Crying in the front seat

I'm sitting by myself in the seat in the front of the bus. We're crossing the Victoria Bridge, as this bus does every day, and every Monday I'm on board on my way to work.

The trip from Hill End only takes 20 minutes and half of that is filled by conversations with my wife. We have our Monday conversation. "What have you got on today? Busy?" "Could be. The phones usually go mad after the weekend. Everyone's had too much time to think." My wife is a counsellor.

"Sorry about what I said yesterday. I was a bit stressed out. I love you. You know that." I like the adage that one should never let the sun go down on your anger. My version is apologies and reconciliation on the morning bus. At least we're not doing it by mobile phone. Hurling our affections and apologies the length of the vehicle.

She's gone at the half way mark and I pull out my book. I've only got eight pages to go and I'm in a state of suspense. My emotions are on high alert. The woman's lost her child and is in deep mourning. So am I. Her partner's in gaol, charged with kidnapping and perhaps murder. He's written a letter to her to ask for forgiveness, while explaining why he's had to do what he did. She's despatched the letter to the bottom of a drawer. She wants him to suffer. They've lost their daughter forever, but will never be anywhere where she won't be a presence.The river glides below us, a chocholate milkshake flowing silently to the bay.

I read, and as the climax approaches I feel my eyes mist up and then I'm crying. Not sobbing like a drunk, but feeling like a parent. Feeling the loss. Understanding the terrifying choices that any parent faced with loss of a child would feel, and despairing at the thought that they will also lose each other as a result of this horrible situation for which they can blame no one but themselves.

The bus turns into Adelaide Street and crosses the last intersection before my stop. I've still got three pages to read. I could stay on the bus to the Valley and be late for work but I don't, I slip my marker into the book and swipe my GO Card on the machine and step onto the pavement. I usually get a coffee from the outlet at the base of my building but I'm not prepared to sit and sob in front of my favourite barista. I head for the closest coffee shop and order a flat white. There's an almighty din in the background, echoing through the gaps between the multi-story buildings. The BWF are protesting in Ann Street singing songs of protest, telling Premier Newman where he should shove his October public holiday and demanding back their Monday May Day holiday.

My coffee arrives just in time for the last page. There's a death and a reconciliation and hope and, shit, I'm so moved I drink my coffee without sugar, the first time I've done that in years. Some writers just hit the right notes. And this is her first book. I am inspired by this wonderful storytelling and it makes me want to keep writing my novel. Or give up in the face of my mediocrity. And then I'm in the lift to level 10 and I walk in and say "Morning".


The book: "The Light Between Oceans" by M L Stedman. The setting: SouthernWestern Australia , Janus Rock 300 miles west of Albany. A lighthouse.

Time Exposure

Sharon Zwi, Sydney photographer, has an exhibition opening 22May presenting 60 portraits/asemblages of friends and people of note - Eva Cox, Justice Michael Kirby,  John Coetzee etc.

She asked for 25 phtos from earliest image to current. This is mine.

The exhibition:
"Time Exposures - 60 Life Portraits"
Exhibition Space, Level 2, Fisher Library

Camperdown Campus, University of Sydney 

May 22 to 29 June.

Paddy and the Richmond

"Oh, it'll be on for sure. They're setting up the tarpaulins as we speak"

It's pissing down here in Brisbane. Has been for four days straight. When I check the satellite image for Ballina a sea of blue with occasional yellow and red spots twinkle at me from my screen. This weather pattern extends 250 kms from here to the mid north coast of New South Wales. My distant cousin John, the convenor of the New Italy Carnevale, is an optimist.

I'd cancelled the  trip three of us had planned to fish the Richmond River on the advice of Uncle Paddy, my north coast fishing guru. "We had 4 inches of rain here the other night Steve. True! I've got a moat around my house. Too much fresh in the river Steve. Be a bloody waste of time." That was three days ago and it's still raining.

I'm facing a solo trek and a choice: drive 250 ks and waste my time or take a chance on the Carnevale. Paddy calls at 2pm. "What do you reckon Steve? I won't be goin' if its raining mate. The doc says I need to keep me bung eye dry." "I'll be there at 5" I say. Paddy has offered me a bed for the night. He's 86 and lives alone. He wasn't up to having three guests but he reckons he can cope with one. I sense he's a little hesitant. He's been full time carer for my aunty Rita for the past three years and since she passed away he's slowly recovering from the loss of Rita and the loss of  four years of his life. He's sick of looking after people.

I don't turn my wiper blades off for two and a half hours. At times the road ahead looks like I'm driving into a snow drift. I can't see past the bonnet. Occasionally it eases, seducing me into a false sense of hope and then smacks me again like a mini cyclone slapping the side of the car. This is ridiculous.

Remarkably it's not raining when I take the turnoff to Titenbar and head for Wollongbar. Avocado orchards line the back road as I enter and emerge from what's left of the original rainforest. They called it the "BIG SCRUB" in the old days and the locals cleared it by hand. Hundreds and hundreds of acres. They're very proud of that achievement. Now its prime dairy and orchard country. It's like driving through English country side. It's deep green all year round.

Paddy is there to meet me at the door. "G'day Stevo" He's got me in the second bedroom. I insult him by offering to sleep in my sleeping bag and insult him again by offering to take him out to dinner at the local tavern. " I've got some steak for you. Do you eat steak? I've had it marinating in my special mix for three days." We sit and chat or rather he talks and I nod and ask questions. He's old school country is Paddy. Builder, duck shooter, pig shooter, fisherman. He's famous in the district for his knowledge. The story he loves to tell is the day he was getting ready to clean his favourite rifle on the back veranda and spotted a cat crossing the lane nearby and he let him have it. One shot. It was instinct. And a hatred of cats. The neighbour never could figure out where puss disappeared to.

Paddy is one of the gentlest people I know. He's a natural hunter gatherer. And he has developed that tendency of the lone householder to become a little fussy about how things are done. "No, Steve. Wait!" he stops me mid action as I go to make a cup of tea. I've filled the kettle from the tap. He empties it down the sink and fills it again from the jug on the side table. "Rainwater." Over the next 12 hours I notice him and his routines. And his generosity. I get offered the reclining seat in front of the TV to watch Black Caviar make it 25 wins from 25 starts.  Everything in the kitchen is spotless and arranged very carefully. When it comes to washing up he sets the water in the sink and adds the detergent. He won't let me clean the electric frypan. I haven't done the inservice training. I'm chastised for bringing bacon and eggs for breakfast. But all this lovingly and gently. "I like a clean house. I always clean up straight away so I don't have to come back and do it later" he tells me. It's touching and surprising in this man of guns and fish gut. The marinated beef is beautiful by the way, just as he'd promised.

"If its fine tomorrow I'll come" he says as we head off to bed at 8:30. "I'm an early to bed man, Steve. You stay and watch TV if you want." But I take Paddy's cue and crawl into the freshly made bed. "I hate electric blankets. Rita used to love 'em. I love getting into cold sheets and that slow warming feeling" he says by way of good night.

I'm awake at 6:30 next morning. I can't see the day for the heavy blinds. I decide I can go another 45 minutes before the breakfast I've promised. At 7am Paddy is standing at the foot of my bed. I know he's there. I can feel his presence but I pretend to be asleep. "You wouldn't believe it Steve. You should see the day outside." No, 'Excuse me Steve are you awake?' He reminds me of my mother. One up all up was her motto.

It's true, its a clear day. "Lets head off early" says Paddy. "Get there for mass." Jesus!
"Want to take the back road?" Paddy asks as we descend the Wardell road towards the flats. I recognise the landscape along here from childhood visits with my cousins. Lagoons full of wild duck. Concrete fords over constantly running streams. And the old Meerschaum Vale hall where my father danced and drank and grew into a man.

"We'll go the Bagotville Road." We go from two lane to one lane, from slick bitumen to neglected potholed and patched shortcut. At every turn Paddy has a story. "Jeez, that lagoon used to be black with Magpie geese in the old days. We'd always get a feed." We round a bend and a wide expanse of water stretches before us curving to the south in the distance. It's one of the loveliest stretches of river I can recall. A line of giant figs line the bank. Entwined with strangler vines climbing to escape the regular floods. "The flood of 54 came half way up those telegraph poles. He points out a level well above anything imaginable. "This section here is real deep," Paddy tells me, as we cruise past lines and fields of scrappy cane on our right. "Got some bloody good jewfish and perch on that bend. Full of catfish now."

And so the commentary continues. Each bend has a fish story. Each homestead has a family story. This is where he grew up. This is why he's brought me this way. He expects me to recognise the landmarks. But in all the years of my childhood my father never took us down this road. "Me and Percy built that house. Fay still lives in that one." His father got out of cane early and ran a dairy herd. "That heap of crumbling timber and iron was the old dairy" It looks like someone has taken a sledgehammer to it. It leans over like a drunk and threatens to fall face first into the sodden earth.

I see beautiful green valley and nostalgic river oaks. Paddy sees lives lived and lost. "That cane there is rubbish. No fertilizer. Now that deeper green paddock that's more like it. Some of em have given it away. The prices are just too low."

As we approach Wardell and our destination he tells me the story of his brother who died rescuing his daughter from downed power lines in the paddocks we've just past. They're boggy and the access lanes running beside each cane field are full of this weeks downpour. She was 16. A real handfull. Constantly in trouble with school and the local cops. She was wild. It was weather similar to the week just gone and she was riding home from school on her bike and didn't see the power lines lying across the ditch. She's plunged in. And zap. But miraculously she got caught but not killed. He hears her calls for help and rushes out and grabs the nearest thing he can see to free her from the lines. He grabs a length of timber from the ditch and wades towards her. The timber is wet and as soon as he makes contact with her he's the one who gets whacked. Somehow he's the conductor and she's earthed and it's him who is gone. Instantly.

Paddy tells the story soberly. "How old was he?" I ask. "62." Crikey. My age. He must have had children late. "Second marriage" Paddy adds. "And the daughter? Did she go on to live a settled life? Did she get a wake up call?"

"Nope. Still the same."

"Plenty of flathead and bream under this bridge" Paddy tells me as we arch over the Richmond and enter Woodburn.

Italian Superstition

We're not really as sophisticated as we'd like to think.  A little over a century ago my great grandfather was contemplating the biggest decision of his life. Whether to take a risk on and take the family on a journey to an unknown destination or stay and live in poverty in 19th century Italy. How did he make his decision?

It is a tradition in northern Italy to build and set fire to an enormous bonfire on the feast of the Epiphany in early January. It has its orignins in pagan roman rituals. Its surrounded by superstition. A figure of a witch is burnt atop the bonfire symbolising the end of all the bad luck of the past year and clearing the way for the next. The direction in which the smoke blows is also a portent of things to come. Blow one way and it will be a good year. Blow the other and it heralds disaster. 

Here's an excerpt from my story. The night the decision is made.

The men have separated into two groups now. One group is highly animated and deep in conversation the other drifting off towards the tables. I approach my father and take his hand. He looks at me and smiles and then looks at the bonfire which is now a raging volcano cracking and snapping as it accelerates towards its climax.


‘Look Dominic. Which way are the sparks flying?’ I look to the peak of the fiery mountain and see a spray of sparks explode from the top.

‘Which way is that?’ I ask pointing to the far side of the square. They are blowing away from us, neither towards where I know the mountains begin nor towards the sea and Venezia which I know lies to the south. ‘Is that Milano and the River Po?’

I have learnt the geography of my country from maps on walls and views out my classroom window. Signor Batistuzzi takes us out into the school grounds and has us first face the mountains. This is north he tells us. Then we pretend we can see Venezia to the south. He teaches us north and south and then tells us that even further south lies Roma and the ancient civilizations of the Romans. And further south still the islands of Sardegna and Sicilia where the Italians speak another language, eat different food and have black skin.

To the north lies Austria and beyond the mountains countries with many cultures and many languages until there is nowhere left to go. Only ice and frozen wastes. Signor Batistuzzi does not tell us much about the east except to say that if you go far enough you reach the lands of China and of silk and mystery. And even further lie the islands of the Pacifique, undiscovered islands of mystery and magic.

He has never been east of Udine but of the west he has many stories. Many sound like another country and some are. He tells of getting lost in the richest streets of Milano, of travelling on steam driven trains between cities, of lakes a large as seas and of his own home, once part of Italy, now France.

‘Milano is West?’ ‘ Yes’ confirms my father. ‘So the sparks must be flying…’ and here I stop and face the invisible mountains and repeat my learnt by heart compass points mantra. If I raise my right arm it points in the direction of the disappearing sparks. ‘It’s east papa. They are travelling east.’ My father hesitates.

‘Another unproductive year with another poor harvest’ my father observes. ‘The signs are clear. We will not be here to see another summer Dominic.’ He says this quite calmly. We both look towards mama and Marietta whose aprons swirl as they move between tureen and table ladling out portions of hot soup. I wait but there is no more information forthcoming. He pats me on the shoulder and pushes me towards the feast.

Marine biologists call this work - PNG

Julian Pepperell working hard in PNG.

The fruits of labour.













Julian actually working.
















My kind of work.

The rewards of other people's work.

Spirit World - PNG

Johnson and Johnson in the remote islands of Vanuatu

When I was in Vanuatu on an AusAid project on   Pentecost I participated in a farewell celebration. The night began with a mock confrontation between the custodians of the village and the visitors done as a dance. This was enacting and reinforcing the Kastom protocols which all villages abide by. Outsiders can't just walk into a village and presume to be welcome. In previous times you risked death and perhaps became a main dish at the evening meal. The ceremony on Pentecost climaxed when the women of the village doused all of the visitors with white powder. I couldn't place what this familiar smelling powder was. I presumed it was a traditional scented concoction made from some secret ingredient from the jungle surrounding us. Turned out it was Johnson's baby powder no less. I never quite understood why this remte village would want to shower me with talcum powder. The significance escaped me. And I wondered what would have been used before the coming of Johnson & Johnson.

My recent interest in Papua New Guinea has shed light on this.

Malangan mask

  New Ireland has one of the most complex ceremonial traditions of all the PNG islands and regions. The Malagan festival is a multi-purpose ceremony where the dead are honoured and where many parallel traditional transactions take place and conflicts are resolved. Villages can only afford to stage the ceremony once every few years.

Coral ready for transformation

Masks, singing, fire, feasting and frenzied dancing all mix together over an extended period of ceremony. A century ago this might have continued for as long as a year. These days, work, school, government and the rising costs of all things dictate that a weekend is preferred.
In Vanuatu, Johnson & Johnson has replaced lime. Its another example of the encroachment of westernisation on these rich traditions.

Lime, mustard seed and betel nut

Lime is still used in PNG where it is a vital ingredient in the betel nut habit. Mustard seed, dipped in Lime and chewed with betel nut creates a mild 'high' and a mouth full of red saliva. The streets run red with spit. It's common in India and Malaysia and many other Asian countries.
The lime is produced from dead coral burnt and then crushed to powder.

Lime at the market

Betel nut enthusiast

In traditional ceremonies Lime has powerful symbolic qualities. Pigs, slaughtered as part of the ritual have their snout marked with a stripe of lime to indicate that they have entered a higher state. Dancers are sprayed with lime to drive away any evil spirits which may be around and guests are sprinkled with lime to indicate that they have been accepted into this sacred ceremony and to ensure they don't bring bad spirits with them.

Now I get it.

Source Michael Moran "Beyond the Coral Sea"

 

Big fish, adventures in PNG

My mate Julian is in Papua Nui Guinea as we speak. He's my advance researcher for my trip to the beach on which Lorenzo and his shipmates were abandoned in 1881.

Julian has no Italian blood though he loves cooking and does some spectacular Italian dishes. Julian's passion is fish. Not catching and cooking so much as catching and releasing. He's a Marine Biologist and works across the nation monitoring and tracking the lives of the BIG fish of the open oceans. In fact "Fishes of the Open Ocean" is the title of his beautiful coffee table book.

He is New Guinea for three weeks cruising around the islands and dropping in on remote villages to meet villagers who have contacted him over recent years having caught some of his tagged specimens and written to his address on the Sunshine Coast giving him dates and times for his research data. What a great job!

Julian will be taking heaps of photos and keeping a detailed journal with the intention of turning this trip into a book.

So Julian if you read this I hope you're having a great time. Don't forget to ask a few questions about Port Praslin and the southern coast of New Ireland.

I'm reading Michael Moran's "Beyond the Coral Sea" at the moment and its fabulous. He spent three months in the early 2000s moving around the islands of PNG researching the early colonial history and turning his journey into a fascinating book. It's only a little over 100 years since the German empire was making its presence felt and only in the 20th Century did the British and Australians take a strong and active interest in this country which contains something like a third of the planets languages and immensely rich bio-diversity.

When Lorenzo and his 250 peasant comrades were dumped in New Ireland they would have encountered locals who had had no contact with white culture. They, the locals, were quite happy to eat them in fact. And this, it's presumed, was the fate of those who left the settlement to make contact with missionaries who, they believed, were based on the eastern coast of the island. It was a forbidding landscape and remains so.The only remnants of the 1881 settlement are likely to be crosses marking burial sites and these have, more than likely, become driftwood.

Actually standing on that beach feels like a powerful way to connect with my ancestors - it has already captured me though I am as yet over 1500 kms distant.