(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
Monday, November 30, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
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.
Friday, November 27, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Discovering the Forbidden
After reading the last post, Briony suggested that I may be heading toward the need for some splendid isolation. She was right and ... hold on a moment, I don't think you all know Briony. She's the intrepid and very professional BBC hack who was both brave and stupid enough to cover the Cannibal and Missionary Gig from start to finish. And has the collywobbles to prove it. "Professional"? What do I know of such things? Well, she was always ready to suddenly prop one of us up in front of her camera and start shooting incisive questions to which we were required to respond at once, and once only. When, however, it came to recording her "this is Briony Leyland at Williams Bay, Vanuatu" bits (I'm sure that is the technical word), she would pace up and down for an hour muttering and refining her lines, pull out her lipstick and powder, square her jaw and then do take after take after take in the search for perfection. I know this because somehow she had me leopard crawling through dog turds with the big fluffy microphone "off camera" while she flinced about in her green Mother Hubbard dress. (Drop that Look, Ms Leyland, you didn't flince. You whirled.)
Anyway, she was right. The togetherness of Cooee became overwhelming. Dawn was just breaking, I was sitting on the pavement getting some fresh air and peace from snores and farts when David sat down chummily next to me with his newspaper and proceeded to read selected reports to me. Waiting for my laundry (yes, people, I conquered a basement washing machine and tumble dryer all by myselpha and have clean clothes for Afric.... America), I was joined by Sarah who had a long and serious Conspiracy conversation with her hula hoop until Rebecca (in cellulite, denim and gauze) interrupted her: "Seerah! These mystics on the box!" "Cant yew see? Oim hevvin' a spiritchal momen'?" I got in before David this time: "Women! You can't live with them, you can't live without them. What can you do?"
Gracefully declining invitations for a seafood cook-up on the Roof or a guided insider tour of Kings Cross by Night, I slid away. Across the street to the Aussie Hotel. Double the price but half the stairs and a blessed Bed With Blanket Shower on Own. The chocolate purple and cream walls, soggy carpet smell and grumbling airconditioner are interesting but, it's BWBSoO and I enjoyed my siesta.
Oh dear, I do seem to have become rather focussed on this accommodation thing. There's more to my life than that.
Like Circular Quay. If one has to be a tourist, which one does from time to time, then this old phart in purple turtle pregnancy smock (Vanuatu - the black Carling Lager t-shirt sacrificed) has yet to find a better one in the world than that little corner of Sydney. Even in today's heat, the tourists just escaped doing that relentless "shuffle" and the Suits on the street positively preened. The harbour's beautiful, the boats even more so. I'm even warming to the Opera House. Only the Australians could make a rather ugly bridge and icon (even wearing a large AIDS ribbon) but they've managed and I'll let them get away with it.
As always in tourists spots, the buskers were working hard for little reward. I don't know why Ficus Benjaminica is learning to play the digeridoo. For the number of coins tossed, it isn't worth any more effort than the stick-basher percussionists puts in. Michael the ventrinloquist (whose wife's name is Kimberly-who-can't-take-the-sun but whose doll's name I didn't get) told me how soul-destroying it can be but that The Show Must Go On. The Holiday Inn lass invited me to "pillow fight my way to Bali with a friend" but left me alone when I started to tell her how I had no friends, other than those in Room 26 at Cooee. I sketched, was eaten alive by ants, eavesdropped and generally Isolated Splendidly for a long time.
And then ... and then I went into the Museum of Contemporary Art. And discovered Fiona Foley and her new exhibition "Forbidden". Being charitable, I'll accept Dora's SMS that she and Mike don't know this Aboriginal woman't art, even though she works from Brisbane. I hope though that they are able to remedy that soon. Her photography, painting and ... what is it called when one puts objects together in a sort of um "construction"? Artistically? Well, all of that is more than technically sound, artistically grabbing and as sharp a political commentary as I have seen. "Land Deal" comprises three walls of wonderfully placed axes, knives, mirrors, beads and blankets (dosed with smallpox and other nasties) around a spiral of flour (dosed with arsenic) - all depicting the way in which John Batman negotiated land rights from the Aborigine in 1835; but he also agreed to pay an annual rent. Two years later, the Governor of NSW declared the rental clause invalid because, he decreed, the land had been res nullius until Batman swooped. (Liz and Guy, that's different from res derelicta and I'll tell you why one day :-)). Exhibited next to "Dispersed", with its .303 cartridges, this had a big impact.
Foley's HHH1-8 (Hedonistic Honkey Haters - a series of black hooded KKK types) reminded me of Ann Gollifer's Mozambique "masks". There was another similarity in their work somewhere. Oh, yes, poppy heads v microspore. I mentioned this to the bored looking kiwi janitor, who perked up and scribbled details in her notebook. If Ann makes money from this, my hand is out for commission (and more than I get paid as a BBC soundman!).
You know that horrible stage of "white on white" that the Americans went through in the 60s/70s? Never got to me. But Nigel Milsom's "Untitled (it's held together my moving around)" is thick, oily, textured black on black (with minute splashes of green). A triptych that does hold together like that. David Lawry and Jaki Middleton defy the senses with their ghost train in "You're not thinking fourth dimensionally" (how did they know?) and I can't remember what Harvey's "As Veneral Theists Rest" looked like but, hey, great title, dude!
You're all looking bored. I'll shut up and go and see what dusk has to offer in this in-betweensy bit of Sydney where I holed up to put some sense to some of the sensations of today (the freshly squozen carrot, apple and ginger juice was certainly a sensation) and natter to you all. I know there's an "all" because people are writing to me and That's Nice.
PS: Mma Moshapa at M&K(B) has filled in the missing sound from the Vanuatu proceedings. She sent me, "lulululululululululu". :-)
The 1000 Pilates XP changed my life ...
... but that's not all, if I phone 0800 xxxxxxx right now I could find a sledgehammer to smash the TV set in Room 26, Cooee Backpackers, Kings Cross. Not that I would want to of course, it is all part of the charm. Along with David (who age is now set at 61 and status as alkie confirmed), Sarah (53 going on 78 who used to think she was shizophrenic but now knows she was part of a government experiment in her hippy days and is just waiting to get revenge through swinging her hula hoop), Craig (who emerged from drug slumber long enough to eat a mountain of rocket and flat bread off the floor, smiling benignly as he did) and Grumpy Nameless. He sauntered into the room just as I was trying to escape David war stories, Sarah's hula hoop and Craig's rocket and get some sleep on my top bunk. GN snarled at us all and flopped into a bottom bunk which had been littered with clothes belonging, Sarah had told me, to "young 'uns who were thrown out for not paying".
At about 01h00, the room filled with light and noise as the landlord - a very suave chinaman - pounced on Grumpy Nameless and, in a lengthy and painful sounding process, extracted money from him. About to leave, the landlord turned his spectacled glare on me: "Hu Yu." "Pleased to meet you, Mr Yu." "Hu Yu?" "Oh. I'm Dave Williams." "Yu Peh!" "I Peh!" "I check." "Yu czech?" "Huh?" I rather thought I'd got the best of that little exchange but he probably had more sleep in the long run.
And now, because I feel rather strange sitting on the edge of a still revelling street muttering about my self-imposed hardships, let's finish with some photos of places we've talked about but you haven't seen. Again, the photos are not mine - it will be weeks before I get around to dealing with those. These are randomly snaffled in contravention of copyright laws in at least 8 nations.
We have the Williams River, the bunkhouse, coming ashore as I did (without sandalwood) and Mount Yasur on Tanna.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
It's Sinny Mite
It's not the sort of thing one should confess. It's the sort of thing that nobody would ever find out in any other way. I got lost in the tropical jungle of Tanna the other night - despite having the biggest stars in the world Evvah! and a growling volcano to give me directions! I just popped out of my little bamboo and banana leaf hut for a drink of water and ... got horribly, horribly lost. So much so that after at least half an hour of padding around in the dark, convinced I recognised each coconut palm (which I did because I was playing hephalumps), I wrapped myself in my khikoi under a towering fern/palm (with no nuts to drop on my head) and went to sleep until it was light. Woke, to find a puppy dog curled up with me, grinning its head off as it pointed to my hut hiding in the shrubbery 20 metres away. I'm glad the nice lady swept my footprints away and so nobody will ever know.
We flew over the community formerly known as Dillon's Bay on the way back to Port Vila. Looking down at the narrow strip of settlement along the banks of the Williams River, I wished them well. All those smiling faces.
Last night of the tour was as all-consuming as all the others. The legal fraternity and drinks, fortunately not until very late as they were all working today. When I got back to the Room With(out) a View, old Tannie Esther and another of her grinning, on the ball grandsons (Luke, this time, I think) were sitting on the Veranda (with a view) regaling my fellow guests with the events. She'd popped around to say goodbye and make triply sure that I didn't want to take 3 mats, a banyan tree and banana lap-lap with me. I didn't, but was able to press her to accept a Kuru Kalendar.
And here I am, not far off the Rocks in Sydney. Sleek, rich, smug Sydney. Are the Islanders right when they say they are "richer" in being able to feed themselves without needing work or money? Or would they hanker for all this material excess? Having seen the differences between Erro and Vila, I suspect the latter!
The budget having been stretched further than it should (even a minor celeb with free bus rides etc, essential stuff - like beer for lawyers - costs), I followed the guides to the backbackers in Kings Cross. Ye Goddes! 5 flights of steep stairs (I thought only Amsterdam did that to me) to a small room with 4 double bunks, littered from floor to ceiling with other peoples' clothes, appliances (including a huge TV playing a documentary on Botswana) and um well kind of stuff I didn't want to investigate too far. David, an alcoholic of indeterminate age, introduced me to Craig (a youngish chinese gentleman who apparently spends his time doped up watching the TV) and um Sandy? Something like that. A bottle blonde well past her sell-by date but still selling. Strangely, I feel that my suitcase and dirty clothes are safe with them. Everything else is in Man Friday on my shoulder.
Despite what I have said about sleekness and material smugness, it is quite easy to spend whole days of entertainment without parting with too much cash in big cities. As long as you avoid tourist spots and shopping for anything other than a c&t. Which I can do. When the sun is shining. I am really not sure about the USA in winter. But that's next week. We'll see.
We flew over the community formerly known as Dillon's Bay on the way back to Port Vila. Looking down at the narrow strip of settlement along the banks of the Williams River, I wished them well. All those smiling faces.
Last night of the tour was as all-consuming as all the others. The legal fraternity and drinks, fortunately not until very late as they were all working today. When I got back to the Room With(out) a View, old Tannie Esther and another of her grinning, on the ball grandsons (Luke, this time, I think) were sitting on the Veranda (with a view) regaling my fellow guests with the events. She'd popped around to say goodbye and make triply sure that I didn't want to take 3 mats, a banyan tree and banana lap-lap with me. I didn't, but was able to press her to accept a Kuru Kalendar.
And here I am, not far off the Rocks in Sydney. Sleek, rich, smug Sydney. Are the Islanders right when they say they are "richer" in being able to feed themselves without needing work or money? Or would they hanker for all this material excess? Having seen the differences between Erro and Vila, I suspect the latter!
The budget having been stretched further than it should (even a minor celeb with free bus rides etc, essential stuff - like beer for lawyers - costs), I followed the guides to the backbackers in Kings Cross. Ye Goddes! 5 flights of steep stairs (I thought only Amsterdam did that to me) to a small room with 4 double bunks, littered from floor to ceiling with other peoples' clothes, appliances (including a huge TV playing a documentary on Botswana) and um well kind of stuff I didn't want to investigate too far. David, an alcoholic of indeterminate age, introduced me to Craig (a youngish chinese gentleman who apparently spends his time doped up watching the TV) and um Sandy? Something like that. A bottle blonde well past her sell-by date but still selling. Strangely, I feel that my suitcase and dirty clothes are safe with them. Everything else is in Man Friday on my shoulder.
Despite what I have said about sleekness and material smugness, it is quite easy to spend whole days of entertainment without parting with too much cash in big cities. As long as you avoid tourist spots and shopping for anything other than a c&t. Which I can do. When the sun is shining. I am really not sure about the USA in winter. But that's next week. We'll see.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Smalfala tok tok
I have swum with angels
heard volcano's raw
downed kava, ducked lava
flown from shore to shore
It's been a blast and I leave at 07h00 tomorrow, completely unprepared, for Sydney and the next chapter.
As always, finding a proper, affordable internet cafe and time to write properly isn't working today. I'm back from Tanna and the active volcano and jungles. I'm drinking with new friends tonight. I'm harrassed but happy. And finding myself as moved by emails from so many of you as I did flying over Williams Bay an hour ago, seeing that little strip of humanity and thinking on how for one day at least they saw communication and reconciliation as hope for future generations.
Will post when I can but Sydney is a Big and Scary Place!
heard volcano's raw
downed kava, ducked lava
flown from shore to shore
It's been a blast and I leave at 07h00 tomorrow, completely unprepared, for Sydney and the next chapter.
As always, finding a proper, affordable internet cafe and time to write properly isn't working today. I'm back from Tanna and the active volcano and jungles. I'm drinking with new friends tonight. I'm harrassed but happy. And finding myself as moved by emails from so many of you as I did flying over Williams Bay an hour ago, seeing that little strip of humanity and thinking on how for one day at least they saw communication and reconciliation as hope for future generations.
Will post when I can but Sydney is a Big and Scary Place!
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Church Decorations
Howzit again. I've just lost half of this post together with the images I was trying to upload to illustrate the last entry. The internet clock is ticking, Vatu are leaking from my wallet. If you don't mind, we'll switch to quick notes.
Chief Daniel and Esther (especially Eshter) are tumas kind. (Try it with "thank you tumas" and you see). They and the airport bus arrived pretty well simultaneously. With much embarrassment and regret, we had to decline the gifts they bore - large mats that simply can't be toted around the world. That didn't stop them smiling or Esther taking firm control of me, the "orphan" as the Milner-Williams and Bennets headed for the airport.
In my experience, the Presbyterians, Congregationalists, Adventists and others need something special to get them working smoothly together. 170 years of guilt followed by reconciliation seems to work.
A full string band in the choir stalls is apt to both rock and roll a congregation as the youth choir makes musical putty of the word Allelujah.
Poor Jennifer - that ankle was broken. She, Michael and Daisy flew to NZ to get it sorted out.
The remaining "team" joined the Erromangons in singing the "i sore" John Williams hymn. It seemed the right thing to do.
His Excellency the Head of State has a faint tremble; hardly noticeable until is pinning the Vanuatu Silver Jubilee Medal on your chest. One surprise after another.
I read the New Testament lesson: John 12, 3:20-32. You know the passage, Jesus and the Greeks. Kernels of grain dying to multiply (and then dying before multiplying). In other words, as the huge, smiling Pastor who gave the sermon said: Jesus was a coconut; John Williams was a coconut and we are all coconuts. (And that means that we can't marry breadfruit - supra on kalta).
David Williams responded so very graciously from the family.
We followed HE, the First Lady, Equerry, Acting Prime Minister and Ralph, MP out of church, shook each by the hand and then ... stood by to shake at least another 250 hands, many of those who had not managed to get to Dillon's Bay (sorry, Williams Bay) murmured "sorry" through blurred eyes. It's all so emotional, so hard to put together. I wonder if I ever will make any sense of it?
All these questions buzzing in my head: How does a 54 year old man who has only left the island twice to travel locally, learn to much about Islam?
Who was studying advanced genetics?
What are posters of Lucky Dube doing all over town? (The answer is that in December there is a "Remembering Lucky Dube" reggage concert).
Why didn't I bring my laundry in to the laundromat?
Do I wait for these images to upload? (No! Not only is the wallet leaking but WAB is protesting too).
Time to go and try to book for a volcano.
Chief Daniel and Esther (especially Eshter) are tumas kind. (Try it with "thank you tumas" and you see). They and the airport bus arrived pretty well simultaneously. With much embarrassment and regret, we had to decline the gifts they bore - large mats that simply can't be toted around the world. That didn't stop them smiling or Esther taking firm control of me, the "orphan" as the Milner-Williams and Bennets headed for the airport.
In my experience, the Presbyterians, Congregationalists, Adventists and others need something special to get them working smoothly together. 170 years of guilt followed by reconciliation seems to work.
A full string band in the choir stalls is apt to both rock and roll a congregation as the youth choir makes musical putty of the word Allelujah.
Poor Jennifer - that ankle was broken. She, Michael and Daisy flew to NZ to get it sorted out.
The remaining "team" joined the Erromangons in singing the "i sore" John Williams hymn. It seemed the right thing to do.
His Excellency the Head of State has a faint tremble; hardly noticeable until is pinning the Vanuatu Silver Jubilee Medal on your chest. One surprise after another.
I read the New Testament lesson: John 12, 3:20-32. You know the passage, Jesus and the Greeks. Kernels of grain dying to multiply (and then dying before multiplying). In other words, as the huge, smiling Pastor who gave the sermon said: Jesus was a coconut; John Williams was a coconut and we are all coconuts. (And that means that we can't marry breadfruit - supra on kalta).
David Williams responded so very graciously from the family.
We followed HE, the First Lady, Equerry, Acting Prime Minister and Ralph, MP out of church, shook each by the hand and then ... stood by to shake at least another 250 hands, many of those who had not managed to get to Dillon's Bay (sorry, Williams Bay) murmured "sorry" through blurred eyes. It's all so emotional, so hard to put together. I wonder if I ever will make any sense of it?
All these questions buzzing in my head: How does a 54 year old man who has only left the island twice to travel locally, learn to much about Islam?
Who was studying advanced genetics?
What are posters of Lucky Dube doing all over town? (The answer is that in December there is a "Remembering Lucky Dube" reggage concert).
Why didn't I bring my laundry in to the laundromat?
Do I wait for these images to upload? (No! Not only is the wallet leaking but WAB is protesting too).
Time to go and try to book for a volcano.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Mary blong yumi
The Rev John Williams stepped ashore at Dillon's Bay, Erromango at 09h00 on the 20th November 1939, despite having noted the ominous sign that there were no women or children on the beach.
At 06h30 on the 20th November 2009, John David Williams stepped off the cargo ramp onto the adjoining beach, into a welter of children, dogs, women, men and Chief William. Shaking my hand, he repeated his name, "Little Chief William". There was nothing little about his smile or position in the village. Pastor Bernard led me to his home for "short rest".
Stepped ashore? But I thought we were all flying. Well, that was one of the plans but this is Vanuatu where plans change. The airstrip had been fixed, the planes were arranged. And then the Prime Minister announced that he was putting a military cutter at the disposal of Erromangons living on Efeta who wanted to go home for the ceremony. And the pilots reported that there was one body too many to get the entire Williams party, reporters, communicators and camera crews over in 3 trips with two small planes. And someone remembered by idea of going by boat. In a cave off the Efeta shore (and that's another story) I was given 3 hours to be on board at Star Wharf. Arriving there I found that the military craft had broken down but the PM had chartered a cargo barge and she would sail, not at 17h00 but as soon thereafter as the last passenger may have boarded.
Reunited with Chief Daniel, his wife and two sisters, I made a quick dash to the supermarket for provisions. The Chief guided me to the biscuit shelves from which we filled two baskets. A dozen drinks and bottles of water made up the rest of the carton load. Back on board, I stowed these at the foot of a mountain of luggage, fencing wire, concrete posts, mattresses, agricultural equipment and other things that people take to their families when visiting them from the Big City. In some cases, it was twenty years or more since my fellow passengers had been "home". We were all excited, even the little brown pig who lives in the bow locker.
It was an interesting night as we all vied, politely, for space on, between or under the 6 four-metre benches and the narrow galleyways outside the bridge or the 12 bunks in the 2 x 2 metre "cabin". Between the diesel tanks, the captain's underwear, fishing lines, dustbins and um drums of stuff. The large foredeck was empty of cargo but not much used to us as either rain or spray or both kept it soaking wet all night.
Once underway, there was a general acceptance that the throb of the engines and smashing of blunt bow into wave after wave made it impossible to sing hymns and ballads through the night. While I was greeted, handshaken and even hugged by one welcoming person after another and exchanged shouted exchanges on religion, homelands and weather, the space around my Pilane Leather briefcase on a bench shrank to one haunch width.
Finding a folded tarpaulin next to the pile of belongings in a reasonably dry corner, I tucked my Botswana Blue khikoi around my neck and into my safari jacket, put my neck into the airline cushion, rammed the Ugliest Hat Evva! firmly down over my face and fell asleep. Only to be woken by some kind soul who had brought me a mat to lie on to protect me from the dirt of the tarpaulin. I fell asleep again. Only to be woken by some kind soul telling me that it was my turn in a comfortable bunk. At which stage I found that my jeans were sodden as the boat had started listing slightly to port and the deck was now draining into my corner. Heaving myself into the narrow space of the top bunk, where the diesel fumes collected, I fell asleep; to wake in the panic of claustrophobia. And to find that the sun was rising behind the glowering blur of Erromango. One by one the passengers emerged to lean over the rails and point excitedly at their old home villages (or the jungle where they had been); the tension and happiness mounted. We landed.
The rest of the Williams family were due by 11h00. The planes were more or less on time but the only vehicle on that side of the island capable of climbing the steep hill to the airstrip blew a tire and bent a rim on the first trip down. John and Dorie Travers (in their 70s), Jennifer Williams (30s?) and others, including Viki, James (6) and Eleanor (3 1/2) walked the last few kilometers. Except that poor Jennifer twisted her ankle badly.
Back in the village, the balloons were shrinking, the delicious smell of lap-lap cooking and growing stream of colourful Mother Hubbard dresses and t-shirts (and a couple of rugby jerseys, including a Springbok one) all suggested that there was a party in the making. Eventually, and quite late in the day, all were present and we, the 18 members of the family had been kitted out in Island Green - the girls in full Mother Hubbard and the guys in shirts.
It's still all a blur. Perhaps it will always be a blur. But ...
after sing-sing but before talk-talk, we had Drama. A drama that told the tale that has haunted this community for 170 years. Re-enacted annually. Mentioned at ever turn (e.g. TV weather "and still no rain in Erromango where they killed the missionaries" or on first day at University on Efeta "Don't talk to her, she kills missionaries).
Kids in leaf skirts and garlands playing on the beach. They see a ship (thank you barge Captain). They rush back to the village to report. A dinghy sets out from the ship bearing the Rev John Williams (in broad brimmed hat, bible held high), Mr Harris and two crew members. Hastily the Uswa Chief makes decisions and gives orders. Sandalwood trader have killed 300 natives in the past year or so. Only weeks ago, a ship load of traders came ashore and killed villagers in order to plunder their store of sandalwood. Should the white men in this boat cross this line in the sand, they must be killed.
We, the pale skins in green clothes, stood and watched as the islanders picked coconuts for our ancestor and drew that line in the sand and drew it and drew it an drew it again. We saw him, bible to the fore and ignorant of the meaning of that line, the shouts and gestures step forward for closer greeting. We heard the angry shouts and saw Williams and Harris run for the beach (the Rev carefully dropping his glasses in a safe spot as he ran) and into the river; overpowered and savagely beaten to death, blood darkening the water and their white shirts.
I can't describe just how powerfully this was acted and what impact it had. The bodies were brought ashore. More sing-sing (a hymn sung for generations, telling the story) and then the talk-talk.
Chief William greeted and told us and the children in particular not to "forget the past". Charles Milner-Williams made the key-note speech from the family, a measured, sincere and completely appropriate speech of gratitude, love, undertanding and reconciliation. Michael and David Williams followed with gifts from the family; beautifully engraved tablets commemorating the Reconciliation Day to be placed in the church and in the Missionary graveyard. I followed to present Chief William with a mat from the Chief we'd visited the previous day. And yes, I did grab the opportunity to speak briefly about "seye" (the village language for "respect". No surprises there, really).
And then. And then ...
... oh effword! Led by the actors in full war garb (one of whom was my friendly chief from the boat ride), the present day members of the tribe .... eff-eff-effword. The three leaders ran forward and flung themselves at our feet, wailing and pleading loudly for forgiveness. I don't know. 30, 40, 50 people behind them taking up the plea. Canadian cousin David and I (already established as the two most adamant that "forgiveness" was not what we were here for) couldn't take it. We stepped forward to pull the guys to their feet and ended up in a tangled hug. Still the cries and pleas and wails continued until Charles stepped forward, tears in his eyes, raised his hands high and shouted "People of Erromanga, enough! Please, enough! There is nothing to forgive, but we, the Family of the Reverend Williams, forgive you."
Okay, it all sounds, I don't know, cliched, corny, yucky, whateverish but while I was typing that, Bryony the BBC reporter came over for a chat and said how she had just been watching her tape and how completely stupefying and moving it was. With tears changing to shy smiles and more, what seemd like hundreds (and was certainly well over 100) islanders walked down the family line to shake hands and say "I'm sorry". Each of us muttered our own response. Faces I recognised from the boat or morning's hospitality added hugs to handshake and mutters. Small kids, toddlers and babes in arms were there to be sorry and to be forgiven.
Now, it that isn't enough ... coming on top of the announcement that from now on Dillon's Bay (named after a Sandalwood trader) will be called Williams Bay ... in compensation for the family blood spilled all those years ago, we were presented with ...
... Jaylene, seven years old, beautiful in long white shift and frangipani, tears glistening in her brave eyes as her parents handed her this dumbstruck gaggle of white folk in green clothes. It is kastam, our kalta! Fortunately, Michael and Charles had been given a little bit of warning and rose to the occasion by re-naming our new child "Mary" (biblical and the Rev's wife's name) and handing her back to the custody of her parents whilst promising to that the Williams family will play our part in her upbringing.
And so, Joan, Dave, Craig, Dawn, Pete, Gail, Jess, Nick, Liz and Guy
Mary blong yu-mi.
PS: Please don't tell Madonna.
PPS: It probably won't read that way, but this has been almost as harrowing to type as it was to experience and so I'm not going to proof read or correct. I'm going to have a soothing Tusker.
At 06h30 on the 20th November 2009, John David Williams stepped off the cargo ramp onto the adjoining beach, into a welter of children, dogs, women, men and Chief William. Shaking my hand, he repeated his name, "Little Chief William". There was nothing little about his smile or position in the village. Pastor Bernard led me to his home for "short rest".
Stepped ashore? But I thought we were all flying. Well, that was one of the plans but this is Vanuatu where plans change. The airstrip had been fixed, the planes were arranged. And then the Prime Minister announced that he was putting a military cutter at the disposal of Erromangons living on Efeta who wanted to go home for the ceremony. And the pilots reported that there was one body too many to get the entire Williams party, reporters, communicators and camera crews over in 3 trips with two small planes. And someone remembered by idea of going by boat. In a cave off the Efeta shore (and that's another story) I was given 3 hours to be on board at Star Wharf. Arriving there I found that the military craft had broken down but the PM had chartered a cargo barge and she would sail, not at 17h00 but as soon thereafter as the last passenger may have boarded.
Reunited with Chief Daniel, his wife and two sisters, I made a quick dash to the supermarket for provisions. The Chief guided me to the biscuit shelves from which we filled two baskets. A dozen drinks and bottles of water made up the rest of the carton load. Back on board, I stowed these at the foot of a mountain of luggage, fencing wire, concrete posts, mattresses, agricultural equipment and other things that people take to their families when visiting them from the Big City. In some cases, it was twenty years or more since my fellow passengers had been "home". We were all excited, even the little brown pig who lives in the bow locker.
It was an interesting night as we all vied, politely, for space on, between or under the 6 four-metre benches and the narrow galleyways outside the bridge or the 12 bunks in the 2 x 2 metre "cabin". Between the diesel tanks, the captain's underwear, fishing lines, dustbins and um drums of stuff. The large foredeck was empty of cargo but not much used to us as either rain or spray or both kept it soaking wet all night.
Once underway, there was a general acceptance that the throb of the engines and smashing of blunt bow into wave after wave made it impossible to sing hymns and ballads through the night. While I was greeted, handshaken and even hugged by one welcoming person after another and exchanged shouted exchanges on religion, homelands and weather, the space around my Pilane Leather briefcase on a bench shrank to one haunch width.
Finding a folded tarpaulin next to the pile of belongings in a reasonably dry corner, I tucked my Botswana Blue khikoi around my neck and into my safari jacket, put my neck into the airline cushion, rammed the Ugliest Hat Evva! firmly down over my face and fell asleep. Only to be woken by some kind soul who had brought me a mat to lie on to protect me from the dirt of the tarpaulin. I fell asleep again. Only to be woken by some kind soul telling me that it was my turn in a comfortable bunk. At which stage I found that my jeans were sodden as the boat had started listing slightly to port and the deck was now draining into my corner. Heaving myself into the narrow space of the top bunk, where the diesel fumes collected, I fell asleep; to wake in the panic of claustrophobia. And to find that the sun was rising behind the glowering blur of Erromango. One by one the passengers emerged to lean over the rails and point excitedly at their old home villages (or the jungle where they had been); the tension and happiness mounted. We landed.
The rest of the Williams family were due by 11h00. The planes were more or less on time but the only vehicle on that side of the island capable of climbing the steep hill to the airstrip blew a tire and bent a rim on the first trip down. John and Dorie Travers (in their 70s), Jennifer Williams (30s?) and others, including Viki, James (6) and Eleanor (3 1/2) walked the last few kilometers. Except that poor Jennifer twisted her ankle badly.
Back in the village, the balloons were shrinking, the delicious smell of lap-lap cooking and growing stream of colourful Mother Hubbard dresses and t-shirts (and a couple of rugby jerseys, including a Springbok one) all suggested that there was a party in the making. Eventually, and quite late in the day, all were present and we, the 18 members of the family had been kitted out in Island Green - the girls in full Mother Hubbard and the guys in shirts.
It's still all a blur. Perhaps it will always be a blur. But ...
after sing-sing but before talk-talk, we had Drama. A drama that told the tale that has haunted this community for 170 years. Re-enacted annually. Mentioned at ever turn (e.g. TV weather "and still no rain in Erromango where they killed the missionaries" or on first day at University on Efeta "Don't talk to her, she kills missionaries).
Kids in leaf skirts and garlands playing on the beach. They see a ship (thank you barge Captain). They rush back to the village to report. A dinghy sets out from the ship bearing the Rev John Williams (in broad brimmed hat, bible held high), Mr Harris and two crew members. Hastily the Uswa Chief makes decisions and gives orders. Sandalwood trader have killed 300 natives in the past year or so. Only weeks ago, a ship load of traders came ashore and killed villagers in order to plunder their store of sandalwood. Should the white men in this boat cross this line in the sand, they must be killed.
We, the pale skins in green clothes, stood and watched as the islanders picked coconuts for our ancestor and drew that line in the sand and drew it and drew it an drew it again. We saw him, bible to the fore and ignorant of the meaning of that line, the shouts and gestures step forward for closer greeting. We heard the angry shouts and saw Williams and Harris run for the beach (the Rev carefully dropping his glasses in a safe spot as he ran) and into the river; overpowered and savagely beaten to death, blood darkening the water and their white shirts.
I can't describe just how powerfully this was acted and what impact it had. The bodies were brought ashore. More sing-sing (a hymn sung for generations, telling the story) and then the talk-talk.
Chief William greeted and told us and the children in particular not to "forget the past". Charles Milner-Williams made the key-note speech from the family, a measured, sincere and completely appropriate speech of gratitude, love, undertanding and reconciliation. Michael and David Williams followed with gifts from the family; beautifully engraved tablets commemorating the Reconciliation Day to be placed in the church and in the Missionary graveyard. I followed to present Chief William with a mat from the Chief we'd visited the previous day. And yes, I did grab the opportunity to speak briefly about "seye" (the village language for "respect". No surprises there, really).
And then. And then ...
... oh effword! Led by the actors in full war garb (one of whom was my friendly chief from the boat ride), the present day members of the tribe .... eff-eff-effword. The three leaders ran forward and flung themselves at our feet, wailing and pleading loudly for forgiveness. I don't know. 30, 40, 50 people behind them taking up the plea. Canadian cousin David and I (already established as the two most adamant that "forgiveness" was not what we were here for) couldn't take it. We stepped forward to pull the guys to their feet and ended up in a tangled hug. Still the cries and pleas and wails continued until Charles stepped forward, tears in his eyes, raised his hands high and shouted "People of Erromanga, enough! Please, enough! There is nothing to forgive, but we, the Family of the Reverend Williams, forgive you."
Okay, it all sounds, I don't know, cliched, corny, yucky, whateverish but while I was typing that, Bryony the BBC reporter came over for a chat and said how she had just been watching her tape and how completely stupefying and moving it was. With tears changing to shy smiles and more, what seemd like hundreds (and was certainly well over 100) islanders walked down the family line to shake hands and say "I'm sorry". Each of us muttered our own response. Faces I recognised from the boat or morning's hospitality added hugs to handshake and mutters. Small kids, toddlers and babes in arms were there to be sorry and to be forgiven.
Now, it that isn't enough ... coming on top of the announcement that from now on Dillon's Bay (named after a Sandalwood trader) will be called Williams Bay ... in compensation for the family blood spilled all those years ago, we were presented with ...
... Jaylene, seven years old, beautiful in long white shift and frangipani, tears glistening in her brave eyes as her parents handed her this dumbstruck gaggle of white folk in green clothes. It is kastam, our kalta! Fortunately, Michael and Charles had been given a little bit of warning and rose to the occasion by re-naming our new child "Mary" (biblical and the Rev's wife's name) and handing her back to the custody of her parents whilst promising to that the Williams family will play our part in her upbringing.
And so, Joan, Dave, Craig, Dawn, Pete, Gail, Jess, Nick, Liz and Guy
Mary blong yu-mi.
PS: Please don't tell Madonna.
PPS: It probably won't read that way, but this has been almost as harrowing to type as it was to experience and so I'm not going to proof read or correct. I'm going to have a soothing Tusker.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
What price a bride?
When Cynthia. from Fortuna Island, married Willy from Efeta, his family had to pay hers: 2 bulls and 80,000 VT (Vatu BWP1.00 = VT12.50; STG1 = VT 125.00) in instalments. They have two children, David and Dephanie. For each, the in-laws have to cough up one pig (with half-tooth) and 10,000 VT. The animals have been handed over but the cash is being withheld because Cynthia's brother is negotiating to marry a girl from Willy's village, in which case set-off will be applied.
On the 80-odd islands making up Vanuatu there are some 300 customary units and so if you're selling your daughter off, don't be too suprised if instead of a half-toothed pig (and that's an interesting story on its own) you receive mugs, plates, calico, axes and iron pots.
Speaking of which, Cynthia thinks that killing missionaries is understandable but baking them is going too far. The family stayed well clear of all that kind of thing while talking to Bryony's camera for the BBC yesterday afternoon. We also pointed dramatically at a rainbow and talked utter, forced rubbish as a "family at the tropical seaside" to link into previous footage of Charles in Hampshire. It rained for both sessions.
If the images I've stolen for today download before I have to hail a bus to meet the team and visit a cultural village, there will be one of Hideaway Island. Great snorkelling and diving. I set out to get there yesterday. 2.5km along the corrugated gravel road from Benjor to the main road; past horses and big trees and property after property with "for sale" notices. Great buys, unless you believe Al Gore. Then about 1.5 km along the black beach. Which took a while. The guys digging bakkie loads of sand should buy licences to do so but "we are local and God gave it to us, you foreigners should pay". The 7 kids (8 to 15 yo) should have been in school but grandad needed help in pulling in the fishing net (the 6 dogs were just there for the fun); Cynthia had her story to tell; a gravestone needed to be sketched; and then, 200 metres from the Hideaway ferry, it was time to walk home for the BBC filming. Now, if that isn't travelling hopefully without arrival, I don't know what is.
The fish in wine sauce at le Gecko was excellent, the drinks effective and staying over at "Room with a View" a far better idea than the trip through Mele to Benjor in the late hours. Breakfast was interesting too - it doesn't look as if these images are going to load in time but one shows that view. Rod is from Darwin but spends his time in Vanuatu and East Timor working on land law reform. See what I mean? An interesting breakfast.
Must go. Must go. I've just had an email from Charles, they caught an earlier bus and are en route to the UNESCO Cultural Village. I don't want to be the tail end davey of the team, do I? There's been some mention of some of us having to fly to Erromango this afternoon instead of tomorrow morning. I've volunteered. That means that I probably won't be near internet access until Sunday or Monday. If you don't hear from be after than ... well, you'll know what was for lunch!
On the 80-odd islands making up Vanuatu there are some 300 customary units and so if you're selling your daughter off, don't be too suprised if instead of a half-toothed pig (and that's an interesting story on its own) you receive mugs, plates, calico, axes and iron pots.
Speaking of which, Cynthia thinks that killing missionaries is understandable but baking them is going too far. The family stayed well clear of all that kind of thing while talking to Bryony's camera for the BBC yesterday afternoon. We also pointed dramatically at a rainbow and talked utter, forced rubbish as a "family at the tropical seaside" to link into previous footage of Charles in Hampshire. It rained for both sessions.
If the images I've stolen for today download before I have to hail a bus to meet the team and visit a cultural village, there will be one of Hideaway Island. Great snorkelling and diving. I set out to get there yesterday. 2.5km along the corrugated gravel road from Benjor to the main road; past horses and big trees and property after property with "for sale" notices. Great buys, unless you believe Al Gore. Then about 1.5 km along the black beach. Which took a while. The guys digging bakkie loads of sand should buy licences to do so but "we are local and God gave it to us, you foreigners should pay". The 7 kids (8 to 15 yo) should have been in school but grandad needed help in pulling in the fishing net (the 6 dogs were just there for the fun); Cynthia had her story to tell; a gravestone needed to be sketched; and then, 200 metres from the Hideaway ferry, it was time to walk home for the BBC filming. Now, if that isn't travelling hopefully without arrival, I don't know what is.
The fish in wine sauce at le Gecko was excellent, the drinks effective and staying over at "Room with a View" a far better idea than the trip through Mele to Benjor in the late hours. Breakfast was interesting too - it doesn't look as if these images are going to load in time but one shows that view. Rod is from Darwin but spends his time in Vanuatu and East Timor working on land law reform. See what I mean? An interesting breakfast.
Must go. Must go. I've just had an email from Charles, they caught an earlier bus and are en route to the UNESCO Cultural Village. I don't want to be the tail end davey of the team, do I? There's been some mention of some of us having to fly to Erromango this afternoon instead of tomorrow morning. I've volunteered. That means that I probably won't be near internet access until Sunday or Monday. If you don't hear from be after than ... well, you'll know what was for lunch!
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Adding weight shedding load
Well, Gentle Readers, when we last parted, I was grumpy. From sleeping in the afternoon. Never nice. But I improved.
Mana and his bus whisked us into town, a little boat whisked us over to here:
http://www.accommodation-photos-vanuatu.com/Accommodation%20in%20Efate%20and%20Port%20Vila%20Vanuatu/Iririki%20Island%20Resort%20Port%20Vila%20Vanuatu/slides/iririki_helicopter-iririki_view_north.html
We walked from the landing (the one jutting out on "this" side of Iririki Island, turned left and settled just above the beach you can see. Where we tucked in the gins and tonics, mangoes madnesses and Tusker (remember, Tusker blong yumi) before ordering:
Margaret & Viki: Seafood platter for 2 (they managed to finish it but looked a bit like startled dugongs by the end of it);
Charles: Duck curry with raw quail's egg. Pronounced excellent.
Baz: A green curry chicken, hot, delicious.
JDW: Vanuatu beef fillet on mash potato. Hmmmm. THey say their beef is the "best" but it isn't. Not really.
Interestingly, and I am not complaining here just being interested, the meal cost more per head than the Chinese in Brisbane (or anywhere in Gabs). :-) We're tourists!
Oh dear, the Macarena is playing us in to breakfast.
SoI'llsayveryquickly that the whole of Port Vila plunged into darkness just as we were leaving Irikiri and it was all A Very Big Adventure Involving Singing Christmas Carols on a Ferry.
Seeya all.
D
Mana and his bus whisked us into town, a little boat whisked us over to here:
http://www.accommodation-photos-vanuatu.com/Accommodation%20in%20Efate%20and%20Port%20Vila%20Vanuatu/Iririki%20Island%20Resort%20Port%20Vila%20Vanuatu/slides/iririki_helicopter-iririki_view_north.html
We walked from the landing (the one jutting out on "this" side of Iririki Island, turned left and settled just above the beach you can see. Where we tucked in the gins and tonics, mangoes madnesses and Tusker (remember, Tusker blong yumi) before ordering:
Margaret & Viki: Seafood platter for 2 (they managed to finish it but looked a bit like startled dugongs by the end of it);
Charles: Duck curry with raw quail's egg. Pronounced excellent.
Baz: A green curry chicken, hot, delicious.
JDW: Vanuatu beef fillet on mash potato. Hmmmm. THey say their beef is the "best" but it isn't. Not really.
Interestingly, and I am not complaining here just being interested, the meal cost more per head than the Chinese in Brisbane (or anywhere in Gabs). :-) We're tourists!
Oh dear, the Macarena is playing us in to breakfast.
SoI'llsayveryquickly that the whole of Port Vila plunged into darkness just as we were leaving Irikiri and it was all A Very Big Adventure Involving Singing Christmas Carols on a Ferry.
Seeya all.
D
Monday, November 16, 2009
Tusdae blong kolaps
Yup, it's about the right distance into the holiday - nafi day. There are reefs to snorkle, cascades to climb, rain forests to explore, horses to ride, shops in which to shop, boats in which to boat and ...
... I slop from the little beach to the lawn and back again failing in any attempts to paint, unable to produce even appalling poems about gum wood (thank you, Rita, for that encouragement :-)) and feeling guilty about groping for the energy to be team-spirited with the family.
Okay. I've whinged. I've whined. I'm off to join the team for a beer.
I hope the rest of the world and all of God's little critter-bugs are looking after themselves because I'm certainly not. Not today.
... I slop from the little beach to the lawn and back again failing in any attempts to paint, unable to produce even appalling poems about gum wood (thank you, Rita, for that encouragement :-)) and feeling guilty about groping for the energy to be team-spirited with the family.
Okay. I've whinged. I've whined. I'm off to join the team for a beer.
I hope the rest of the world and all of God's little critter-bugs are looking after themselves because I'm certainly not. Not today.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Mi laekem lao wik
Howzit. No pics today, I'm afraid. The Cafe Pacific Internet Cafe is slower that the old Notwane connection!
I was going to regale you with stories of cake (vanilla and coconut) between Brisbane and Melbourne; the ping ping Be-doop ping ping be-doop welcome at Bauerfield Airport by the Mangawira Local String Band be-doop; and especially about the camera flashes that accompanied the welcome by Chief Daniel (kgosi of the Erromangons living on Efeta), his sisters, niece and grandson (o-lei, o-lei, o-lei); waking Charles, Margaret, Viki and Baz (but not James and Eleanor) in the Big Chief Villa at Benjor Beach Resort; waking to waves and water; more ad hoc photo opps at the National Culture Centre and being dogged with "are you one of THEM" all around town. Oh, the price of radio and TV coverage.
But I'm not going to talk about any of that. We'll be Reconciling later in the week.
The Big News and Excitement today was stumbling across - oh, wait a minute. I may forget to ever mention the Wild Friendly Crocodiles of um er that Vanuatuan island up north beginning with M. Back in 1847, Bishop Selwyn stopped by in his wooden sailing ship, on the deck of which two small crododiles lurked in a tub of water. (Don't ask). Scenting the fresh water from the cascading waterfalls, they scrambled out of their tub, across the deck, launched themselves into the briny ocean and off to the rain-sweet streams. When His Grace awoke and saw what happened, he shook his fist in the general direction of the crocs and cursed them, "Do what you wish but never eat humans". Since 1847, they haven't eaten humans. Wild but Friendly, you see! (The things you learn by skulking on street corner with Pilane Leathers over your shoulder).
Back to what really got me excited. TUGETA LONG LOA TUGETA LONG JASTIS. Pretend it's seTswana, pronouce each letter and remember that "long" means in, onto, at, by, beside, alongside (okay, you gottit - prepositions). You'll get the picture. Vanuatu Law Week. A whole collection of Government and NGO stalls aimed at bringing law to the people. The Plis Fos has superb, simple posters calling for RESPECT (:-) if you know me, you'll know why this caught my attention) and applying the concept to everything from vilens long wimmin pikanini, through dagga to alcohol. I can't wait to get home and share that campaign with HE General Seretse Khama Ian Khama. The Public Solicitor's office is actually doing all the things my Legal Aid Report recommended for Botswana. The Ombudsman ... well ombuds successfully. NGO's make a difference against corruption. Everyone smiles and the Acapella Blong Jastis choir sings. Under coconut palms. And banyan trees.
Tell you what. I got a big kick out of it all, and meeting all the folks manning the stalls. I'm going back on Thursday for more - a tour of the court, speeches and theatre and and and. Going to have to leave it there; I'm due to drink beer (mi laekem Tusker blong yumi) with public solicitors who are hoping to organise some private ones to join us. Didn't plan it today, but it is happening. And they are going to try to get me to meet Government Ministers and people. Not because I am one of "Them" but because I'm "Me". I like being both.
PS: Remind me to snorkel some time, please.
I was going to regale you with stories of cake (vanilla and coconut) between Brisbane and Melbourne; the ping ping Be-doop ping ping be-doop welcome at Bauerfield Airport by the Mangawira Local String Band be-doop; and especially about the camera flashes that accompanied the welcome by Chief Daniel (kgosi of the Erromangons living on Efeta), his sisters, niece and grandson (o-lei, o-lei, o-lei); waking Charles, Margaret, Viki and Baz (but not James and Eleanor) in the Big Chief Villa at Benjor Beach Resort; waking to waves and water; more ad hoc photo opps at the National Culture Centre and being dogged with "are you one of THEM" all around town. Oh, the price of radio and TV coverage.
But I'm not going to talk about any of that. We'll be Reconciling later in the week.
The Big News and Excitement today was stumbling across - oh, wait a minute. I may forget to ever mention the Wild Friendly Crocodiles of um er that Vanuatuan island up north beginning with M. Back in 1847, Bishop Selwyn stopped by in his wooden sailing ship, on the deck of which two small crododiles lurked in a tub of water. (Don't ask). Scenting the fresh water from the cascading waterfalls, they scrambled out of their tub, across the deck, launched themselves into the briny ocean and off to the rain-sweet streams. When His Grace awoke and saw what happened, he shook his fist in the general direction of the crocs and cursed them, "Do what you wish but never eat humans". Since 1847, they haven't eaten humans. Wild but Friendly, you see! (The things you learn by skulking on street corner with Pilane Leathers over your shoulder).
Back to what really got me excited. TUGETA LONG LOA TUGETA LONG JASTIS. Pretend it's seTswana, pronouce each letter and remember that "long" means in, onto, at, by, beside, alongside (okay, you gottit - prepositions). You'll get the picture. Vanuatu Law Week. A whole collection of Government and NGO stalls aimed at bringing law to the people. The Plis Fos has superb, simple posters calling for RESPECT (:-) if you know me, you'll know why this caught my attention) and applying the concept to everything from vilens long wimmin pikanini, through dagga to alcohol. I can't wait to get home and share that campaign with HE General Seretse Khama Ian Khama. The Public Solicitor's office is actually doing all the things my Legal Aid Report recommended for Botswana. The Ombudsman ... well ombuds successfully. NGO's make a difference against corruption. Everyone smiles and the Acapella Blong Jastis choir sings. Under coconut palms. And banyan trees.
Tell you what. I got a big kick out of it all, and meeting all the folks manning the stalls. I'm going back on Thursday for more - a tour of the court, speeches and theatre and and and. Going to have to leave it there; I'm due to drink beer (mi laekem Tusker blong yumi) with public solicitors who are hoping to organise some private ones to join us. Didn't plan it today, but it is happening. And they are going to try to get me to meet Government Ministers and people. Not because I am one of "Them" but because I'm "Me". I like being both.
PS: Remind me to snorkel some time, please.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Dugong it!
I'm sorry. The photos fell out of my loot-from-the-web bag in the wrong order. Please start with the bottom one. It shows how Queensland is fraying at the edges. One particularly large tear in the hem has produced Moreton Bay which tucks in between Caloundra, Moreton Island and Stradbroke Islands (north and south). This allows one to say "we're poppin' over to Stradie this arvo, darlin'", if one wants to. It is a very beautiful stretch of water.
At Manly (the Brisbane 'burb and not the Sydney Beach) the Royal Brisbane Yacht Squadron (with its own motel) is home to an awful lot of money, most of it attracting more money by the simple strategem of constantly fraying its rigging, bumping its hull, bending its keel, breaking its mast and doing what yachts do when they aren't actually being sailed. One of these is Les and Janet's Farrier 22 folding trimaran. Huh? That's right. A 22' trimaran that folds up neatly so that you can fit it into your pocket. This particular specimen had done Proper Yacht Impressions by fraying its forward trampolines. The sailmaker's repair was competent but he had forgotten to thread and leave a mouse to assist us in threading the cable through. My thumbs are very sore this morning but I still have the glow of having been a RUSP (Really Useful Somebody Person), persevered when all others had abandoned hope (or interest) and Got the Job Done.
That meant that I fully deserved (a) to be fed ice cold Stella Artois at regular intervals during the day (b) snooze happily on a trampoline without Janet pouring cold water over me (c) experience the sheer joy of sunshine, wind and water and (d) ...
... well, (d) was special enough to deserve a paragraph of its own. A lot of the Bay is fairly shallow. So much so that it pops its bottom out into the sun at low tide, particularly at the Amity Sounds. We anchored there for lunch (which could and should be "(e) magnificent german rolls with ham, tomato, mustard and lettuce) just before low tide. I have a suspicion that I am going to need all the "Pacific ocean colours and textures" palette of words later this week so I won't tell you today just how beautiful and peaceful it can all be.
Until the orchestra drops into a minor key and there, in a pale patch of water, you notice three small triangles undulating and circling around the edge of a sand bank. Not big enough to be scared about but big enough to ... oh, look, there's a ray! ... oh yeah, we got a big turdle this soid I rikkon ... be unsettlingly unfamiliar. What has three fins that close together?
Janet is not a great one for supposition and theorising. She jumped into the water, which was now less than shin deep and set off to investigate, avoiding sea urchins, finding a star fish and getting up close to what was not, as someone had suggested, a wobbegong (now there's a word that needs a lot more exercise) but an eastern shovel nosed shark. While Janet walked on water behind that one, another swam under the boat. I didn't know they existed. I'm not entirely sure how or why they do but am very glad to know they, too, are God's Little Creatures.
But, we still haven't really got to (d) (you'll remember that I deserved "d" as reward for being a RUSP). We'd seen several dugong shaped shadows in the darker water where the sand banks shelved down. Now, we sailed into a pod of 3 or 4 just as the broke surface for Big Breafs. One was very close. We startled it. It broke out of slow-n-easy-does-it mode, switched on the "dive dive dive" siren, thumped its tail, splashed us and disappeared under water. Now, that was a very special moment.
We sailed back through fleets of racing keelers, dinghies, skiffs and even Oppies. I was neither jealous nor nostalgic - for more that 15 minutes at a time.
Then we had Chinese.
PS: Dugongs have particularly dense skeletons to stop them floating up from the sea bed where they graze on sea grass.
PPS: When Dora said, "Mr Williams, you are a bloody lucky man!" she was so bloody right.
Friday, November 13, 2009
They say there's a tree in the forest
A scrub 
wren in a lawyer vine?
Yeah, m' darlin' that is fine.
Is that a quail?
No tail, not as large -
Logrunner's camouflage.
Honey eater, wonga doves,
Robins, fantails,
Whoooo
WHIP
Tchew tchew tchew
Aren't they loves?
Bolly gum, sassafras
Podocarp (not yellow wood)
Strangler figs, mock olive dude.
Talk about bio-: diversity or mass (but not scope). The photo doesn't do the Maiala Nature Reserve any justice at all but that's not a criticism of whosever photo I've nicked from the World Wide Webb. There are other nickable pics that do show so much more but this fig reminded me of the one that Mike showed little Freya how to use as a drum.
Why are they called "lawyer vines"? Some might say that it is because the long, wickedly barbed side stems resemble lawyers in reaching out, sticking into to you and not letting go until the last drop of blood has been squeezed. Some might. I prefer to think it is in recognition of the way in which they strive without rest to grow with and beyond their community, providing mutual support but never taking advantage. As lawyers do.
That "whip tchew tchew" really isn't the stuff of universal and instantly recognisable poetry. I didn't actually see a whipbird but we certainly heard them. The male does the long whistle and then whip-crack and the female immediately responds with tchew-tchew. Why? Probably the sex-thing. It generally is. Water dragons are really cool things too. And so are leeches between your toes.
Daylight is breaking - to reveal heavy grey cloud. I don't know what that portends for sailing on Moreton Bay today but I'm like really like excited at the prospect.
wren in a lawyer vine?Yeah, m' darlin' that is fine.
Is that a quail?
No tail, not as large -
Logrunner's camouflage.
Honey eater, wonga doves,
Robins, fantails,
Whoooo
WHIP
Tchew tchew tchew
Aren't they loves?
Bolly gum, sassafras
Podocarp (not yellow wood)
Strangler figs, mock olive dude.
Talk about bio-: diversity or mass (but not scope). The photo doesn't do the Maiala Nature Reserve any justice at all but that's not a criticism of whosever photo I've nicked from the World Wide Webb. There are other nickable pics that do show so much more but this fig reminded me of the one that Mike showed little Freya how to use as a drum.
Why are they called "lawyer vines"? Some might say that it is because the long, wickedly barbed side stems resemble lawyers in reaching out, sticking into to you and not letting go until the last drop of blood has been squeezed. Some might. I prefer to think it is in recognition of the way in which they strive without rest to grow with and beyond their community, providing mutual support but never taking advantage. As lawyers do.
That "whip tchew tchew" really isn't the stuff of universal and instantly recognisable poetry. I didn't actually see a whipbird but we certainly heard them. The male does the long whistle and then whip-crack and the female immediately responds with tchew-tchew. Why? Probably the sex-thing. It generally is. Water dragons are really cool things too. And so are leeches between your toes.
Daylight is breaking - to reveal heavy grey cloud. I don't know what that portends for sailing on Moreton Bay today but I'm like really like excited at the prospect.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Another PS
The whole point of the "Bridging Gaps" title was to segue (no, I don't know how to pronounce it) from traffic jams into thanks to the Aitken/Nathanson Ozelots for the roast lamb and gap-of-years bridging fun last night.And part of the point of an additional post is to show what I was trying to get at when talking about the Kulripa bridge. This photo shows what was in the architect's head and I have to admit that it is Good. Unfortunately it doesn't work as well from ground level. Just goes to show that one should look before one blogs.
PS: how kewel is that roadway?
Bridging gaps
Don't tell anyone, but I have a fetish for bridges. To me, Brisbane as exciting a playground as River Walk Woolworths lingerie counter is for ... well, never mind for whom, just accept that I'm having a lot of fun with bridges.
Ltd 2 1 pic/post (hmm, that's not too shabby an impersonation of a twitter-twatter, perhaps I should change my genre), it was difficult to decide which of 15+ bridges should illustrate this edition of JDW's Things You Neither Need or Want to Know. The new pedestrian crossing from North to South Bank (unless you live on the other side in which case it is from South to North) would have been a good choice. imsho, it demonstrates how very wrong you can go by designing something on a computer without really studying where you are going to put it in real life. The glorious confusion of "masts, yards and rigging" would be glorious in isolation but tucked on the river bend above those beautifully gliding and dipping motorways suspended over the mangroves and water but between that bridge and the other on the bend around the starkly crisp cultural centre and thumping big fig with a water dragon the thing is as much of a mess as this paragraph. So, no pic.
The new bus/pedestrian bridge into UQ (that's the Uni of QLD and not Queensland Varsity) is not only a clever idea but a very satisfying construction - along the lines of my favourite bridge on the way to Oliver Tambo. Speaking of UQ, Australian university students are very young; or at least they look a lot more callow than I know I was as a student.
Bridges. The pic is of the Gateway Bridge, as I imagine it was soon after it was finished in the early 80s; back when it was proud to know that it had been designed to "cater for traffic growth well into the 21st century". At 64.5 metres high and stretching 1.63 kilometres across the Brisbane River, with its main span 260 metres long (the longest in the world at the time), it easily carried 17,000 vehicles a day when opened in 1986.
Yesterday Les and I crossed it - alongside about 999,999 other vehicles (and that's not an exageration) (why does blogger not have an automatic spell check?). In Les's silver Mercedes 350 LSC (two balding silver heads hidden under matching caps with the roof down and 200kg of kevlar mainsail on my lap). Hardly into the 21st Century, that bridge is woefully inadequate and so they are building another one alongside it. Just like that. The cost must be staggering but, I suppose, as long as the Chinese keep buying iron ore and other commodities, there's a good chance that the bill will be met.
Now, I'm afraid, I'm going to have to be a bit critical and offer some advice to a certain sister-ex-law. Les and I were heading to Manly to get the repaired mainsail onto the boat so that we can save time before sailing on Saturday. (Yes, I am very excited at the prospect). We ground to a halt on the Gateway. Behind a bumper sticker "Stuck behind another bloody Volvo owner". Alongside a truck with a serious exhaust system and seriously random music on the iPod. We phoned Janet who said, "Why are you still only there? I've just checked Google Maps and there are no traffic problems!" In a way, she and Google were right. "Traffic" suggests movement. If there's no movement, there's no traffic and therefore no traffic problems. It took us a very long time to cross that 1.63 km span.
But it was worth it.
PS: Janet, next time try http://www.ourbrisbane.com/transport/traffic-cameras/traffic-camera-gateway-bridge.
PPS: Les, next time try 05h45 and not 16h15.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Lucky Buggers
Here's a piece of useless local information for you. Pieter Dirk Uys re-named the Brisbane City Cats the Shitty Cats. And an excellent way of getting from that place sorta near Toowong beginning with a G to that bit of the river under most of the bridges and close to the city. You know where I mean. My courtesy visit to colleagues on the 13th floor of a building in Adelaide St was at 11h00. I'm not quite sure how she did it but Dora had me at the entrance at 10h58. That was after letting me both ooh! and ah! at the mangroves, figs and other magnificent trees along the river banks, walked me across a bridge, shown me William Robinson in the old Government House (http://images.google.com.au/images?hl=en&rlz=1T4GGLG_enAU306AU306&um=1&q=william+robinson+paintings&sa=N&start=0&ndsp=20) and some really, really big fig trees.
Speaking of the old Government House. It's a large building. That's it at the top of this page. The decision to build it was taken in June 186?. Building commenced in October of the same year. Not bad going when one considers the 4 years it took to put the PopShack together. I'll tell you something else about Government House. The Gents is in the old potting shed; the doorway is my shoulder height. Oh, and the flags were all flying at half-mast for Poppy Day.
What was for lunch? Fresh rolls, cheese and tomato all chosen from stalls at the Farmers' Market, washed down with free tasting of Robert Cannon crispy, chilly dry white wine (I didn't look at, let along make a note of the cultivar etc). In the sun ...
... next to a stall selling eggs, "laid yesterday, lucky buggers."
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Happy talking talking talking talk
Nope. I'm not about to head off to Bali, although it is tempting to do so. A different kind of talking today.
Dora amd Mike Aitken and I met by post in 1980, when her younger sister and I married. Since then I think we've only met 4 or 5 times in the flesh for periods of a few days each. That's hardly a "close" connection, is it? And yet, today has been such an easy day in human terms. Mike went off to do his one morning a week at the hospital, Dora bullied me into taking a dinky purple umbrella on my walk down to Toowong Village. Don't tell her that I was grateful for it when a squall hit me in mid-traffic island. If you're going to be run over, do it in purple. Iain, their first born and now 36ish, and Jet, Iain and Alia's daughter who will be *little pudgy hand extending 4 fingers* early next month met me on the pavement and took me to their home up *pointing vaguely leftish* there on the ridge. A little later, Karen (the middle Aitken) and her two lasses, Sophie and Freya, joined us and we all headed off to Wedding Lawn#2 in the Botanic Gardens.
These Aussies do things well, especially Botanic Gardens with huge, fascinating trees, drum cacti, ginger plants and forget-me-nots. Crows that chase and bully scrub turkeys, scrub turkeys that bully visitors from Botswana, magpies that bully them all. The three girls (and a very realistic, graceful Iain butterfly) dancing across the lawns where Karen and Matt were married.
A good day. A simple day. A human day. Technically, we're no longer "family" but all those years of letter writing have kept us sufficiently in touch to not only be pleased to see each other but also not to have to spend too much time "catching up"; we know roughly who has been doing what and when. I think there's something very nice about that.
Facebook does, to a very great extent, substitute for all the blue aerograms, envelopes stuffed with foolscap (yup, before A4), cards and photos. To a great extent but ... I like letters.
D
PS: of course that's a hint.
Dora amd Mike Aitken and I met by post in 1980, when her younger sister and I married. Since then I think we've only met 4 or 5 times in the flesh for periods of a few days each. That's hardly a "close" connection, is it? And yet, today has been such an easy day in human terms. Mike went off to do his one morning a week at the hospital, Dora bullied me into taking a dinky purple umbrella on my walk down to Toowong Village. Don't tell her that I was grateful for it when a squall hit me in mid-traffic island. If you're going to be run over, do it in purple. Iain, their first born and now 36ish, and Jet, Iain and Alia's daughter who will be *little pudgy hand extending 4 fingers* early next month met me on the pavement and took me to their home up *pointing vaguely leftish* there on the ridge. A little later, Karen (the middle Aitken) and her two lasses, Sophie and Freya, joined us and we all headed off to Wedding Lawn#2 in the Botanic Gardens.
These Aussies do things well, especially Botanic Gardens with huge, fascinating trees, drum cacti, ginger plants and forget-me-nots. Crows that chase and bully scrub turkeys, scrub turkeys that bully visitors from Botswana, magpies that bully them all. The three girls (and a very realistic, graceful Iain butterfly) dancing across the lawns where Karen and Matt were married.
A good day. A simple day. A human day. Technically, we're no longer "family" but all those years of letter writing have kept us sufficiently in touch to not only be pleased to see each other but also not to have to spend too much time "catching up"; we know roughly who has been doing what and when. I think there's something very nice about that.
Facebook does, to a very great extent, substitute for all the blue aerograms, envelopes stuffed with foolscap (yup, before A4), cards and photos. To a great extent but ... I like letters.
D
PS: of course that's a hint.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Bombing Wats, Promises and a PS.
Were this blog not such an enlightened and enlightening source of Higher Ideas and Life, What It Means on a Good Day, I would begin by relating how I shaved this morning and how good it felt. Were in not, which it is.
Forgetting enlightenment for a moment: I have no idea what it has been costing me to receive emails and even post here using Botswana Orange at its roaming best. I don't want to know. I do want that smirky little lass down in Toowong Village to make my new Australian SIM card work; we did discuss the possibility of her letting me have a 4 year-old to set things up. Now I'm going to insist on it.
The reason I mention this is that I've had a bit of behind-the-scenes feedback to the blog. One follower admits to checking from time to time to make sure that I haven't fallen out of the sky or been run over by a wombat. That must be exhausting (checking the blog, not being wombed over by a runbat). And so, I hereby promise that if I do fall out of the sky or anything like that, I'll let you know through the blog.
Several others are waiting with barely concealed impatience for the Erromangon feast menu. I'll let you know as soon as I get close enough to feel the heat in the kitchen.
Brat#2, if you do happen to read this please remind me to talk to you about the German studies that have shown that bees do not return to hives in which cell phones are planted. The obvious theory is that the radiation chases them away. How does that compare to the bees you try to extricate from cellphone transmitting towers? Is there Work To Be Done here? Is there money in it?
The view from my bed in the PopShack is still the best, evvah! Even so, the stark droop of distant gum leaves against the night sky from the Duke Street, Toowong spare room is pretty darned good.
I think that's enough boredom for the day. Time to walk down to the Village (and if I time things properly I won't have to walk up the really steep hills back).
PS: I shaved this morning and it feels good.
Forgetting enlightenment for a moment: I have no idea what it has been costing me to receive emails and even post here using Botswana Orange at its roaming best. I don't want to know. I do want that smirky little lass down in Toowong Village to make my new Australian SIM card work; we did discuss the possibility of her letting me have a 4 year-old to set things up. Now I'm going to insist on it.
The reason I mention this is that I've had a bit of behind-the-scenes feedback to the blog. One follower admits to checking from time to time to make sure that I haven't fallen out of the sky or been run over by a wombat. That must be exhausting (checking the blog, not being wombed over by a runbat). And so, I hereby promise that if I do fall out of the sky or anything like that, I'll let you know through the blog.
Several others are waiting with barely concealed impatience for the Erromangon feast menu. I'll let you know as soon as I get close enough to feel the heat in the kitchen.
Brat#2, if you do happen to read this please remind me to talk to you about the German studies that have shown that bees do not return to hives in which cell phones are planted. The obvious theory is that the radiation chases them away. How does that compare to the bees you try to extricate from cellphone transmitting towers? Is there Work To Be Done here? Is there money in it?
The view from my bed in the PopShack is still the best, evvah! Even so, the stark droop of distant gum leaves against the night sky from the Duke Street, Toowong spare room is pretty darned good.
I think that's enough boredom for the day. Time to walk down to the Village (and if I time things properly I won't have to walk up the really steep hills back).
PS: I shaved this morning and it feels good.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Don't do hills!
Bertrand Russell said something like, "Of course it is possible that we only came into existence five minutes ago with built in memories and in need of a haircut." It's not only possible, but probable. If I had been around longer and had any real memories, I would have remembered that I Don't Do Hills! Brisbane is full of them and they all go up to Dora and Mike's house in Toowong. I've only walked twice today, and the longer of the two was 1.3 km from Toowong Village and my legs are wobblay. Pathetic. But I haven't had a cigarette since leaving JHB. That has to count for something.
While quoting people, I like Ian Fairweather's comment about painting, "It's between representation and the othr thing, whatever it is, and it's difficult to keep one's balance." Who, I hear you non-antipodean phillistines asking, is Ian Fairweather? He's the oke who painted the the Queen of D..... up at the top there. As Australian painters go, he's quite cool. But not, in my seldom humble opinion, as cool as Fred Williams. Go ahead, google him. Please. He does wonderful things with colour. One of the paintings we saw in the Brisbane Gallery this morning had parts as translucent and iridescent as the polished mica I bought at OT as part of the party pack I'm taking to the Kgosi of Erromango.
As you may have gathered, Dora and Mike took me to the gallery and for a walk along the South Bank this morning. Saw a painting I really wanted to steal (a Fred Williams) and a Water Dragon. And a wren.
And I've walked up some hills.
Brisbane Boerie
The first impression is that it smells different. A hint of Vicks and a touch of Varsity from the eucalypt and jacaranda. Different birds, too. Neither my ears nor bleary eyes can identify them at this stage of the day.
A much more significant difference is the clean lines and sturdiness of these houses. Both the Aitkens and Nathansons have moved into really impressive and comfy homes since my last visit. None of them has changed. We celebrated Andrew's 25 th with boerewors. Good. Nery good to see and just be with good people.
A much more significant difference is the clean lines and sturdiness of these houses. Both the Aitkens and Nathansons have moved into really impressive and comfy homes since my last visit. None of them has changed. We celebrated Andrew's 25 th with boerewors. Good. Nery good to see and just be with good people.
Chicken or beef?
If God had meant us to think, he wouldn't have given us aeroplanes or Richard Dawkins. Certainly not the combination of the two. A combination that is exponential, not linear. Both are fundamentally noisy, rigidly controlled and hell-bent on getting you to your destination.
That's the sneaky part of both air travel and the good Prof D. I have to admit having chosen the destinations, Sydney and Evolution, but having done so I surrendered any further part or choice in how each is reached (other than chicken or beef, that choice remains). If I want to delay facing that hard-faced immigration official there's no way the okes up front of this double-decker cigar tube will oblige. If I want to say, "but hold on, I don't want to be related to a porcupine or pomegranate," Dawkin will inexorably but inevitably prove that I am.
That's all a complete load of old cobblers. It proves only that there in no way to make intercontinental air travel interesting and that if God had meant us to think he wouldn't have hired Dawkins to do it for us.
PS. I had the beef.
That's the sneaky part of both air travel and the good Prof D. I have to admit having chosen the destinations, Sydney and Evolution, but having done so I surrendered any further part or choice in how each is reached (other than chicken or beef, that choice remains). If I want to delay facing that hard-faced immigration official there's no way the okes up front of this double-decker cigar tube will oblige. If I want to say, "but hold on, I don't want to be related to a porcupine or pomegranate," Dawkin will inexorably but inevitably prove that I am.
That's all a complete load of old cobblers. It proves only that there in no way to make intercontinental air travel interesting and that if God had meant us to think he wouldn't have hired Dawkins to do it for us.
PS. I had the beef.
Friday, November 6, 2009
It is better to travel hopefully ...
The Notwane Valley is at its best this morning. Rain-washed, bird-songed and breezily happy. There's no reason to leave.
Just as there was no apparent reason to leave Minchin & Kelly (Botswana) after more than twenty fascinating, challenging and rewarding years of doing attorney impressions, Mondays to Fridays. No reason at all, other than it is time for us all to grow again. The farewells were tough but so very real; and we'll all meet again. Next year in Gaborone.
Whether or not I have the opportunity and inclination to maintain this blog over the next two months remains to be seen. The real record of the journey into the sunrises will be in my scribble books but this may be a more efficient way of keeping in touch with those who are interested.
Dicky Diederichs splits the air
again, again, again.
Woodpecker klaps that tree
again, again, again.
At each new sunrise, I'll think of them
again, again, again.
Just as there was no apparent reason to leave Minchin & Kelly (Botswana) after more than twenty fascinating, challenging and rewarding years of doing attorney impressions, Mondays to Fridays. No reason at all, other than it is time for us all to grow again. The farewells were tough but so very real; and we'll all meet again. Next year in Gaborone.
Whether or not I have the opportunity and inclination to maintain this blog over the next two months remains to be seen. The real record of the journey into the sunrises will be in my scribble books but this may be a more efficient way of keeping in touch with those who are interested.
Dicky Diederichs splits the air
again, again, again.
Woodpecker klaps that tree
again, again, again.
At each new sunrise, I'll think of them
again, again, again.
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