve only exchanged half a dozen words, mostly apologies, but this seems to open an opportunity for a question from me.

Where are you heading? I ask.

Malakula, he responds. It’s an island north of Efate and Port Vila.

I nod and notice that he sports a tiny stud in his left ear lobe. He’s also wearing a cream woollen scarf wrapped stylishly around his neck and shoulders. He has a slim build and is wearing pressed jeans and an expensive discreet long sleeved shirt. We’re landing in Vanuatu and though it was winter when we left Brisbane I can’t imagine what use he’ll get from a scarf here in the tropics.

What brings you to Vanuatu? I enquire wondering what on earth a man of this age and obvious wealth would be doing visiting this third world Pacific nation. And then his story flows.

I came here after the war with my young wife, he tells me, I’d been working in East Africa as an administrator and this job in the New Hebrides came up so I applied.

Born in Australia, he completed his law studies at Cambridge in the UK, where he met his wife, also an Australian and took the opportunity to take a posting closer to home.

He was close to home, it was true, but it took him another thirty five years to make it there, by then with four adult children. He had been the colonial administrator for the British for those years. He was judge, magistrate, mediator and administrator of three large islands in the archipelago. He was the arms and hands of British power all rolled into one. He had loved it and was returning for the first time in ten years, possibly for the last time, to catch up with old friends and see the place again.

How old are you? I asked rudely. I was fascinated. He’d retired in 1980 when the New Hebrides became the new nation of Vanuatu. It was perfect timing for him. That was thirty years ago.

Eighty nine he replied. I nearly fell off my seat. I was envious. Eighty nine and travelling alone to visit a remote island with few facilities.

The next day I mentioned his name to some of the Ni-Vanuatu facilitators I was working with. Have ever heard of Darville Wilkins? I asked. These middle aged men would have been less than ten when he retired.

Mr Wilkins they chorused. They used to say “Here comes the government”. That was his nick name “The Government”
He was good, said Christian. Tough he added.

I tried to imagine the eighty nine year old with a stud in his ear and designer jeans as tough. It was possible. It was there.

Good luck Mr Wilkins. Enjoy your last years.

Off to Tanna

2011-06-28T12:17:00.001+10:00

I'm off to Tanna - Vanuatu as we speak. Community development project, volcano etc. I think we're prepared.
Will blog from there if i can get connected.

Million Dollar Point

2011-06-22T10:30:00.003+10:00

At the end of WW II the Americans, 100,000 of whom had been based on the Vanuatu Island of Santo (pop. today less that 20,000) offered to sell a mountain of equipment to the British and French colonial powers. As New Hebrides, the nation was ruled jointly with two legal systems two police forces etc. Neither took up the offer so the Americans bulldozed the lot into the waters off Luganville (the major town). This included scuttling a major passenger liner the SS President Coolidge which lies peacefully a mere 5o metres off shore as a mecca for scuba divers. I don't scuba dive. I did spent two hours, however, snorkelling over acres of military equipment including bulldozers, forklifts, landing craft etc etc. It was remarkable. Now home to tropical fish and masses of new coral growing in colourfull displays over every surface.

My moment of panic came as I cruised past a large landing craft and there lurking quietly below was a two metre barracuda, long snout and razor sharp teeth causing me to back paddle urgently and check in my rear vision mirror that I wasn't being stalked as lunch as I gently but purposefully headed for a new destination.

Vanuatu - Kastom Practices

2011-06-22T10:13:00.005+10:00

I've just returned from 10 days in Vanuatu working with the local chiefs and community leaders on a project about Kastom Practices and strengthening relationships across villages and islands and families. Vanuatu is an island state in a process of change. The partnership project brings Australian facilitators and local Vanuatu facilitators together to learn from each other. It's a long term project and this past visit was my second but the first where I was in the role of watching and supporting the locals to deliver a 5 day workshop ("Storian") to 35 leaders from the Island of Santo.

It was great. We three Australians were largely irrelevant - a mark of success for us. The most exciting and challenging aspect of the 10 days was the intentional use of local tribal languages and practices where appropriate. At one stage I had tears in my eyes as I watched a powerful reconciliation process unfold while not understanding a single word uttered over about a fifteen minute period.

We return next week to help facilitate a Community Development (Komunity Akshun) 10 day program. This will be on the island of Tanna.

Marina - an Italian connection in Orsago

2011-06-02T17:43:00.010+10:00

In 1988 I spent three months in London studying theatre. My wife remained at home in Brisbane working and caring for two children, one 2 and the other 7. She was supportive of my jaunt overseas but ultimately wanted her reward. We agreed to meet in Italy without the kids for two weeks at the end of my study. Thank god for generous grandparents.

We enjoyed a week in Rome, anther few days in Florence and then Venice - the highlight for us. Venice is the capital of the old Venetian Republic and now is part of the Veneto Region in the Province of Treviso which in turn is where my Great grandfather was born arounf 1837/38. I convinced Andrea to take a day trip to Orsago, his supposed birthplace. It was on the trainline. Simple. It was a great day but fruitless in terms of unearthing birth certificates or any church records giving us any new information. The best part of the day was meeting a young girl, Marina Batistuzzi, at the Municipio (Town Hall) who wanted to practice her English and so shut up shop for the rest of the day to accompany us on our search. I've written this visit into the draft of my memoir (see previous blog) and

Here's what I've written:

The trip from Venice north was a short forty-five minutes. We stepped off the train in Orsago to be greeted by a dry and dusty main street. It was June, summer was raging on the northern plains. The 3,900 residents were clearly on siesta. We were on foot with no map, no directions and no language, save good morning and an ability to count to ten – ten words, uno duo tres, which rattled around in my head constantly in some vain attempt to convince myself that I was a native speaker. My mother was a self-confessed counter. She would quite cheerfully tell anyone who wanted to listen, that, not only was she good at English she also loved numbers, to the point of absurdity. She would count out time – in the shower, while drying her hair, peeling carrots. She seemed to think this was normal and I am afraid I may have inherited this quirky aspect of her personality.

Andrea, the pessimist, already doubted the wisdom of spending a precious day on a wild goose chase. I, the optimist, was sure we’d uncover something and, being the eternal pathological version was convinced that the experience would be uplifting in an, as yet, unexpected way. We stepped into the foyer of the Municipio Di Orsago. I recall a white stone building with a large foyer, the type which echoes as you cross the marble floor announcing your presence and in this case sending shivers of anxiety to paralyze my memory where nothing resided beyond numerals.

I hadn’t expected to be proved right so early in our trip, but there behind the counter sat a young woman who was so excited to encounter English speakers with whom she could practice that after a short conversation where ‘buon giorno’ was the only word I needed, she agreed to shut the Municipio for the afternoon and offered to accompany us on our search for Lorenzo. That this was unsuccessful was not the point. The unexpected delight in finding this angel in remote Orsago made the trip worthwhile in itself. We did knock on some priests doors during that afternoon, and in each case they reluctantly agreed to Marina’s request to look at the parish birth records. In each case they were written in long hand in large impressive volumes but without a specific date we were faced with a long and tedious search. Marina was more than happy to drive on a sunny north Italian day and played tour guide as we visited small villages in a game of pin the tail on the donkey. Given that we had so few clues and at that time searching for only one name we were doomed to failure.

Sixteen years later a distant relative, unbeknown to me, also visited Orsago and also made a beeline for the Municipio and also encountered the delightful Marina. As Barry recounts it he approached this young woman, now in her late thirties, and asked for advice regarding his search for records of Lorenzo. As soon as she heard the name she said ‘Oh, there was another man here asking after that name’. Barry was a little shocked as she hurried to the back room and returned with a paper on which was written my contact details. ’Yes’ she confirmed, showing Barry my name as if I had been there the day before, ‘he was also looking for the Capelins”.

So vivid is my memory of that occasion that I still feel a strange connection with Marina 23 years later. I decided to send her an email telling her what I was doing and that i had included her in my book. No response yet but I believe she is still there. I check my in box for her reply each day. Like waiting for a letter from a long lost relative..

Me and My memoir

2011-05-31T18:00:00.005+10:00

I've been busy getting my memoir, "In Search of Lorenzo", under way over recent months. I'm learning a lot. Fast. Each day. I started doing what I promised myself I would. Write write write - without too much editing. Not only did I succeed in minimising editing, I also managed to minimise any planning.

The second stage has now kicked in. Trying to conceive how this complex story will be told in a cohesive but entertaining way. I've discovered that writing short stories is a doddle compared with developing a more complex and full length narrative. Themes, sub themes, present, past and unknowns conspire to do my head in. In addition, some facts just seem to get in the way of a good story. I'm having to curb my tendency to make things up when faced with contradicting information.

I'm making some headway due to a few factors. One is I'm enjoying the detective work - which I thought would be tedious. Au contraire, there are so many contradictory pieces of information I feel like I'm in the jury room dealing with a complex crime scene, trying to sift fact from fiction and put disparate pieces of information together to make sense. Who should Zi believe? Two, I've allowed myself to inject some literary devices, even created elements, into the narrative. When I can't have been there in 1880 and neither was any other member of the family I'm faced with writing nothing or creating possible scenarios which try to capture some elements of the conumdrum facing illiterate peasant Italian migrants (who probably didn't even see themselves as Italian, given that italy didn't exist as a nation until 1861).

The other great help is attending a writing workshop.

Iattended the second in a series of four last week and had a couple of lightbulb moments. Nerida got us to write three beginnings to our work - one from a character perspective, one from a descriptive position and the last taking an element from the middle of the narrative and bringng it forward. That was liberating and I'll use all three somewhere in the memoir. We also discussed structure and tension which is fine if you're writing a fiction novel where you are in total control of the events. In a memoir based on facts, the challenge is where do I find the tension. How do I make each section, each chapter, build to a climax or at the very least overcome some obstacle on the way to the finale. Tough but exciting.

So without wanting to bore you to tears here is a sample of one of the beginnings I wrote at the workshop which I have used as the opening in this early draft.

In Search of Lorenzo
Going Home
I
‘Should we get on with it?’ My niece has a deadline to meet. She needs to navigate the rough dirt track to her hippie caravan in the mountains before dark. That’s a two hour drive away in the ranges behind the Tweed Valley.
‘It won’t work here’, comments my aunt. ‘The wind’s in the wrong direction. The ashes will blow straight back into our faces. There’s a jetty on the other side that might work.’
‘I don’t want you to put poppa in the river’, says my daughter from the back seat of the car where it’s warm and where she’s lying prone, the victim of an early winter flu. ‘That’s all I’ve got left of him. Can’t we keep him?’
There are seven of us here on Kev’s anniversary a year after his death in 2007. We plan to return him to his beloved Richmond River. We are upstream from his old family home; cane fields mark the other side of the river and beyond that the Pacific Ocean attacks a wild windswept coastline.
I want this to be meaningful. This man was special. I want to watch my father’s ashes drift downstream ten kilometers to Ballina where they will mingle with the salty waters washing the headland and beaches, home to the prawns which the locals have made their icon. The home of ‘The Big Prawn’.
This is a key step in bringing Kev home and resolving his conflicted relationship with his Italian and Irish heritage but we can’t seem to get it right. The picture I have in my head doesn’t match the reality of this day. This bit of the story is every bit as hard to put in place as every other piece of the puzzle spanning the preceding one hundred and thirty years.

II
In 1880 Tom Kilcoyne was preparing his family for escape from the 1879 famine sweeping through County Mayo in Ireland destined to join the tens of thousands of refugees heading for Australia for a new life. In Veneto, Lorenzo Perin had joined a group of local peasant families who had invested their life savings in a scheme which promised them a slice of paradise in the South Pacific. Thomas and Lorenzo were my father’s maternal and paternal grandfathers.

III
In 1980, in a small war service home in Brisbane, my father was preparing to embrace his Italian heritage publicly for the first time. He was fifty nine. The shame of growing up Italian was about to be expunged. He was about to travel to northern NSW, his ancestral home, to celebrate a little known, yet dramatic, event in Italian/Australian history.

Book club musing

2011-05-29T16:51:00.008+10:00

I'm a member of a book club at my local bookstore, Avid Reader.

Every month Avid publishes a magazine reviewing books but also inviting writers to contribute material on the monthly theme. The last one focused on the Brisbane floods, in particular the impact on the local community. I contributed a couple of pieces which I had posted on this blog.

Last week I received an email from Krissy at the shop asking if I'd like to contribute to the next one. The theme: 'Book Clubs'. She sent me a series of questions to answer and I thought that, as I have been a bit tardy with my blog lately, that this might interest a few people. so here are the questions and my answers:

1 Which bookclub are you a member of and how long have you been in the club?

Austrtalian Book Club first Tuesday evening of the month.

2 Can you remember a particular discussion that stands out from one of the bookclubs? Something funny or aweful or divisive or a transformative moment that changed your mind about a particular book? Tell us what happened.

Most interesting night was the night Justice Michael Kirby was speaking on the back deck. We were an embarrassment to Avid in our jeans and with a bottle of plonk being shared around our circle, so we were hidden upstairs in the store-room. We organized ourselves with some crackers and cheese (courtesy of Avid) balanced on a packing crate and found some seating, some on chairs, others on benches. Someone offered to sit on the floor. Fiona popped a bottle of red and then apologised and left us to ourselves. We were a bit miffed about being abandoned in favour of Justice Michael but soldiered on.

This group of five mature adults were suddenly faced with facilitating our own discussion. Or just drinking. We had a great time and, as is always the case, the absence of one changed the dynamics of all and we found ourselves having the same conversation but in a different way.

Fiona had to throw us out eventuually. And we didn't regret missing Justice Michael at all.

I can't even remember the book we were disecting.

3 Why did you initially join a bookclub? Why do you stay?

I was interested in connecting with other readers and possibly writers. I was also keen to connect with local community activities as I was moving from full time to part time work. I wanted to feed my creative side after too many years of work,which I loved but which dominated my life.

I 've been a member since it started which I think is about 12 months.

I keep coming back for a couple of reasons. Firstly I like the imposed discipline requiring me to read at least a book a month. Secondly I like the social element - meeting a small group of people over a glass of wine where the personalities emerge over time. And we laugh.

4 What book are you currently reading for bookclub?

'Bereft' by Chris Womersley

5 What is your favourite book that you have read for bookclub?

Favourite has probably been 'Me and Mr Booker' by Cory Taylor

but the one which has stayed with me has been Ashley Hay's 'The Body in the Clouds' which had a magic realism quality and spanned the period from the first days of the colony to the present; a series of parallel stories all built around Sydney Harbour and the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

6 Are your favourite books the best to discuss? Or are there other factors that make other books better to talk about?

The most interesting discussions have been where members of the group had widely different responses to the book of the month. In that case each of us had to pause and try and understand what others saw in the book and be challenged to articulate our point of view. Much more interesting than all agreeing with each other.

Peter Otto and the End of the World

2011-05-23T13:21:00.008+10:00

He was too well read. He believed the fundamentalist guppies who told him that 21 May 2011 would be the end of the world. Peter Otto's reincarnation was joyful but short lived.

I have been visiting the pond in the back yard to gaze at the risen Peter each day since I discovered him. Late last week I was rewarded in my vigil. I approached the bottom of the yard quietly so as not to disturb him. Until then he had still been a golden glow deep in the water. This time, there he was in his element, in a sublime meditative state, swimming near the surface. Feeding. His golden colours made me feel like I was looking at the sun. So orange. So bright. I was enthralled. That was early Saturday 21 May.

Yesterday (Sunday 22 May) I returned from a day at my "Year of the Memoir" writing workshop and headed for the pond as my first port of call. I called to my son to come have a look at this wonder.

There he was at the surface again. Only this time he was meditating on his side. Floatng rather than swimming.
He's dead. said Nick.
No he's not. I said. He's resting.
Dead. Gone to heaven, Nick repeated.
I gave the bullrushes a shake and I'm sure he flicked his fin and moved forward.
No. said Nick. You just pushed him.

The original PeterOtto used to do this I reminded him. It was the cause of his demise. My sister in law, who was minding the house for a week while we were away, mistook his resting for rigor mortis and, with what she thought was compassion, relocated him to the freezer so we would be able to bury him on our return.

So I poked him. I was not going to be suckered by a fish a second time. He moved but only to float again to the surface, inert.

Shit. I thought. After surviving for two years undetected he now returns for only 7 days and on the seventh day he's cardiac arrested. Perhaps the Fundamental Christians were right after all except their predictions were not intended for humans but for fish. Have there been other reports of mass endings of goldfish on 21 May. Conspiracy theorists would posit that even if this mass death scenario were true the code of silence amongst goldfish would prevent us from knowing.

Or perhaps this was a message from a higher being to remind me of the folly of worshipping golden idols.

Whatever the meaning I resolved to return to the pond to capture this event on film and to transfer "Peter Otto the Second" to the freezer to join his predessor in a cyrogenic state.

Unfortunately I got distracted and an hour later I make the return trip to the bottom of the garden. It was dark by this time, so I took my camera and shot a series of photos with my flash. Back in the house I reviewed the photos and was amazed and perplexed to find no sign of Peter's golden glow. I returned this morning to confirm my worst fears and there was no sign of him. No amount of rustling or peering into the murky depths revealed any sign of him. He had been assumed into fish heaven. Another miracle.

I will be writing to the Pope to beseech him to put Peter Otto on his list of possibles for sainthood. The Catholics need a new focus. They have created dozens of new saints lately in a wide range of non mainstrweam communities but none in the marine world. There are millions of potential converts waiting for "The Word".

And the word is 'blubb'

Miracle fish

2011-05-09T17:07:00.016+10:00

Peter Otto was a special fish. He lived for ten years in a gold fish bowl swimming in one direction until he died of arthritis brought on by his uni-directional habit. His spine became permanently curved towards his right shoulder. An occasional anti-clockwise lap of his pool may have extended his life even beyond his remarkable years.

Peter Otto 's major challenge in life was maintaining a working set of gills in the midst of the ever darkening toxic waters of his tiny bowl. Adventure was not a concept known to him.

Perhaps his longevity was due to his zen-like acceptance of his simple life and an understanding that the way forward was the way forward. I would have died of boredom.

Peter Otto died a lonely accidental death in the freezer compartment of our fridge and now resides forever at the bottom of our garden. Our garden of our last house that is. He never made the transition.

At our new house we put in an above ground pool which after ten (yes ten again) years we ripped out and replanted as a garden. As a way of fulfilling our need for 25 thousand liters of water in our backyard we included a 250 litre pottery water container amidst the new plantings. It was home to water lilies and some bullrushes. Concerned about the possibility of breeding swarms of disease bearing mosquitoes at the bottom of our garden I sought advice from my local aquarium and brought home some guppies who were guaranteed to devour the larvae before they could hatch.

Whether these tiny fish were what attracted our new visitors I wasn't sure but a day later a family of kookaburras began visiting the pond, perching on the edge and plunging in for a cool bath or carving up the water lilies with their powerful beaks. Within two days there was no sign of the guppies and the lilies never recovered. Had the guppies died of fright? Were the kookas just great at fishing?

I tried a second time and this time included a goldfish, thinking that this hardy breed might fight off the invading swimmers. Within two days the pond was again silent. The kookas continued to visit and entertain us. I kept a container of fish food for a few months then chucked it in the bin. Meanwhile the garden grew. The bottom of the garden became a wild place. The bullrushes fought back and the kookas couldn't find a landing spot. The lime tree failed to produce a crop two years in a row while my composting system evolved and became my pride and joy. I even put together a vegetable plot and provided the family with a regular supply of leafy greens.

This last weekend I did my regular wander to the bottom of the garden - "inspecting the estate". I pulled a few weeds, talked to the lime tree and harvested a handful of late season macadamia nuts from the tree overhanging the old pool site. As I passed the pond something caught my eye. I froze, staring into the murky depths beyond the scummy surface. At first I thought it was the light revealing the colour of the root system at the base of the reeds. I touched a reed. The rusty colour disappeared. I stood for another minute and the colour didn't reappear. so I wandered on.

As I passed by a second time there it was again, a rusty orange spot, motionless. Another jiggle of a reed and there was a small movement. Another and another. I called for verification from an independent observer and sure enough there it was. Peter Otto had been reincarnated as himself. A gold fish living in my pond which I had passed by every week for two years?

Was this a miracle? Had this visitor been deposited by a passing bird of prey? Had he been sent as a sign to me? What was I to make of this? Was there something in my life which I should change? Should I divorce my wife of thirty years? Was it there to help me understand that my new career as an unemployed freelance community worker would take time to emerge? Was it showing me that patience and acceptance were virtues that would bear fruit in the long term? Or should I pack up my worldly goods and go and hide from the world? Become a hermit in a cave, or in a large pottery container?

I considered heading for the shop to pick up a new container of fish food then reconsidered. A fish that had survived on the detritus of pond life for two years needed no help from me.

I considered all the options offered my by this sign from the pond and decided to stay. I'm still here close to the miraculous site. Welcome home Peter Otto (the second coming).

Last Drinks

2011-05-03T12:17:00.010+10:00

We'd had a great day. The Barossa Valley vineyards winked at us, their afternoon autumn colours flashing through the red gums lining the road as we turned for home. We'd visited Maggie Beer's farm and picked up some of her treats as featured on her TV show "The Cook and the Chef", Maggie being the cook. The Richmond Grove winery had treated us to a set of Rieslings going back as far as 1998, the leftovers from the previous day's wine-tasting festival.

Denis suggested we finish the day with a visit to one of the boutique wineries of Eden Valley about thrity kilometres south on the Adelaide Road. Denis always makes things sound so certain that I had visions of him leading us to his favourite secret location, carefully chosen from the many. From the passenger seat I opened the tourist map to peruse our options. Mike, who had demanded we stop at the very first winery we encountered and then argued for a stop at every one of the sixty in the Barossa region, seemed content in the back seat. His taste buds had been satisfied with our choices. He and his wife Angela were in their first month of their drive around Australia, having begun two thousand miles north in Queensland.

I could only find one cellar door listed in the Eden Valley district. That'll do said Denis, barely betraying the fact that he hadn't had a clue where we were heading. It was quarter past four. My guidebook informed me that Fernfield Wines was open seven days a week from 10am to 5pm. We turned left off the main road as we passed the Eden Valley Hotel and were soon following a dirt road which followed the vineyards planted to follow the contours of the low hills. The entrance to Fernfield had a 'Cellar Door Open' sign propped beside the road but the signage on the gate informed us that they were only open 4 days a week from 11am to 4pm. It was four twenty. We all felt deflated but spying a figure in the distance and sensing an opportunity we boldly ignored the sign and cruised through the open gate.

Are you still open we asked the young woman standing beside the drive. She gave us a doubtful look and with a shrug of resignation, or a sniff of one last sale, she ushered us towards a small stone cottage fifty metres distant. I guess we can make an exception since you're already here she added. She was a broad faced woman in her late thirties with the smile and sense of purpose of a working farmer.I've been pressing all day she said proffering her purple palms as proof.

Inside the stone cottage we found ourselves in a room with space for no more than the four of us and her behind the bar. The walls were lined with photos of the farm and images of her father, grandfather, great and great great grandfather - the original. She was a great storyteller and for forty minutes we laughed and joked and heard about the family and the wine and were utterly charmed by this young woman. The feeling it seemed was mutual.

Fernfield was the ultimate family boutique winery. Mother was the winemaker, having enrolled at age fifty-five in a viticulture course which took her ten years to complete; father and brother were the farm workers tending the vines with love and Rebecca was the marketing manager. Come harvest time the four of them joined forces to hand pick, hand crush and hand bottle the fruits of their labour, four thousand cases. Mother's wine had won a medal every year sine 2002 when she created her first vintage - much to the exasperation of the major wine companies of the Barossa who took it as given that they would be the celebrated winemakers. The wine was fabulous. Rebecca's energy and enthusiasm gave it a quality that totally seduced us.

As we turned to leave this charming room, our arms laden with one of every wine on offer I spotted a business card on the sideboard. I figured I might need this as I'd ordered a case and might need to contact Rebecca if it went astray in the post between Eden Valley and Brisbane. I quickly scanned the details. Wait wait wait! I called to the other three. We're not finished here yet. There's one more thing.

Denis looked at me thinking what is Steve on about this time. I looked at Rebecca. She looked at me. You want one don't you she said. Yes I replied. If that's possible. By now Denis and Mike and Angela had stopped in their tracks and were in consensus that I'd obviously lost it. I pointed to the business card, reading: Rebecca Plummer, Marketing and Cellar Door Manager/Singer.

Denis is a musician, a music lover. He was captivated. What do you sing he asked. Oh, opera, classical stuff. You know. The girl with purple hands was suddenly transformed before our eyes. We were in the presence of a character from a grand opera, set in a rustic barn surrounded by us as chorus.

Rebecca offered us a couple of options. Something French I urged. And then Rebecca, eyes closed, standing behind the cellar door bar, a line of half empty bottles of red wine in the foreground, sang us a beautiful unaccompanied version of Piaf's La Vie en Rose .

As she sang she gained in power and knowing she had us in the palms of her grape crushing hands took us on an emotional ride, making eye contact and becoming the epitome of the popular cabaret performer. God, what a way to end the day. As she finished I could hardly speak. I spontaneously took her in my arms and gave her a hug as if she were my daughter. Denis followed.

We walked towards the car in silence, our spirits lifted by this moment you could never hope to manufacture. As we drove off Denis, not one to readily give voice to his emotions, shared his inner most manly feelings with us. I had a tear in my eye at the end there, he said, his footballer's eyes misting up.

Open Ocean Swim

2011-05-03T11:01:00.004+10:00

Flying home from Adelaide on a Friday night close to midnight I needed some sleep. In a moment of enthusiastic folly I had agreed to join my friend Paul and his son in the Byron Bay Winter Whales Annual Open Ocean swim event. My first ocean swim. Paul has become a regular participant in this growing phenomenon along the east coast of Australia.

My son had made a late decision to join us, as had Paul's wife, so from an intimate trio of swimmers we became a two car team of five. Paul had introduced me to the YHA network in Murwillumbah recently and Andrea and I had stayed at a number of comfortable and friendly hostels on our trip to Adelaide. So here we were at the Byron Bay YHA.

This one was more like the hostels I had memories of. Large numbers of young backpackers packed into dorms and enjoying each other's noisy company. We had the luxury of a family unit which slept four. My son was number five so he ended up sharing a room with eight other young men. Paul and his wife went shopping for ear plugs in anticipation of anything other than a slent night.

On Sunday morning I collected my yellow swim cap, my electronic ankle tag and my complimentary Winter Whales cap and joined 1200 others on the beach. I was swimming the mini swim - 800 metres across the bay from the Clarke's Beach headland to the surflifesaving clubhouse. About 250 other mini swimmers joined me while 1000 others headed for the Byron Bay lighthouse and Watego's Beach for their much more demanding 2.4 klm marathon.

The day was sunny, the water cool and the swell small. I was up against fellow competitiors ranging in age from nne years to eighty nine. To cut a long story short I survived. Every nine year old beat my time, half the women did the same and Paul, who swam the 2.4 k event, swam three times the distance in the about the same time as I swam my 800 metres.

I must point out that I did not come dead last. The 89 year old was behind me as were about 34 other mini swimmers. I now begin my preparation for next year knowing that there is definitely room for improvement. I aim to cut at least five minutes from my 37 minutes.

What was impressive was the broad spread of ages in the thousand odd entrants and the number of entrants in the 70+ age group. It's exciting to think that if one keeps swimming there is no reason why one can't simply, keep swimming. My son, a physical education teacher has offered to set up a training program for me. I need to train my body to be less accustomed to stopping for a breather and a cup of coffee after each 100 metres. I discovered that there are no lanes and no hand rails in the open ocean.

Melbourne to Robe 4 – 12 Apostles

2011-04-24T12:43:00.006+10:00

It's all about the coastline.

Between Apollo Bay and Port Campbell the coast is lined with mighty limestone cliffs which have ben eaten away by centuries of tides and wild seas. The result is a series of spectacular free standing rock formations which sit close by the adjacent beaches.

The locals must have been of a religious bent as these forms take names such as Bay of Martyrs and Twelve Apostles. Nearby Port Fairy was originally named Belfast and still hosts the largest celtic folk festival in the country. Many of the local sites still defiantly carry the Belfast tag. Although Belfast, Northern Ireland is Protestant, the local Port fairy flavor is very much Catholic Celtic.

The best story of our Twelve Apostles visit came as we checked into the Port Fairy YHA the following evening. Allison, the host, made a comment assuming Andrea was my wife then checked herself observing that of course that might not necessarily be the case. She was a bumptious girl who showed no sign of recognizing that this exchange could have put me in an awkward situation, being faced with continuing the lie (of wife and marriage) or joining in and confessing that I was there with my mistress. In my case I had brought the right partner and was able to freely join her stories of deception without guilt

She told the story of the collapse of one of the Twelve Apostles a few years previously which had an unexpected outcome.

A romantic couple had walked across the land bridge to the formation called London Bridge. As it implies, this consists of two pillars of rock sitting in the ocean joined by an arch. On this day while the couple were on the farthest pillar, the gods of deceived wives decided to collapse the bridge section leaving the couple stranded on the remaining pillar. This triggered an emergency rescue with helicopters and national media coverage. The couple were instant celebrities.

Unfortunately, the man’s wife was at home bored and at a loose end (her husband being on his annual fishing trip) and watching the saga unfold while her husband shivered with cold and cursed his ill timed walk over London Bridge.

Melbourne to Robe 3 - Youth Hostels

2011-04-24T12:35:00.003+10:00

Apollo Bay is one of a series of resort villages along this stretch of the Victorian coastline. We will be staying at three YHAs along this trip. These former “Youth” hostels have been rebadged simply as YHA dropping the reference to young people.

The story goes that as the original “Youth” of the YHA movement grew older they were reluctant to give up their identity and the benefits of cheap accommodation around the country and internationally. What once were for the under 26’s are now shared by that group and the over 50 year olds – survivors of the magical sixties and seventies era. Andrea was a bit apprehensive but was a convert on discovering the modern amenities offered at Apollo Bay and upon seeing children among the hosteliers.

Travelling can sometimes be beautifully quiet and calm or, depending on your mood and personality, socially isolating. I love both experiences. The tranquility of isolation and travelling with one other for company can replenish one’s reserves of energy and sense of balance. The company of many can be demanding but offers unexpected opportunities for conversations with total strangers.

David was at the third of our hostel stops – Port Fairy. A conversation over dinner in the common kitchen area revealed him to be a retired teacher. He was English born, a teacher for his working life, a father and now a late traveller with a keen eye for the social and political context of his journey. His observations of Australia were insightful.

He remarked on the lack of evidence on our indigenous roots. Comparing his experience of Wales where signage is bi lingual in recognition of the living presence of a native tongue. He had assumed that there would be something similar happening with Aboriginal language. We pointed out that there was not one but hundreds of dialects around the country but acknowledged that where there was a dominant indigenous language, in the red centre or Alice Springs for example, it was still not used alongside English.

Over breakfast we were sharing family stories and discovered that this Englishman’s father was in fact Spanish and then this rich story unfolded of Franco’s Spain and escape to England and a life in fear of retribution and an absence of family. Finally after his father died he began the search for his Spanish relatives who had given up hope of ever finding their brother, uncle, cousin, David’s father.

His search was rewarded. On visiting Spain for the first time at the age of 55 David expected to be met at the station by his aunt and her husband. On arriving he was overwhelmed to find 30 people embracing him as the long lost family member; the son of the man they thought they had lost forever.

At the feast which had been prepared for him a young boy, the only one who spoke English, made a simple statement on behalf of the family: “Welcome home. We thought we would never find you”.

Melbourne to Robe 2 - Ice

2011-04-24T12:27:00.005+10:00

Melbourne to Robe 2 - Ice

The decision to drive across Victoria to South Australia rather than fly was to experience the Great Ocean Road which follows the wild coastline fronting the Great Southern Ocean for the first 400 kilometres of the 600 kilometre drive. It did not disappoint.

The autumn sun shone; the ocean was at its turquoise best; the road was relatively quiet; the surf rolled in perfect formation towards cliffs and pristine beaches. There were occasional pods of black suited surfers collected on the points of various headlands but few others wearing less than boots, jackets and long trousers and most of these in coffee shops or enjoying the view from their cars.

So naturally, at Lorne, unable to resist such a picturesque beach and perfect water, I went for a swim. No wetsuit for me, just skin and speedos. At knee level I usually ask myself why I made this decision but by then it’s too late. It was freezing as I dove through the first breaker I couldn’t outjump. My testicles had already rejected me as the water crept up to my waist. Now my eyeballs went into deep freeze mode and threatened to carry the pain through the eye socket to my brain where all life would cease. But as all fools who enter subzero waters will attest, it’s just a matter of waiting for the body to adjust. Translate this as lose all sensation and then mistake this for pleasure.

Fifteen minutes and a half dozen rides on some great body surfing waves I emerged and returned to the car numb, but still with the capacity for speech. As we drove off my feet were on autopilot as they worked the pedals of the Corolla but as my body returned to its normal temperature, rather than feel relief, it seemed to have a delayed shock reaction and pain not pleasure slowly crept over my body as we headed for the Wye River and a much anticipated lunch of lamb and minestrone soup.

Melbourne to Robe 1. - Melbourne

2011-04-24T12:14:00.002+10:00

Melbourne to Robe 1

The Easter break has arrived. Though I’m not working it still feels necessary to treat it as a special holiday event. Andrea (working) and I (not working) have decided to take a 10 day break which will be extended to 14 days for me, one of the perks of “not working”. We flew to Melbourne on Friday the 15th and then on the Monday (18th) jumped in a hire car to drive to Robe in South Australia – there to meet some old friends for the Easter weekend.

Melbourne was great as usual. We explored its inner city laneways, had dinner with Andrea’s brother on Brunswick Street and drove to the far beaches of the Mornington Peninsular with her cousin and two boys (see photos). I took my togs but decided against a swim.

We also spent an evening with a distant relative in the hope of unraveling another part of the family history. It’s a long story and it’s the one I’m working on this year with the goal of producing a draft of a book length account of the journey. I will post an account of the evening with the O’Brians soon.

Stories of loss and survival

2011-04-10T13:38:00.018+10:00

Photo courtesy of Cara - Brisbane Daily Photo Blog

Last Friday evening our local bookshop (Avid Reader) hosted a night of storytelling. The West End Making History group invited community members to come along and share their experiences of the recent disaster. It was a simple community building night. I was invited to play MC.

What a great night. We had lined up a range of people ranging from Theo, a Greek born gentleman who had experienced both the 1974 and 2011 floods in West End (where each time his corner shop had gone under) to Bronwyn who told us of having 26 children under 5 in her back yard at one stage (two sets of twins, one pair being their birthday). People simply dropped kids off on their way to help or to survey the damage.

At 80 Theo has single-handedly stripped and relined the walls of his shop. He shared his distress that followed each event, despite having experienced this previously. With great compassion he expressed deep understanding for those who had been hit this time;
Dan O'Neill had lost hundreds of books from his lifetime library collection;
Francesca told of "looting" her friend'sTony's house with the help an extended network of friends while Tony and his family were away in New Zealand unaware of the impending disaster. Strangely, Francesca's kids knew, not only where the spare key was hidden, but also where the private family documents were stashed.
Tim Quinn told of missing out on both floods despite have been born and lived in the suburb his whole life and Bu, from Ache, Indonesia (his story appears earlier in these blogs as "Disaster is relative - Bill and Bu") told of his relief at knowing he had lost no family members and still had a (rather wet) house to live in.

The mostly late 30s to 70s audience all marvelled at the role young people had played in the post flood recovery and 19 year old Verdi shared her simple perspective: there was a need to help, so we just did it.

Local photographer Cara G has captured the night on her brisbane daily photo blog. as well as some great photos of the events as they unfolded in January.

And so the stories ripple on, building connections across the community in ways we can't predict.

My question now is how far to go in collecting these and other stories more formally in an attempt to capture this oral history for the future? Has the rush of initial energy disippated? Is the pain still too fresh in people's minds to see this as a priority?

writing not writing - Lorenzo's Laugh

2011-04-04T16:53:00.010+10:00

Last week I attended the first of five writing workshops I've signed up for.

The series is called "The Year of the Novel" The tutor/workshop leader is Nerida Newton, a published author, who has run these for the Queensland Writer's Centre over the past five years. A group of fifteen writers of varying experience (some with none!!) will meet every 8 weeks to discuss our projects and to receive some guidance from Nerida.

The goal: a full length first draft manuscript by the end of the year. I had enrolled in their "Year of the Memoir" but that got subsumed in the "Y of the Novel" due to low enrolments. After one day I'm confident that the same writing principles apply so, though I was a little reluctant to transfer, I feel conmfortable now.

I'm telling you this because it is dominating my time and satisfying my creative urges, to the extent that blogging is taking a bit of a back seat in my consciousness.

I will use this blog to report on progress (as well as have a bit of a play from time to time) by way of keeping in contact with people and as a bit of pressure to stay on track.

So what is my project?

Working Title: "Lorenzo's Laugh"

Briefly its my quest to uncover the mystery behind my family name. Without giving too much away it was triggered by the discovery that we don't carry the name which my great grandfather was registered under on his voyage from Italy to Australia.

Lucky for me there is a rich story of hope and dashed dreams; of a cunning French Marquis who sells poor Italians a trip to a non existent paradise in the Pacific.; of beautiful landscapes and untimely deaths. And then there's me.

The one thing I learnt from Nerida last week was that even a memoir needs a protagonist and an antagonist which means that unless I try to write a factual history of these events (which I am not interested in doing) I will be there in the story and I will need to be brave enough to be fairly self revealing to make people interested in my quest.

I wrote 2000 words today. Much more than I expected. I thought I would get stuck on page one but the story kept flowing. I expect it will emerge as a series of episodic accounts of varying aspects of the puzzle. My plan at this stage is to keep writing without too much concern for the final product. Let the juices run free and, fingers crossed, hope the story takes shape through the telling and through some judicious (and tough Ouch!) editing when the time comes.

My Mona Lisa - Magpie 59

2011-03-22T16:57:00.018+10:00

Magpie 59 - For more Writers click here

I love a room that's big and blank

calm and clean and

uncluttered.

Freshly painted with

light pouring in

reflecting from the off white walls.

A place to meditate on nothingness

absorbing a zen moment

breathing ......space

but then .....

I love a home with character

full of personality and

a lifetime of stories

Walls filled with paintings

and hangings and collectables

each with their history

Surfaces crammed with photos

and objects from childhood

and reminders of exotic destinations

And one of which I never tire

a spirit painting beguiling me every day

with its unfathomable meaning

Beyond my understanding

from a country I can never inhabit

my Mona Lisa.

Spirit Wife

Wandjina Spirit ............................ Enigmatic Spirit

Saint Patrick's Colonoscopy

2011-03-17T13:38:00.021+10:00

It's Saint Patrick's Day. I'm overwhelmed. I'm sitting in the waiting room of the day procedures area of the Mater Misericordia Hospital. I'm feeling green, but not with Irish joy. Someone has played a joke on me and scheduled my ten yearly colonoscopy for this holy day.

I've spent the previous night forcing down three litres of Colonlytely, a liquid specially designed to take all pleasure away from the act of drinking. I can remember vile medicines from my childhood but they rarely required more than the intake of a tablespoonful. This is in a league of its own. It's CIA water torture. The first glass is bearable; the second, I think, yes I can do this; the third and I begin to realise how long the night will be. It's taken me an hour and i still have nine glasses to come.

I resort to various methods to bypass my tastebuds. I tip a mouthful as far back in my mouth as possible, minimising contact with the sides and gulp it down in one swallow. It kind of works. I hold my nose believing, falsely, in the story that our sense of smell is integral to our sense of taste. I still taste it. I search in vain through all the kitchen cupboards for a straw which I hope might deliver this stuff directly to my guts. I put it in the freezer to chill it to a temperature which will only register as extremely cold and disguise the taste. I open a bottle of soda water and sip between each mouthful. I'm still only at glass five.

And then the evil desired effect begins. I don't get much warning before the explosion hits and I regret that I am wearing button up shorts which don't exactly fling themselves to the floor. My family is not familiar with my Abbott and Costello funny walk but they're going to get to see reruns of it for the next few hours. I sit on the pedestal and wonder why anyone would choose to design a medication which induces diarrohea. It's bad enough when it arrives without planning and here I am filling up one end only to have it all reappear at the other as if my bowels were a drive through.

The nurse at the desk calls my name. She's wearing her green ribbon and engages me in mock Irish banter. She's well and truly claimed her Irish heritage and tells me her life story and genealogical bloodline. Meanwhile I'm more concerned about the possibility of Murphy's Law imposing itself on my day. I have an irrational fear of this simple procedure. My last words to my wife as I stepped from the car were instructions as to my fate should I emerge from the anaesthetic in a permanent vegetative state.

Robyn, hardly an Irish name, puts me through my paces; asks me a lot of silly questions about my past life; dresses me in a back to front gown to make me look like a character from One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest then saves the day by adding a Hugh Hefner fluffy white dressing gown as my top layer. She makes a point of telling everyone that she and I are the same age. I'm not sure if this is to boost my ego, her ego, or is simply her daily way of coping with the reality of the ageing process - finding someone the same age who may be about to have their last day on the planet. It's just another day for her.

And then I'm sure Murphy has arrived. The anaethetist, a lovely woman, the wife of the doctor doing my procedure can't get the needle into the first vein she tries, or the second. It's starting to feel like I back drinking my three litres of poison. Then, on the third try, with my panic slowly rising, she succeeds and I ask what I should expect but don't hear the answer. Next thing I'm woken and told it's all over and I'm in the recovery ward. I say no I just got here. The anaethetist was just putting the needle in I say. The nurse explains that the anaesthetic they use results in a complete inability to recall anything while under, even though you can still follow instructions. Was that invented by the CIA I ask or by the medical system to minimise litigation

I survived. I doubt if Saint Patrick ever had such an experience, though being enslaved by the Celts for years on end may have rated. He died of old age it seems. Well before the advent of modern medicine or the triumph of the Irish Catholics in evangalising the world with their papist nuns and other religious orders. Famously Irish priests have always had a fondness for a drink so perhaps we can thank them for bringing Guinness across the waves to the new world as well as for saving our souls.

More Magpie Tales here.

Country Funeral

2011-03-15T19:35:00.020+10:00

Sorry. I edited this slightly and "Blogger" won't accept my formatting. I am pretty good at paragraphs generally. Maybe read it as a james Joyce stream of consciousness. My Ulysses. START HERE................................................................. We haven’t seen Terry here much over the years said the Catholic priest as he welcomed an overflowing church to Terry’s funeral service. He was a salt of the earth bloke, a plumber who solved problems and did good in the community the priest went on and, unable to resist the temptation, told the story of how no one else could figure out how to fix the drainage problem which was threatening to swallow the classroom beside the presbytery until he called Terry. You stick to being a god expert and I’ll look after the plumbing and we’ll get along fine was Terry’s direct advice to the padre. Paul and I had almost missed the service. We’d travelled from Brisbane over the border into New South Wales the night before and it was only that we thought we were early that we realized that we were in fact late. At Paul’s insistence we had booked into the Murwillumbah Youth Hostel and had been told that there was an excursion on into Greenmount for a jazz night leaving at six forty five. The key would be under the witch’s hat if we were running late. The hostel sits high on the northern bank of the Tweed River overlooking one of god’s great waterways. Paul and his son had done an open water marathon ‘river’ swim here the year before and fallen in love with the place. I understood why. Now two men dressed in shorts and wearing sandals, looking every bit the couple, pulled up outside the blue facade and followed a painted red line leading through the gate to a courtyard and then to the office. Every surface was decorated in primary colours, We were greeted by Tassie who was in a bit of a rush, having already placed the key in the secret location known by half the backpacking population on the eastern seaboard. He directed us along another blue line which led up the stairs of the old colonial house and to the dorms. We were in hippy country. Perhaps the lines were a remnant of the days when everyone was so stoned they needed a simple system to guide them home. Turns out Tassie was as old as us, having arrived as a refugee from the cold of Tasmania thirty years earlier and never left. He was still wearing his original wrap around cotton trousers by the look of their ageing faded state. It was at this check-in point that we discovered we were now on New South Wales daylight saving time and we’d lost an hour. We declined the jazz excursion and headed into town for a meal. Twenty years ago it would have been take away Chinese or burgers served at the local Greek Cafe, ironically named the Australia Cafe or the Majestic but tonight there was a choice of two Thai restaurants both of which were packed on this Wednesday evening. Eating out in a country town invariably means an early night so after a bottle of wine and a Red Curry we headed back to our bunk beds in the men’s dorm. The next morning we left two young European backpackers snoring in their borrowed sheets and headed for Mullumbimby and the unexpected funeral of the father of our close work colleague. Mullumbimby is off the highway and is the gateway to the wild hills behind a lush coastal plain. The hills are home to large numbers of alternative lifestylers who arrived her in the 60s, the Age of Aquarius. The village of Nimbin sits further west in the foothills of the ranges and is their spiritual home. It’s every bit as iconic in Australia as is Woodstock in the States. Mullum is a sleepy town with one main street and a number of cross streets which house a series of pubs, one on each corner, and one of every type of essential store – hardware, newsagency, drapery, livestock and produce, a couple of banks, second hand clothing store and a smattering of cafes. It’s hard to get lost. We followed our noses across the bridge and as we rounded the first bend we were confronted with what looked like the crowd for the grand final of the local footy derby. There were cars everywhere. The church was worse. Ten minutes before the service was to begin it was standing room only and already three of four deep around the perimeter of this not inconsequential building. Terry had pulling power. What struck me were the men. Rarely had I seen such a gathering of tattoos, beards, crew cuts, and open-necked shirts. The place was crawling with country boys. There were women there, and they were country women, but the men and their work boots dominated. If you want a big funeral die young. Terry was only fifty seven, his wife looked like a young girl and the average age of the congregation was well below fifty. There was a bit of god stuff, the priest couldn’t help himself, but the most moving tribute was a short piece written by his Frances, his widow. It was a simple piece, the type you’d hope you might hear at your own funeral. ‘I remember the first time I saw you’ she said. She’d written it, not about, but to Terry. She talked about his eyes and his cheeky grin. We were all there, looking through her eyes. Nearly forty years ago. Two teenagers in love. Still. Terry was a footy player in his youth, then a coach. He took on and mentored dozens of apprentice plumbers, many of whom now competed for business with him. They were all there. The mates, the kids now grown up, and his grandchildren. At the Mullum Football Clubhouse the crowd who followed to drink and eat to his memory had packed the place. It was a district event. Every village and small town for thirty miles was represented – Byron Bay, Ocean Shores, Bangalow, Brunswick Heads. Terry had obviously plumbed or coached much of the north coast. And every bakery had been enlisted to fill the tables with a colourful array of traditional country tucker. I haven’t seen as many custard slices, coconut delicacies, corned beef and pickle sandwiches and party pies since I was a kid at the engagement party of my Aunty Ella in 1956. I almost expected to see a platter of multi coloured hundreds and thousands (fairy bread) emerge from the kitchen. There was a slide show of Terry as a young man, a family man and then as a grandfather. His ruddy complexion glowed from the screen. I’m sure it didn’t do him justice. The mourners drank on. Therese introduced us to her mother and sister and nephew. It was the nephew who may have got closest to Terrys direct relationship with the world. We were introduced to him as Theresa’s mates from Brisbane. He looked at us quizzically, Theresa added, as if to help him make sense of us, ‘I worked with them.’ He paused and said ‘before they gave you the sack.’ The honest voice of the 12 year old country boy. We all laughed at his audacity. I never met Terry but felt his presence that day, right there, in that moment. There, also, was the voice of our colleague. Theresa, direct and to the point. I’d never quite got used to that part of her. Now I understood where it was coming from.

International Women's Day

2011-03-09T10:25:00.004+10:00

Andrea has been nominated to attend an International Women's Day lunch today. Ironically the dress code at the Brisbane Club specifies that women must wear jackets. So there she is at 7am dragging out a jacket to iron to comply with the requirements. It's a lovely red 'power' jacket but it seemed a bit odd that a woman couldn't choose to make the judgement herself. A skirt and blouse was not good enough.

On the reverse side of things. I have a painter working at my place at the moment. His International Women's Day story (though he didn't label it as such) concerned his wife of 28 years leaving him recently. In his words 'she left me for a horse' It turns out she has developed a deep affection for this animal and declined to move to the city from the country after a ten year stint and has chosen to live in a stable with her true love. 'Fancy being cuckoled by a horse' he said. He has returned to Brisbane to be near the water and his boat.

As Andrea pointed out the other side of the story may be that he left his wife for a boat.
Life is funny!

Antiques - Me and my bike

2011-02-25T15:18:00.013+10:00

Oh my aching back. Is the pain worth the prestige?

I have a bike circa 1970. It's red and a little rusty. It has handlebars like the aptly named moustaches sported by English gentlemen in the era when bikes were invented. No gears, no handbrakes. Just me, two pedals and a bell. 'How do you stop' I'm often asked by curious young riders. They've never seen a single gear bike with hub brakes.

My father was a postman and somehow, I can't remember how, I bought this bike when he retired in 1981. I like to think it was his but it probably wasn't. I paid $5 for it. It was already old.

I've used it occasionally to go to the local shop for a litre of milk but generally my embarrassment at being seen in public on it has meant it's spent years languishing under the house, tyres flat and paintwork deteriorating. As further evidence of my uncoolness I don't own any lycra pants and my helmet has been an oversize yellow discard from my daughter in the early nineties. You get the picture. This is a story about humility and humiliation.

I am having a year off from work. My 'Senior's Gap Year' some of my friends call it. As an adult emerging towards maturity I have decided that I am resilient enough to brave the footpaths and local bikeways and 'come out'. It's a time to take risks.

I have a new second hand helmet, bequeathed to my by my son. I still don't wear lycra but times have changed. My bike and I are no longer old fashioned. We're now retro. In fact the latest trend in the bike world is a move to bikes with no gears or brakes - any brakes. Fixed wheel single gear bikes the same ones the professionals race in the Olympics. Its the new frontier, The bike that 'real' bike riders ride. They're banned from street use in the USA and some European countries. Makes them even more cool.

So I'm cruising along Russell Street past Musgrave Park and at the traffic lights these two blokes pull up alongside me. It's 10:30 on a Friday morning. I glance at their bikes and notice two things. First everything is silver, not the gaudy chrome silver but a soft burnished hue, and as my gaze tracks down the beautiful frame my eyes arrive at the back wheel. There I spy a single sprocket. No gears.

The lights change. We all pedal off. Slowly. No other option whan you have only one gear. 'Hey' I call out as they begin to outstrip me. 'Same bike' I yell, One of them turns and looks at me confused as to why I'd be talking to him, 'Twins' I say pointing to his bike and mine. He slows his rotation and eases back to have a look. 'Josh' he calls to his mate 'that's a posties bike.' He's impressed by the PMG sticker gracing the frame. 'Is that original?' he wants to know. I'm feeling pretty chuffed by this exchange. I tell him a 30 metre, ten wheel revolutions version of my story. 'Those bikes go for good money on EBay.' he says. I'm riding a valuable antique. 'I won't be selling it'' I say wondering exactly how much it might be worth.'

'Why do you ride those?' 'Makes you work harder. Don't like the lycra scene' he says. I laugh conspiratorially, proudly. Me in my daggy blue bermuda length shorts and home brand t-shirt. 'We call them mammals' I hear him say. Middle Aged Men in Lycra. Oh MAMIL I get it.

They go left and I go right at the next corner. I am riding high in my saddle, hiding my aching lower back caused by a serious case of over exertion on too many hills in the last few days. I must find the flat routes around my suburb.

Backyard Beauty

2011-02-21T16:15:00.006+10:00

Enough of rain and water and the pain and the thrill and chaos of it all. Today the sun is shining and it’s hot and humid. Sticky.

I’ve just come home from a Sunday afternoon drink with my son at Archive, the new beer café.bar in West End to find this woman asleep in my backyard.

She’s like some beached goddess. Pale skin, blonde hair, body poured over a blue mattress on deep green grass. It’s my wife. She’s in touch with the elements. She’s followed the cat and camped beside him in the coolest spot in the yard – in the shade cast by the house as the afternoon sun scorches its way across the sky towards sunset.

I grab my camera. As I do I’m having this strange conversation in my head asking me what is it about this scene that is so compelling. Why have I raced for my Panasonic? What is it about certain scenes, moments, experiences that demand that they be captured.

Can a frozen image ever capture what I see – the light, the surroundings, my relationship with the moment. The things that are invisible to the camera – the warmth of the timber house behind me, my son’s presence, the fact that this is an unusual choice for Andrea, my personal sense of beauty. All these things, all my senses are engaged and everything tells me that it will not be possible to do justice to this moment. And yet I cannot resist the urge to try to capture all this with one hasty click.
Backyard Beauty

I remember a young blonde

girl in a short skirt came

visit me in my alone life among

friends in a far away city.

amazing that on a blonde

day in the 70s

she arrived like an angel, kissed

me and changed my life

she's there again in

my blonde backyard on

another blonde day

escaping the heat of

the day burning with

the heat of my gaze.

Does lightning strike twice

is the sunlight blinding me

can this still live on beyond

the first glance and

is that not transcendant

beauty when the light

never fades and the gaze

is constantly re-engaged.

Liquid Silver Magpie 53

2011-02-17T18:27:00.007+10:00

Liquid silver, evil sight
Devil in my hands.
Spirit hostage to your light.

Further writing from Mapie Tales here.

Drizzling Beauty

2011-02-17T16:32:00.015+10:00

Right now I'm sitting at a coffee shop at a footpath (pavement) table enjoying a 'flat white' (latte in a cup not a glass) and a pistachio and caramel slice.

I'm watching the rain drizzling down around me outside Alberto's Shot. I'm looking for beauty. I've found it on this corner.

I'm inspired by Jennifer's challenge on her blog 'Realia'. The rain is soft and comforting. Beauty!

Two weeks ago this street was four inches deep in mud. People with shovels and brooms and lengths of wood were forcing the cappucino coloured slime back towards the river. (Andrew Porfyri's blog has further amazing images from the flood)

In Ontario Jenn tells me it's 20 below. I can't even begin to imagine that, but in beauty terms I am quite besotted with squally, white flecked expanses of water in forgotten harbours under overcast skies. Strangely it's stories set in Newfoundland and other cold climes which entrance me. Perhaps it's a desire for the extreme opposite of Brisbane weather. An alternative to blue skies and scorching sun.

Water - its a wonderful element. There's beauty in harbours and wild oceans, and quiet streams and still lakes in remote places like Dove Lake in Tasmania. And that's just the beginning.

Mowers as Metaphors

2011-02-15T20:31:00.003+10:00

I realised two days ago that my relationship with my motor mower parallels that with my wife.

I've written about my mower previously but have written very little about my wife.

I bought a new mower about three years ago after my previous mower and I had come to an impasse in our relationship. She (I shall give her the feminine gender for no particular reason) had reached the point where getting her started required a lot more coaxing than I was prepared to do. So, like any normal middle aged man with an identity crisis, I decided to trade her in for a new model. I did my research and compared performance, styling and cost and eventually drove across to the other side of the city to pick up my new 'Victa'. It didn't have a tried and true Briggs and Stratton motor but an Italian engine - a Takumsi. It was on special and I figured that a new motor mower is a new motor mower and hell, what could go wrong.

Well as it turned out my new mower had a personality - don't you hate that. I wanted a compliant workhorse who would do my bidding, no questions asked and with no hesitation. All went well for the first few months. It must have been a wet year and she got a regular outing. We were getting on fine. Then over winter she sat and, well, maybe she felt neglected because come spring her tone had changed. I did everything the same. Same petrol, same oil, same foreplay but no response. I swear I sometimes spent two maybe three days sweating and swearing until finally I would give up and rinse the air filter and replace it afresh. Every time I did this she started the first time. But every time it came to the nest mowing weekend I refused to accept that this was my fate. I wanted a mower that would start first pull of the start cord without me having to meet her need for a sweet and clean air filter. Now you would think I would learn, but three years later Iwas still saying to myself (and my wife) 'just one more pull on this cord and....' I was a slow learner.

Until last weekend. For the first timeI finally accepted who was in charge. I knew that if i changed the air filter before I pulled the start cord that it would start first time. I had been doing this for about the last three or four times but always reluctantly. This time I understood who was in charge. I relented. I bowed to the greater force. and it worked. we have reached an understanding.

And in my other life I have also accepted this. When my wife and I travel and whenever some fork in the road of decision making is upon us I simply say "yes boss" to her assertive suggestion that we do it her way. Of course the "yes boss" has a sting in the tail and it always pisses her off. She doesn't accept the implied "you always win" tone of my compliance, my henpecked husband routine. And so we begin another round of 'counting the times when you've/I've.............' Luckily we like each other and rather than end in tears and a new mower, it genreally ends in laughter. The laughter of the familiar. The game that never ends.

PS she does get her way more often than I do .... but don't tell her I said that.

Disaster is relative - Bill and Bu

2011-02-09T11:03:00.018+10:00

A recent comment on national character questioned the idea that we are "better' at helping each other than other nationalities. I am instinctively inclined to agree. Surely this is a universl quality. On the other hand I do think nationalities develop certain evident characteristics over millenium - influenced by geography, weather, history, intercultural conflict, class structure etc etc. Perhaps as my correspondent points out: it's easier to be generous when there is greater capacity.

Here's a story which touches on that point. It's mostly true though I have since interviewed Bu and the story needs some adjusting. The essence remains true.

Bill Diacos' Gents Hairdressing Salon is not flash. When you walk in the door there’s a row of four ordinary metal chairs on the right hand wall of the narrow space. Opposite this is a counter where Bill takes the money. It is old style. The front, lined with diagonal slats of varnished pine, mark it as from the seventies. It looks like some of the furniture I’ve seen discarded in the Council’s annual kerbside cleanup program. But this one is not salvaged. It’s original.

On the other side of the room is a stainless steel, cream-upholstered leather chair facing a large mirror. The leather is severely cracked and if not for it being an essential element of the seventies era décor probably could have joined the counter in the discard pile.

On the wall are some of Bill’s paintings. Bill’s not just a barber. He’s also a portrait artist and a long time resident of West End. He’s one of the Greeks who stayed.

More often than not when I turn up there’s a ‘back in ten minutes’ sign on the sliding door. I see it today and glance over the road to the coffee shop and spy Bill having his morning coffee on the footpath with his local mates. His Greek mates. I decide to fill in the ten minutes with a walk down to Avid Reader, the local bookshop, for some browsing. Bill’s still not there when I wander back so I duck around the corner to Bent Books and Shaun. I place an order for an out of print copy of Helen Gregory’s History of the Brisbane River.

It’s third time lucky when I return but others have also seen the ten minute sign and timed it better than I have. I’m third in line. This week all the talk is of the recent flood. Everyone’s a local so everyone has a story. I watch Bill put the final touches on number one and I shuffle to the next chair as number two takes his place in the leather barber’s chair.

Bill knows most of his customers by name. I’m fairly new to Bill’s having spent fifteen years working at remote suburbs in the north and west of the city. I’m on long service leave for 6 months so I’m making a point of building my credibility on the streets of my suburb. I’m in it for the long haul. Give me another eighteen months and Bill might look on me more kindly, recognize me as 'local'.

Bill’s efficient. I don’t even get time to read the Courier Mail – the local tabloid with no saving graces bar listing the screening times for films. Now I’m on that cracked throne and Bill is doing what he does best. We chat and laugh. Bill’s got a relaxed style and seems content with his lot despite having spent the best part of thirty years working from this rectangular box. We get to sharing stories of the flood and he tells me a few tales of Greek relations coming to the rescue of each other and then he shares a story about his aunt’s neighbour.

This bloke’s house went under - up to the eaves. His home sat at the lowest point in Gray Road. It’s a road you wouldn’t expect to flood. It’s three blocks from the river but it happens to be part of a gully that runs across the street, through a series of backyards and links up with the flooded river four hundred metres away. The scene is devastating. The footpaths are piled high with ruined furniture, household goods, toys – whole lives sit forlornly and sodden waiting to be carted away. The piles are so high they almost block the view of the houses behind them. Bill had been helping with the cleanup and offered his help to the Aunt’s neighbor who has no relatives and few friends in Brisbane.

He’s moved to this city from Indonesia with his Australian wife. Bill asks him how he’s going and is shocked by the answer. Bu says “This has been the best day of my life”. “What do you mean?’ Bill asks, “You’ve just been wiped out. You’ve lost everything.” “No no. It’s been fantastic. People just came and helped me without asking. This has never happened before. I have so many new friends.” Bu is from Aceh in Indonesia where the 2004 tsunami launched itself on the coastal plains. Tens of thousands of people died in that tragedy. The government infrastructure was poor, the devastation was total and the ‘event’ arrived almost without notice. Bu and his wife had survived but, as now, had lost everything.

“Didn’t people help you?” “No. Nothing. They were all too afraid to return to the coast. People stayed away. Because there were so many people and villages affected there were few people left to help. Everyone had their own disaster to deal with.” “That’s why I like it here in Australia, in Brisbane.” “It was the best decision I ever made to come here. I am very happy.” " I have a house and no one died"

Bill stands silently looking at the mirror. He’s seen a lot, heard a lot of stories but this one has really touched him.

Stories Leadership Resilience

2011-02-08T16:33:00.028+10:00

There's been some interesting ways that stories have played out in the life of Queensland and the local community in recent times. Floods, cyclones, inland tsunamis, whole communities swept away (and in recent days bushfires taking huge tolls on the other side of the country). The response in my immediate community (and others across Brisbane and the state) was remarkable. People came out without hesitation to help their neighbours and to help total strangers. We were told by commentators that this was characteristic of Australians.

I was a little sceptical at times, finding it a little jingoistic, but then heard one story (Bill and Bong - the next post) which seemed to support this and later spoke to an English friend who asserted that this huge public effort would not happen at the same level in the UK and other European countries. So are we self mythologising or is there something in the Australian character which is different or is it just academic?

Perhaps it's the telling of the stories that is significant. Do individuals, families, communities and nations have narratives which help shape them? The field of Narrative Therapy would argue that we all carry multiple narratives and it's in the choosing which ones to preference (or believe) that the shaping occurs. Narrative Therapists help people recognise the possibility of choosing a story of strength and optimism over one of the defeat and helplessness. We are the victims and the beneficiaries of our own narratives. Narrative Therapists have begun to explore the power of these stories at the community level using a process of listening, identifying issues, themeing, telling and retelling stories which offer honest pathways to recovery. This is being trialed in Aboriginal communities in particular.

In the days and weeks following the flood disasters I heard many stories told over drinks, dinners, in streets, on radio and in meetings, all of which spoke of the amazing experience of working together, of people taking the initiative, of resilience and the determination to survive. Almost all spoke of rebuilding, starting over, acceptance.

Even the Premier, Anna Bligh, not loved by many in this state (undeservedly in my opinion), received overwhelmingly positive response to her role. What did she do? She played the role of leader. She spoke of pain and of loss. She acknowledged the realities. Her constant theme was: "We are tough. We are Queenslanders. We will get back on our feet. We will get through this together." It was a bit twee at times but the community loved it. They trusted her. She tapped the narrative of hope and survival.

In stark contrast I have recently experienced a work environment where the leadership did not understand the importance of the survival narrative in challenging times. In that case the story of hope was not told and the result was an environment of despair and despondency. Leaders, as well as being good administrators need to be great storytellers. We can survive anything if we have hope. And stories can carry that hope.

Back to the local. I'm interested in what we do with these stories to help cement them within the collective psyche. Is that important or does the evidence of their existence indicate that all is well and we need do nothing? My gut feeling is that our personal narratives are powerful from the constant telling and retelling of the story, the narrative. Who can't relate to the family gathering where many of the same stories are told once again and the family storyteller reminds everyone of their family connections through story and tears and laughter. They slowly become normal, assumed as each generation takes them as truth. This is why the negative ones can also be so utterly debilitating.

Writing them down is powerful but in some ways the oral tradition is even more powerful as each member of the clan takes the story and makes it their own. Writing risks fixing the story and giving ownership of it to particular individuals. Perhaps the written accounts need to be even more powerful to justify their existence and be written in a form which invites reflection rather than passive acceptance.

I have volunteered to help write an account of the role played by the local community organisation in this recovery program. It is an opportunity to tell a story which acknowledges the importance of community strength and to bring to the surface some of the invisible networks which act as a binding agent within this community. I expect to find that a cool account of the week(s) will not be as effective as a series of simple stories which illustrate the range of ways the community worked together to overcome this challenge.

I am also searching for a way to embed a story component into the community development work I am involved in Vanuatu. The theme of that work is strengthening community ownership of decision making; strengthening the role of culture and tradition. At the same time there is a desire to gently challenge assumed norms in terms of the role of women and young people at the village level. Vanuatu is an oral culture. The challenge will be to work alongside the local leaders to find a narrative form which will carry the learnings from this work beyond the immediate project. What will the form need to be to ensure that the story is likely to be one which is told and retold? I suspect that it will need to be like the best of stories - dramatic, funny and grounded in the experience of local people.

Magpie 52 - Freezin'

2011-02-08T15:07:00.002+10:00

Tree to house: let me in let me in.
Mumbles: I should never have shed my precious leaves and skin.
Feeling naked and excruciatingly thin
Fall's not the time to drop anythin'.

Naked limbs not even fit to be home to a bug
Hey House! Sittin there all nice and warm and smug
Open up your arms c'mon give me a hug
Ha! Is that the best you got to offer. A shiver, a shrug?

Your one eye winking, mocking my dilemma
I don't have options stupid I'm a tree remember.
Yeah! I know its been coming since late September.
I'm plotting my revenge, I'm wood, I'm thinking the word ember.

I've a good mind to stay unclothed forever.
No shade for you or your inmates, never
No bird-calls from my branches come spring
No comfort for you nuh! I'm not gonna do anything.

More writing from the Magpie network of writers. Click here or on the Magpie stamp.

Jon Brooks Music - Toronto to Brisbane

2011-01-30T19:54:00.001+10:00

To my friends in Toronto and Canada more broadly. This afternoon I had the pleasure of listening to Jon Brooks, a Toronto based singer songwriter in a house concert hosted by my good frinds Mark Cryle and Paula Peterson. He sings songs of conscience (my term) and opened with a great version of Buffy Sainte Marie's Universal Soldier. Thie song I've chosen has the longest title in modern folk history but is based on the supposed statistic (quoted by Jon) that 87% of people in jobs are incompetent in their role - the converse of which is to ask the question: what if people were actually doing what they were really good at and found a way to tap their creativity every day.

I like the idea.

Mark Cryle was the support act. He writes some great story songs about local characters and historical events. He's a Librarian Historian and Songwriter.

When NORMAL can be Superficial

2011-01-28T13:36:00.005+10:00

All is returning to normal in this flood ravaged part of the world. The worst affected in this city are those in apartment blocks where the body corporates have to agree on how to manage the damage bill. Often this is most critical in new apartment blocks which have very small sinking funds and perhaps only 4 out of 40 apartments (on the ground floor) affected. While the managers and Body Corporates struggle with assessing the damage and seeking advice about legal responsibilities tenants live without lifts and in some cases unable to re-enter their premises until the repairs are complete. This may take months.

At least those in stand-alone houses can get on with their lives, however shattered.

Sadly the uphoria of positive community energy has begun to fray at the edges a little with politicians using the flood rescue proposals as a political football - god I hate Tony Abbott and his whinging moaning one dimensional negative attitude. I too have begun to fray at the edges as I can no longer tolerate small mindedness. Others are whinging about who gets assistance and who doesn't; still others bleat about being asked to pay $1.00 or $2.00 a week for 12 months to rebuild infrastructure.

Some are claiming the benefits of the government handout ($1000 per person) when the only impact was loss of power and maybe a fridge full of food AND as a result will be exempt from the Government $1.00/week levy. Good outcome if your conscience can wear it. Others still are claiming the $1000 and donating it back to local flood disaster funds.

If you're interested in how communities survive disasters there is a great two page summary which talks about the phases of the recovery process. We have just entered stage two with more to come.

Go to http://www.globalfacilitators.org/VirtLib/Resilience/Dr_Gordon_Summary_DisasterSocial%20ProcessTheory.pdf

Magpie Tales 50 Where to from here.

2011-01-26T21:57:00.009+10:00

Signs of our times

Mere mortals stand bewitched
before messages from the gods
directing us to new pathways
beyond our comprehension

For more takes on this prompt visit Magpie
Tales or click on the stamp

What's wrong with this picture?

2011-01-25T15:17:00.027+10:00

I walked down to the river at the end of Boundary Street yesterday and found myself looking at a scene I didn't recognise. The water, which a week ago had been lapping my front gate a block for the river's edge, was at the bottom of this steep bank. The marker staring me in the face told me I was five metres above water level. There beside me looking equally confused was a handsome water dragon surveying his home.

There's been talk on the radio this week of the old days. People have been talking about remembering when there were large sand bars at Indooroopilly and Kangaroo Point where people swam in a clear river.
This week it's back to the future. At the south Brisbane Sailing club on the West End bend of the river the flood has deposited a huge sandbank, a metre deep and four metres wide. It's beautiful river sand that has been dropped off by the floodwaters as it slowed to navigate this turn. The birds are loving it. I've never seen seagulls and terns relaxing on this point, but they're there in numbers now the water level has dropped. I'd be reluctant to swim here though. The water is still a deep caramel colour carrying debris from upstream.

Underground Angel

2011-01-20T14:45:00.005+10:00

(Scroll down two entries for Magpie 49)

Angel

A shaft of sunlight luminous and beatific
Streams from the heavens through a concrete skylight
Illuminating a dark underground cavern.
A scene from a medieval Christian painting
Mary at the foot of the cross
Christ’s ascension into heaven .

A muscled young man
Tattoo of a dragon on one shoulder
A floral tribute to a former lover on the other
Framed by a blue navvy’s singlet
Stretched across his glowing chest.
He is bent over a throbbing pump
Diesel fumes spewing into the dark basement.
Thighs painted with river mud
A living David
A tribute to Michelangelo.
He works unaware of his holy status
Intent only on his task.
Muck out this putrid mess before sundown.

It’s a scene watched in silence
By a small group of worshippers
Women mainly, entranced by this heavenly angel
A gift from god on this miserable day
In the midst of this devastating flood.
His straining back his rippling arms
Wrestle his equipment into its final spot
And he delivers on his promise.

Only then does he look up
To see the shy smiles
of a greek chorus of mothers and daughters
as the suns sinks
and the halo remains forever.

Remarkably simple stories amidst chaos

2011-01-20T13:16:00.008+10:00

Natural disasters create as well as destroy. Community members respond in remarkable ways – mostly positive, sometimes amusing, often surprising.

Mary

Mary watches her son and daughter-in-law carry her ancient belongings to the curbside. They are destined for the dump. As I walk by Mary catches my eye. She has retrieved a small battered wooden chair, the remnant of a child’s table and chair set. The chair has been repaired many times. Where there were once nails, mismatching screws now do the job; there is a piece of metal, cut in an odd shape, which holds the frame together like a cast on a broken leg. I see no value in it, nor does her son but Mary guiltily carries it back up the muddy path. That’s an age old game you're playing I say to her, The blokes throwing things out, the women saving things of sentimental value. It was made by my father she confides. Mary is 85 years of age. At least I think it was, she adds with a cheeky inflection.

Priorities.

The morning after the flood-peak the local streets have a ghostly air. It’s like we’re in the eye of a cyclone, waiting for the next onslaught. I walk the deserted streets. The locals have fled. The water is up to the roofline in some low lying streets. The river has found it’s victims and is not yet willing to give up its hostages. On a ridge, only two or three houses above the flood line, a lone figure calmly mows his front lawn. At this moment normal life seems absurd.

Black

Without power and all the familiar landmarks I feel disoriented. As I crest Highgate Hill where Dornoch Terrace reveals the valley below I am shocked to find a void. Where my suburb should be sparkling with lights I see only black. The black is fringed by the distant lights of Indooroopilly to the west and Paddington to the north. It feels like I am descending into an enormous pool of sump oil, still and deep. My headlights cut through the night and guide me down the hill towards Hill End. My family and I are alone on this unfamiliar planet.

Armed with a torch and a candle we find our way through our strange house which has been spared. With relief we find our familiar beds and crawl under the covers calling to each other to check that we are all really here. Then it’s just the frogs.

Quiet

The evenings in Hill End take on a new quality for these few days. No vehicles traverse the streets, no doof doof music pumps from the neighbourhood cars, no voices, no TV sounds wafting from neighbours houses. Not even the sounds of distant trains. Tonight the sunset seems particularly intense, a glass of sauv blanc tastes crisper than before the flood, there is an eagle we’ve never been aware of hunting from the tip of the high rise on the river; the lorikeets are louder; the flying foxes float silently along the chocolate coloured St Lucia reach, the house creaks. Tonight the candles are not adornment.

Andrea and I agree that there are some benefits to this imposed simplicity. Our children are not convinced.

New friends

Sophie, Margaret, Beat, Denise, Cheryl, Michael, Helen, John and John. The streets of Hill End are strangely alive. I have met neighbours I never knew existed; I have spoken to neighbours I knew existed but had never met. I have seen inside the houses of millionaires - the riverfront mansions of architects, investment bankers and doctors. On the opposite side of the road, in the workerscottages in the gully I see the lives of the less well off piled high on the footpath. I have worked alongside strangers; I have walked alongside volunteers from as far away as Byron Bay, the Sunshine Coast, Los Angeles.

We have all been treated with an equal disregard by nature. The river does not discriminate.

Magpie 49 - Watermark

2011-01-18T22:13:00.015+10:00

This is my mother. The photo was taken in the thirties when she and her girlfriends were "enjoying the war" as young singles in Sydney. It's not as old as Tess's Magpie photo but it does have a double significance this week. Last weekend (15 January) was the tenth anniversary of her passing. We were to gather as a family to mark the day but the floods in Brisbane intervened.

Ironically the image we had used as a metaphor for her life on her funeral card was that of the Brisbane River flowing ever onward. And now here we are, under water.

On the back of the funeral card we had included the recipe for her famed 'Boiled Fruit Cake".

Many have tried and many have failed to reproduce the moist rich flavour which she was able to produce every time. We always suspected that as her parting joke she had surely left out a secret ingredient from the recipe. So, as my tribute to my mother I have, this evening, attempted for the first time, to follow in her boiled fruit cake footsteps. To compensate for the missing secret ingredient I have added, perhaps recklessly, my own additions - which I will share with you not knowing if they will enhance or destroy the masterpiece.

I have dropped in a few pieces of quality dark chocolate; tossed in a handful of blanched almonds and added a half a cupful of almond meal with the flour. Oh, and a dash of rum early in the process - with a whiskey chaser on the side for the cook (irish whiskey of course). The test, as they say, will be in the tasting. The other device she used to fool us was her handwriting which i will leave you to decipher. (I can post a typed recipe if you're interested)

To my mother (written 10 years ago - my mother was a big talker, hence the last line.)

In the photo album with triangular paper corners
You and Clare and Eileen Connolly
Dressed in your hand-stitched pinafores of crepe,
Sepia toned in the rusty colours of the thirties
Off to another dance at the Hyde Park Y
Your faces alive with the fresh expectations of youth.

Sixty years on, in your parting hours
You lay, almost daintily under the bedcovers
Your young girl's frame returned
Your eyes still sparkling with the innocence of an angel
And smilingly, peacefully, you accepted life moment by moment
Generously offering tidbits of memory and sustenance to those around you
Filling the silences with your gentle touch
Reminding us of who we are and where we've come from.

There will be silences when you're gone
More than enough for us to remember you by.

For more writing by writers from across the globe go to Magpie Tales or click on the stamp.