"John Williams Hymn" courtesy of Pat Swift

November 15, 2009 from Pat Swift on Vimeo.

More Photos

(Snappy with the subject lines, huh?)

Top to bottom:

"Sorry" (photo by Baz/Viki Bennett)

JDW on senye (respect)

Being garlanded (photo by Baz/Viki Bennett)

Jayelle-Mary

Lap lap

Photos

From bottom to top (because I am not very good at forethought and planning with blogs):

James sandroing in the Cultural Centre, Port Vila

Eleanor and Briony

One of the tree winning canoes in a recent regatta

The Family of the Rev John Williams arriving in Dillon's Bay

Full moon

As most of you will know, I'm good at "idle". Honing my skills in rain-happy, Galah-skied Victoria is a pleasure. Clare kept me at half-hop yesterday, walking to the horse, greeting the cow, pulling up a purple weed (and then more weeds in Blue's garden later in the day) and exploring the gold rush area. So much is familiar - particularly broekie lace verandas. Good meals, good company, the technological wonder of a 4 way Skype conversation with my favourite sister-in-Poland. It's all just what is needed at this stage.

It's the 1st of a new month and time to move on to the next stage of this reckless and selfish journey. I catch the train out of Albury to Sydney just before midnight tonight and then a plane at 15h00ish tomorrow afternoon, landing in San Francisco at 11h00ish tomorrow morning. I've done things with torches and oranges and maps and date lines and it still doesn't make sense - but is still exciting.

And now, here's the thing. I started this blog because I thought it would be the easiest way in which to keep those of you who were interested informed on the Cannibal and Missionary Gig. That's now over. The USA doesn't do Internet Cafes in a big way; cellphones, laptops and wifi spots rule. It's going to be a lot harder to find proper screens and keyboards from here on. Without the Big Story, what interest is there really in the aimless wombles of an out of work attorney? I have my Scribble Books. I have email addresses through which to share the right moments with the right people.

That's right. You've got it. This blog has reached its sell-by date. Thank you for sharing the past few mind-blowing, fun weeks with me.

Please look after yourselves and give me and each other a wave through the full moon.

Williams and Friends Landing At Williams Bay

It happened.

Lamb to slaughter

"Is that a dorper, mate?"

"Yeah, mate."

"Good eating, then mate?"

"Yeah, mate."

Trailer tyre pumped, we hopped back into the ute, retrieved ice cold stubbies from the eski and proceeded to the Wodonga slaughter house where Jack skilfully reversed the trailer up to the race and we unloaded the 8 white hoggets and 1 black half-dorper lamb.

You'll have noted my casual use of farmyard language and the word "we". It would however be dishonest of me to let you think that I had played any useful part in getting to the top of a hill with a stunning view of sky and hills and bush and farmland; separating the hoggets from the alpaca ( the most delightfully gormless creature I have ever met); changing a trailer tyre or driving the Great Alpine Way of Victoria, The Place To Be. I didn't. Play a useful part. Jack and Councillor Ali did all of that. Ali in that magnificient red hat and green fly veil.

At the very last minute, however, I became a RUP (Really Useful Person). Seeing Cousin Jack struggling to complete the Killem Register with the blunt purple crayon provided, I whipped out my trusty pencil sharpener and did the necessary. That's how I earned the first stubby of the day. (Ja, the opening paragraph was full of lies; we didn't have an eski either).

Jack and Ali's house, perched on a hill in this beautiful Border district (border of NSW and Victoria, on the edge, I think, of the Murray Darling whatnot) is one of the most gut-satisfying buildings I have ever seen. It simply fits into it's environment and around it's occupants without a wrinkle. A double rainbow; roast lamb which (don't tell any of my Southern African friends) equalled the Karoo variety, and a double rainbow. How much further can one get from Sydney?

Speaking of which, it has just dawned on me that any reader might think that all I achieved in that Metropolis was a bad night's sleep, a visit to an art exhibition and a day at the beach. It was a bit more than that:

I saw

Magpies and Ibi, gulls and turquoise seas

Poofters and p'licemen trimming christmas trees

Turds on a toilet seat a spaniel in the park

A tramp with the DTs twins on a walk

Fat girls in mini skirts thin girls in tights

Tall ships, rusty ships and speedy river cats

Ventrolquist and church bell

Droning digi'doo

Blue skies, beef pies

Gilded kangaroo

Porky's night spot, Pleasure Done and Love Machine

Tawdry neon, sushi and French cuisine

Thai me up, Thai me down

All in Sidney town.

Swallows flutter in and out of the 97 nests in Clare and Rod's eaves here on the outskirts of Yackandandah, the clouds grow heavier with promise of more rain. Much needed rain in this drought and fire-ridden territory. It's a peaceful morning.

Meetings with the Pockely cuzzes have been few and far between over the past 40 years, but they are good. Relatively speaking, I'm a very lucky man.

Slip. Slop. Slap.

"Don't be a tosser", scream the signs along Bondi Beach. I was one.
For a start, I obeyed the instructions on kids' TV.

I slipped, slopped and slapped.

Slipped on a banana skin. No, that's just a hilarious joke. I slipped on a shirt.

Slopped on the Sunscreen (from Kgale via Thruxton and Erro).

Slapped (but not tickled) on a hat (the ugliest evvah!)

Now, kids may watch that TV (slightly more fun than anywhere else because they all do atrocious Australian accent impressions). They may even heed the message that a tan is not healthy, merely a means of introducing nasty cancer cells to you lungs, liver and kneecaps when you least expect it. But nobody who goes to Bondi Beach on a perfect Saturday gives a damn.

Here it is almost exclusively a question of slipping out of everything but your toned body and minimum modesty gear (with label, sometimes just the label); slopping along the promenade in your thongs (different from modesty gear, these go on your feet) and slapping everyone heartily on the shoulder saying "no worries, mate."

"A tan is not healthy", said the TV. I can see that on my once-abused arms and face. But I'm still the tosser in this crowd. Even after being super-kewel and paying P30 for a freshly squozed Feng Shui. Apple orange Ginger and kiwi. Bring it on!

Have you noticed the present tense? Yup, I'm tapping this out on my phone at the beach because I have run out of novel, can't draw muscles, tats and piercings and won't occupy my hands with a cigarette.

What a tosser.

Except when it comes to tossing litter. I don't do that. It gives SQUIB indigestion. Stormwater Quality In Bondi. Cute, huh? Come to think of it, all most as cute as Bondee. It's a limp-wristed sort of word and that's not anyone from outside Australia thinks of it. That's why you can hear the foreigners from afar with their wistful but macho Bondai!

The real problem though, is that Bondi isn't a beach. Sure, it's got turquoise water, acres of golden sand and even a little slip-slop (aka thong) fringe of foam between the two. But it isn't a beach. I lived in Durban for 8 years. I know. On a non-tsunami day (like today), the life savers don't have to rush around blowing whistles. There are no side-currents ripping children from parents' arms to sharks' jaws. Just a gentle slip-slop-and-slap of utter pacific ocean. What's more, then hamburgers are big, fresh and delicious. That's not "beach", that's just showing off.

Got lost on the way back. Sort of found myself wandering through a suburb without any clue as to where to find the 381 bus back to Bondi Junction for train to Kings Cross to fetch luggage and go to Central to catch train to Albury later this evening. I'll say one thing for NSW, service is excellent; provided you know exactly what you want and don't expect the server to understand or speak any English (other than "no worries, darlin'", even taxi drivers on their second night in town can do that). Aunty Korea, however, eventually managed to grasp my predicament and signalled her understanding with howl after howl of laughter. The bus stop was right outside her Convenience Stop door. How dashed amusing, what what?

PS if any of my American friends is reading all this rubbish: enjoy the turkey. I suggest you stay traditional, cooking with hot stones wrapped in leaves has it's place. Far away.