Coogee Beach Jones by Al Muhit

PART 7

Resume: Screaming, struggling, fighting and kicking Rebecca is driven to the airport in taxi number two and then Wal discovers the Good Samaritan has lost his bag containing passports and money …

The Good Samaritan runs back to the Airport building. Wal is still holding Rebecca down. He buckles, this is more than he can take, he lets Rebecca go. “I can't do any more" he says. He is shaking. " Go on, run if you want to. I can't stop you." For a second Wal sees Rebecca change, although she was free she hadn't moved. Wal turns on a real helpless fool act. "I've lost my tickets, passport and money, Beccy I'm fucked." he slumps to the ground. " If you want to go, then go. I can't help you anymore."

Rebecca, released but not moving, looks closely at him. Wal continues to act the lost fool.

" OK. Give me the Valium." Wal turns to her.

“ Only if you promise to swallow it."

"I will."

Wal gives her 20 mg and watches as she swallows it, then says. "I have to look in your mouth, Rebecca." She opens her mouth and moves her tongue around. She has swallowed it.

The Good Samaritan comes back, " here is your bag. The airline guy had it.”

Wal announces, "Rebecca is coming with us . "

"Oh. Great. Well this is going to be posh, Bec, one hour in air conditioning instead of fourteen on a bus eh ?”

They go into the terminal, to the check-in counter. The airline clerk, looking at Rebecca and speaking to Wal, said " We can't let her on the plane." After what he'd just been through Wal was not phased by this. " Oh, she's ok now. She was upset, but she's ok. I'll walk over there and you can talk to her." Wal and the Good Samaritan went over to buy some tea. The Valium wouldn't cut in for sometime, so it was up to Rebecca. They stood and watched. Rebecca was now in full survival mode and as she had always been a streetsmart charmer, the clerk didn't stand a chance. She left the clerk and as she passed them she smiled and said " I can go" and went into the toilet.

The two men watched the door helplessly until she emerged smiling, talking sweetly to another woman. Inside the toilet Rebecca had checked with all the women to see if were they going to Delhi. Fortunately they were.

Just before she changed Rebecca had watched Wal and the Good Samaritan at the gate, and when she saw Wal give the Good Samaritan money for a ticket, she began to believe they were who they said they were, that they hadn't planned this. When Wal lost his bag she became more convinced that they were helping her. When Wal let her go she decided to trust them.

The two things that really helped, Wal discovered later, was the fact the he was wearing Blunstone boots and that he was carrying his old black and purple shoulder bag.

They made it through the heavy security, after taking batteries out of walkmans and cameras. Wal freaked when he saw the hypodermic needles show up in Rebecca's bag under the X-ray. The security people weren't bothered, seems all travellers carry them. 

After sitting by the door to the runway for about 20 minutes, the word came that the plane was cancelled due to bad weather. Wal shivered. They were still in the valley of death and although Rebecca seemed to trust them, she was now becoming more and more paranoid about everybody and everything else.

The fury at the airline counter was amazing - later Wal found out that this airline had a policy of not leaving Delhi if the weather looked dodgy. They kept up the pretence of the plane arriving so people would not make other travel plans.

Wal looked at the bun fight in front of him for a moment then quietly went up and spoke to one of the beleaguered airline staff and confirmed them on the next available flight, 11 am the next day. He then asked for the name of the most expensive hotel around.

to be continued

Cover Picture

The Shark became the most famous resident of Headington when it landed in the roof of 2 New High Street on 9 August 1986.

This ordinary home (built as a semi-detached house in about 1860 but now attached by a link to a second house to the north) suddenly became the centre of world attention and the headless shark still excites interest today.

Bill Heine commissioned the shark and still owns the house. An American who studied law at Balliol College, he was running two Oxford cinemas at the time, but since 1988 he has been better known as a Radio Oxford presenter. When pressed by journalists to provide a rationale for the shark, he suggested the following:

The shark was to express someone feeling totally impotent and ripping a hole in their roof out of a sense of impotence and anger and desperation.... It is saying something about CND, nuclear power, Chernobyl and Nagasaki.

The headless sculpture, with the label "Untitled 1986" fixed to the gate to the house, was erected on the 41st anniversary of the dropping of the atomic bomb on Nagasaki. Created by the sculptor John Buckley, it is made of fibreglass, weighs four hundredweight, and is 25 feet long.

Oxford City Council tried to get rid of the shark on the grounds that it was dangerous to the public, but engineers inspected the roof girders that had been specially installed to support it and pronounced the erection safe. The council then decided that the shark was development within the definition contained in Section 22 of the Town and Country Planning Act 1971, and that as such it had to be removed. Their offer to display it in a public building such as a swimming pool was not, however, accepted by Bill.

Bill played for time, but in 1990 he was refused retrospective planning permission by Oxford City Council. Undeterred, in 1991 he appealed to the Secretary of State for the Environment (then Michael Heseltine); and in 1992 Heseltine’s Inspector Peter Macdonald came out in favour of the applicant, and had the following to say about the shark:

It is not in dispute that this is a large and prominent feature. That was the intention, but the intention of the appellant and the artist is not an issue as far as planning permission is concerned. The case should be decided on its planning merits, not by resorting to 'utilitarianism', in the sense of the greatest good to the greatest number. And it is necessary to consider the relationship between the shark and its setting .... In this case it is not in dispute that the shark is not in harmony with its surroundings, but then it is not intended to be in harmony with them. The basic facts are there for almost all to see. Into this archetypal urban setting crashes (almost literally) the shark. The contrast is deliberate ... and, in this sense, the work is quite specific to its setting. As a 'work of art' the sculpture ('Untitled 1986') would be 'read' quite differently in, say, an art gallery or on another site. An incongruous object can become accepted as a landmark after a time, becoming well known, even well loved in the process. Something of this sort seems to have happened, for many people, to the so-called 'Oxford shark'. The Council is understandably concerned about precedent here. The first concern is simple: proliferation with sharks (and Heaven knows what else) crashing through roofs all over the City. This fear is exaggerated. In the five years since the shark was erected, no other examples have occurred. Only very recently has there been a proposal for twin baby sharks in the Iffley Road. But any system of control must make some small place for the dynamic, the unexpected, the downright quirky. I therefore recommend that the Headington shark be allowed to remain.

And so it has survived. No one living in Headington notices it much any more, but it caused a tremendous stir both locally and nationally on the day it appeared. It had been winched up by a crane overnight, and although the police were aware of what was going on they were powerless to do anything, as there is no law to prevent a man from putting a shark on his own roof. In 1992 Bernard Levin wrote a long article in The Times about the Headington Shark, describing it as a "splendid lark" and adding:

There is nothing about smiling in the analects of the planning committee of the Oxford city council, and that august body ruled that it must come down, giving as the reason that it had been put up without planning permission, or more likely just because it was delightful, innocent, fresh and amusing — all qualities abhorred by such committees.

Photo by Roger Morton
see Roger Morton's Photographs at Proud Chelsea 

Mongolia

MM: A Mongolian experience

The actual trip:  6 weeks in-country, with a 24-day van safari, from Ulan Bataar (UB), the capital, down through the Gobi desert, up through Central and then Northern Mongolia, which borders Siberia, and finally back to UB in time for Nadaam, which is a yearly event, a festival, a party, an Olympic competition, a parade, all rolled into one, followed by 2 days at Khustai National Park to track the wild horses, which have been brought back from the brink of extinction; then 5 days in a family ger, hiking and relaxing in Terej National Park and finally 6 days in traffic-choked UB, as I couldn’t change my air ticket.

I choose the letters “MM” to sum up and describe the nature of my time in Mongolia, a most unique travel destination.

MM stands for many things        

1. Mongolian Mystery – Why did something happen? Or not happen? Why was someone happy or angry?  Due to linguistic and cultural limitations, I was often mystified by events and people’s reactions.  At first, trying to analyze, and then accepting the ambiguity. 

2. Mongolian Meat, mainly fatty mutton, where strong smell permeates the gees and restaurants and is difficult for a vegetarian to get used to. I was able to survive by self-catering and careful ordering. Needless to say, I lost weight.

3. Mongolian Mud, and sand, and wind, and rain and even hail, all of which I experienced, sometimes in the span of a single day.

4. Mongolian Monotony, lots of waiting time; waiting for the driver, waiting for negotiations to be finalized, waiting for food in restaurants, waiting, waiting for weather to clear.

5. Mongolian Men – not a handsome one in sight. My girlfriends and I tried very hard to spot attractive mates but with little success.

6. Mongolian Mechanics/Machines/Motors are often held together by string, wire, what not!  Breakdowns are a given and give one a chance to admire the scenery or spot an eagle, mountain sheep, or hawk.

7. Mongolian Monasteries – After the harsh Stalinist purges of the 1930’s, Buddhism (Tibetan) is once more being practiced.  Restored temples, young monks, photos of the Dalai Lama, abound.  I went to lectures on Buddhist meditation in UB, where the participants were equally divided between locals and foreigners.

8. Mongolian Majesty – which describes the vastness, the velvet mats, the never-ending sky and horizons where the landscape usually reveals many more animals (cows, sheep, goats, yaks, camels, and of course horses) than people in this, the most sparsely populated country in the world.

9. Mongolian Magic – its people and their warmth and openness…a harsh geography which encourages cooperation, hospitality, and resilience to survive and flourish. The people are flexible, curious and honest; encounters are so positive.

Hurry to visit Mongolia, the unique nomadic life is fast dying out.

Carole Beauclerk

Stephen O'R's Oz

Now entertain conjecture of a time when students facebook and parents despair. For this is the time when the HSC is here.  Higher School Certificate. 

Tens of thousands of dollars spent on private school fees go for nothing and thousands more are thrown into the bottomless pit of teenage indolence.  Trainee teachers rub their hands in glee as they reach maximum earning capacity – their mobile phones jammed with messages “Oh hi, I was just wondering if you could fit another six (two-hour) sessions in for Paris (or Jason) this week?”

In ten days time the countdown starts and one by one the subjects are ticked off until at last no more hope can be had and only results to wail over.

Books are appearing on the market offering that same vain hope to desperate parents who are now begging to downgrade their expectations from Doctor to Dentist to Lawyer to speech pathologist to the Army – a child I know having been aiming at NIDA (National Institute of Dramatic art – birth place of our Mel (Gibson) or our Kate (Blanchett)- has suddenly switched to Officer Cadet in the Army where he will get paid to do a BA in political science before going to Afghanistan.  The new scheme where you can join the army for just 1 year was oversubscribed in ten minutes – quicker than a rock concert.

Me, I have just read Fay Weldon’s book on Jane Austin underlining the relevant bits for questions on writing techniques in ‘Pride and Prejudice’.  The pool is kept warm so flagging energy can be revived by a quick dip.

And all this so they can go to University with others who don’t want to be there. Lectures offer time to ‘catch up’ on facebook my space and twit city.  In the back rows of lecture theatres, stories are swapped of what a bludge this or that subject are.  Presentations are given where the PowerPoint is perfect but the content is missing.  Teachers tell groups of thirty of how when ‘they’ were at Uni their tute had two students.

So it is for this that a sort of madness has crept into houses containing children of 18 who can go to the pub after school but can’t read a book. “I never had this chance!”

The Chinese and Indians who dominate our selective schools, our scholarship lists and our medical schools reap the rewards of years of coaching and instilled work ethic. My local Uni is 84 Chinese – most Australian but also the rich of Indonesia, Taiwan and Red China. Happy groups copying each others work openly in the cafes. Organising boat discos on the harbour and enjoying the legacy of two thousand years of competitive learning.

My son’s only ambition is to move to London and hang out with that beautiful tutor we hired there last year. Good luck to him: a more desirable young woman I have yet to see.

Daily Life in Kabul by Mr Mwezi

A selection of images taken by Mr Mwezi in and around Kabul.

National Poetry Day

Atlas by Carol Ann Duffy

Give him strength, crouched on one knee in the dark,

with the earth on his back

                                          balancing the seven seas,

the oceans, five kneeling

in ruthless, empty, endless space

                                                     for grace

of whale, dolphin, sea lion, shark, seal, fish, every kind

which swarms the waters. Hero.

                                                    Hard, too,

heavy to hold, the mountains;

burn of his neck and arms taking the strain –

Andes, Himalayas, Kilimanjaro –

give him strength, he heaves them him

to harvest rain from skies for streams

and rivers, he holds the rivers,

holds the Amazon, Ganges, Nile, hero, hero.

Hired by no-one, heard in a myth only, lonely

he carries a planet’s weight

                                            islands and continents,

the billions there, his ears the last to hear

their language, music, gunfire, prayer;

give him strength, strong girth for elephants,

tigers, snow leopards, polar bears, bees, bats

the last ounce of a humming bird.

                                                       Broad backed

in infinite, bleak black,

                                      he bears where Earth is, nowhere.

head bowed, a genuflection to the shouldered dead,

the unborn’s hero, he is lover’s lift;

sometimes the moon rolled to his feet, a gift.

the devil and angels

One of the highly coloured and decorative statues in the small church in Rennes Le Chateau.
Photo: Roger Morton
see Roger Morton's photographs at Proud Galleries 

Short story

Roger Morton

Buddy Boy by Joselyn Morton ©

Before Charles left he told Soon-young he was a war photographer in the Middle East. It was their third day together. For Soon-young it was a lifetime. No other time existed. Only the time with Charles ... B.C. did not exist. It had been deleted along with all her files. The virgin files. The phone-your-family-on- Friday files.

Charles anticipated that Soon-young would be upset and when she first heard the news, Soon-young felt a numbness seep into her heart, hardening it into a hammer-fist which plummeted and self-imploded without a trace, causing a pathological mystery as complicated and unsolvable as the virgin birth.

            No physician or psychologist could have diagnosed that Soon-young’s spirit had slipped away. Left. The essence of the girl evaporated. The lovely creature Charles comforted and caressed was a hollow lifeless shell.

            Encountering no opposition to his departure, Charles cheered up. He explained that his flatmate, Alex Van Zeld would return in two weeks. He was completing post-grad work. Soon-young was welcome to stay till she found a flat. Alex wouldn’t mind, he was absorbed in his studies.

            Charles then organised his departure. Couriers picked up dry-cleaning, delivered packages. One was from a jewellery design company. Inside was a greenstone heart set in solid 9ct gold. Inset into the gold were eighteen small diamonds - one for each year of Soon-young’s life. As Charles tried to fasten it around Soon-young’s neck she weakly took the golden gift in her hand. Then she lay down.

When Charles left at dawn, Soon-young stretched her hand out of the window and dropped the green and golden heart. Like an Oscar Wilde fairy-tale, a seagull swooping past scooped up the necklace.

The glistening chain swung in a golden arc from the seagull’s beak. Hearing the rustling of a fish and chips wrapping far below, the seagull opened its beak in anticipation. The green and gold heart fell - but before it smashed onto the concrete pavement, a young solvent-abuser from South Auckland raised her beanie-covered head. Using super-tuned reflexes she had acquired avoiding bashings from heartless bastards ... fffssshung ... she thrust her fist fast into the air, her feet flinging off the pavement.

The green heart blazed its golden fall. The rapper’s timing was immaculate. She snapped her hand around the heart as she would have wrapped her hand around an eel’s tail or slam-dunked her palm onto a fast-moving toheroa. It was hers. She opened her fist. The golden chain and the heart with its eighteen perfectly formed diamonds sparkled and winked.

Kiri’s grin spread and threatened to split her face in two. She said to her mate,

“Get a load of this, Bro. Check this out, eh.”

Her mate came closer and shook his head in disbelief.

“Choice, eh.”

With a gracefulness he had only ever used when tying knots on his nylon fishing line or unrolling a condom under Kiri’s mistrustful gaze, Buddy-Boy draped the golden chain around Kiri’s neck.

For the first time, he was aware of the soft curve of her skin, the smoothness of her naked shoulders. He felt her worth. He felt her trust. He lent closer to see how the tiny catch worked and to her surprise and his, he tenderly kissed the nape of her neck. Sweetly. It was the first time he had kissed her when they weren’t even shagging.

Kiri felt a warm glow suffuse her, stirring memories and feelings from when she was little, down south with her Gran, before she’d taken off. She fingered the greenstone heart around her neck. It felt lucky.

 ‘Sweet as.’

Buddy Boy is an extract from Joselyn Morton's novel The Transparent Trampoline.

scene ouverte

Saturday 3rd October and Scene Ouverte (open-mic night) at Riberac's La Gavotte restaurant. This happens on the first Saturday of each month. Once again the place was packed out. We left at midnight and the restaurant was still jumping. That was my third visit. Already I'm a total convert. The unexpected, the brave, the blue fiddle, the voice that knows how to shout and melt, the gutsy and the very very good. It's a gas, gas, gas.

Photos: Roger Morton, text: Joselyn Morton

poem

Cul-de-sacs

The difference  between thought

and madness is slight

especially in the dark of the night

when the sun exits

tricks of the mind

flick twist and bound.

It’s hard to pretend

the kinks, dead-ends,

cul-de-sacs and bends

don’t matter

as you down all the whisky

in the house in search of laughter.

by Joselyn Morton

Dog in Carcassonne window

Coogee Beach Jones by Al Muhit

PART 6

Resume: Tense moments in the Holiday Inn as Rebecca recovers from the effects of her bad trips and her father, Wal tries to get her to Kullu airport with the help of the Good Samaritan and a taxi driver...

They struggle to get her back in the van. Rebecca is a strong girl and tall. Wal and the Good Samaritan have a fight on their hands. She is screaming to passers-by out for help. They half get her in the van but she bursts free and jumps into the driver’s seat. Rebecca can't drive. She turns the ignition key, the van's in gear and lurches forward but the driver leans in and snatches the keys. They drag her out screaming and force her into the back. Wal using all his strength to hold her.

Finally the back door is closed, the Good Samaritan screams ‘drive’ to the driver and gets back in the front where his Raybans are kicked from his face by Rebecca's sandal-clad foot. Wall is struggling to get some Valium out with one hand and trying to stop Rebecca climbing out the window with the other. The Good Samaritan grabs her long dancer’s legs and holds them. Rebecca is screaming. They drive in this state for a few minutes then a second puncture comes. Wal stays in the van just holding onto Rebecca who continues to fight struggle, bite and scream. Somehow another taxi is stopped and they drag Rebecca screaming and kicking into it.

Wal has the Valium and is speaking into Rebecca's ear   " Rebecca you have to stop this. We have to get on that plane. Take these pills they will help you." Rebecca allows the pills into her mouth, pretends to swallow and then spits them out. Wal head is spinning, he can't believe it is happening.  They pass a Hindi ritual with a bunch of people in make-up dancing round a wheel in the middle of the road. Rebecca sees this; then catches sight of the driver putting a Shiva statue back on the dashboard from where it was dislodged. She tries to push Wal out of the window. The fight to keep her in the van is so intense that Wal is scared of hurting Rebecca but he can only fight, he can't think about right or wrong. She starts to bite his hand but pulls back before the skin is broken. Wal holds Rebecca with all his strength.

The Good Samaritan is shouting at Rebecca like she is a naughty child "Rebecca  stop it. Stop it at once !"

The Van driver is saying "Please. Madam don't." 

In this terrible state they arrived at the airport gate.

Rebecca won't stop. They get her out and Wal drags her screaming in through the gate to an empty guard box where he jams her and holds her. Stuck there he looks up at the gathering crowd of people. The Good Samaritan is still in traveller mode and is arguing with the driver over money. “ Just give him the money," shouts Wal. The fare is paid and the bags unloaded.

"Do you want me to come to Delhi with you? " says the Good Samaritan.

"Yes," Wal replies desperately and pulling a handful of US dollars out his pocket, thrusts them into the Good Samaritan’s hand. Then he gives him his 'Essentials bag' containing tickets, passports and travellers cheques. When the Good Samaritan returns in a few minutes he is smiling, "we are ok, I got on." 

"Where is my bag ?"

“What bag? "

"My bag, with everything in it !" says Wal.

" You didn't give me your bag. "

"I did."

Wal loses it. His physical strength is fading, he wants this nightmare to stop. 

to be continued …

Cover Picture

Driving back from the spectacular Old City of Carcassonne on Thursday 8 October, we left a warm 25 degrees and headed up the A61 towards a black horizon flashing horizontal lightening. Soon the rain came and for the next 3 hours Jos drove womanfully through the downpour. Scarcely able to cope with the sheer volume of water, the wipers struggled, leaving an interesting pattern through which I pointed the little Lumix camera. The Autoroute signs said 'ORAGE- soyez prudents’. I was able to gather that it meant be careful in the thunderstorm.

Text & photo Roger Morton

National Poetry Day

Our much-loved popular poet Spike Milligan
“Few things give better voice to our deepest feelings than a poem"  said  former Poet Laureate, Andrew Motion at the Opening of National Poetry Day, October 2008, and I'm sure many of us can relate to Andrew's sentiments.  National Poetry Day is an annual UK event which celebrates and promotes all kinds of poetry. It was set up in 1994, and involved thousands of people of all ages in live events and activities focussing on the appreciation of poetry.

The initial launch was highly successful and the idea has continued by exploring a different  poetry theme each year, covering such subjects as Food,  The Future,  Identity and Dreams.

Last year's theme was Work  and this year the theme is Heroes and Heroines. Members of the public were invited to nominate their Poetry Hero. Voting closed in early September and the result will be announced on National Poetry Day,Thursday 8th October.

I didn't actually vote, but my nomination would have gone without hesitation to that great all-rounder, musician, script-writer, artist, poet, and ‘some-time vexation’ (according to his manager of many years) Spike Milligan, a true Poetry and Comedy Hero.

 In a poll to find The Nation's Favourite Comic Poem, in 1998, the most voted-for poem  was Spike's delightful Ning Nang Nong, a place where  The cows go Bong!  The trees go Ping, The mice go Clang and the teapots go Jibber Jabber Joo!

If you don’t know it, it is well worth reading - you might even find yourself learning it off by heart. A year later, in yet another poll, Spike was voted ‘the funniest person of the last thousand years’. That's quite an accolade, covering an awful lot of time!

Another poet for whom I might have cast a vote and who is widely hailed as being The Worst Poet in British history, gained his reputation by  writing about tragedies and disasters - the bigger the better.

He penned those memorable opening lines to his poem The Tay Bridge Disaster:

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvry Tay
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879
Which will be remembered for a very long time…..

And the cry rang out all round the town,
Good heavens! The Tay Bridge has blown down!

The poet of course was William Topaz McGonagall, a weaver from Dundee and writer of over 200 poems.

He was a  Poetry Hero, of sorts.

Apparently after the death of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, McGonagall visited Balmoral in the hope of seeing Queen Victoria to enquire whether Her Majesty might consider him for the position of the next Poet Laureate.

Unfortunately for William, the Queen was not in residence.

There is a link between my two heroes - Spike and McGonagall - Spike occasionally gave readings of McGonagall's worst verse and also appeared as the poet in a 1974 film, The Great McGonagall, with Peter Sellers in the role of Queen Victoria. McGonagall was resurrected by Spike in The Goon Show, in the form of a character named McGoonagall, played alternatively by Spike and Sellers.

Both poets were of Irish parentage and neither poet sadly, was ever honoured  with the ‘butt of sack’, the 600 bottles of sherry traditionally given to the Poet Laureate. But we can still laugh or groan, at their lasting works.

The current Poet Laureate, Carol Ann Duffy, is the first woman to ever take the  post, which had been held for four hundred years solely by male poets. Carol is one of the best-selling poets in the UK and combines critical acclaim with popularity. Her ‘butts of sherry’ are well -deserved.

 In her role of Laureate, she has written a poem for National Poetry Day. This will be posted on 3rd October on the National Poetry Day website: www.nationalpoetryday.co.uk  and can be sent as an e-card. Go on, send one.

As the poem is not yet  available, much as I would like to,  I am unable to leave you with Carol's latest poem, but I can leave you with a few lines from my ultimate Hero, the inimitable Spike Milligan:

Climb every mountain -
Ford every stream -
Follow every rainbow -
Till you find you're knackered 

Mary Kalemkerian, BBC Head of Programmes, Radio 7

Daily Life in Kabul by Mr Mwezi

poem

Hold on Plutonium

In the equation of creation

where destruction is in the balance

hold on plutonium

the reactor fuel

of a nuclear weapon

Remember

god is colourless

like water

But there is no god

and we still have water.

Just.

by Joselyn Morton

missfreducation

When we first moved here, a year or so ago, there was only one living plant, a wizened  little money tree. I dusted and nurtured and encouraged it, and it grew shiny and tall. Then one day, it started melting. It really did, it was distressing to watch. Till all that was left was one misshapen leaf.

At about the same time, the phone stopped ringing about work and we did our own little version of the money tree melting death dance.

Well, I kept that remaining leaf, plonked it stem down in a pot and people, it’s back.

It has grown shiny and new again and is even sprouting babies (that’s where the metaphor ends I assure you).

I’m so excited, I start my new job on Saturday!

It couldn’t be more perfect .Well, more perfect would have been getting it six months ago, but that can’t happen.

I have been existing under a general air of gloom for so long, it’s a relief  to be able to enjoy stuff without feeling guilty … no interior voice reminding me of how grim everything is when I’m trying to be happy.

London has been beautiful this week - sunny and warm and the charity shops have been kind to me. I wonder if there’s a woman in Muswell Hill with exactly my taste, but much more money, because every time I go into my favourite little shop, there’s something I love.

I also had a mission to find a good comfortable expensive pair of loafers as I’ll be on my feet a lot. The very last, last little charity shop down Mornington Crescent, there they were. Five pounds, they look unworn, and they’re Timberlands.

I bet if I looked them up they’d be expensive.

Stephen O'R's Oz

 

Redness

Last week we awoke to an eerie red light and a sound like recently fallen snow. We could not see much beyond 200 metres and a musty smell hung in the air

entering the lungs making the susceptible ones cough. For the first time in 70 years Sydney had a dust storm and this one was said to be larger and denser than the 1944 one.

Traffic was lighter as people stayed home to avoid the ‘red death’. The coffee shop near the medical centre I went that morning had a drop off in customers by about 50%. Some pedestrians wore masks - I put one on but vanity prevailed and I coughed my way along the footpath.

Everything outside was covered in a layer of fine red dust. My pool at last had the natural look with a muddy bottom. Even inside the house was not spared. The self-ventilating Perspex bathroom roof ensured a layer of dust which made a red paste on my son’s feet, as he walked in a wet dream from the bathroom, creating a mud trail over the aubergine carpet. Our little darling  – all 6’2” of him, an artist at last. Perhaps we could cut it up and frame it. ‘Red Desert Footprints 2009’. Antonioni who painted the ground red for his film The Red Desert would have wept tears of envy.

The dust travelled about 1200 k from the outback where the red desert begins. That's out past Broken Hill past Packsaddle and Millparinka on the Silver City Highway that runs from Broken Hill to Tiboburra in the far west corner of the state.

We went to Tiboburra to make a film once because we wanted the ‘red desert’. It rained the first night turning every thing green. For three weeks we did an Antonioni, with the entire crew and cast down on their hands and knees weeding the green out of shot. Marie Christine Barrault – our star, was very amused.

So last week Red Dust came to Sydney, swept up and carried east by winds of 120kph, covering everything as it went. The redness had faded somewhat by 11 am but the gloom lasted till late afternoon.

Every car however, looked as if they had just driven the Birdsville track – even the hundreds lined up in the economic-gloom-struck car yards. And so this red cloud had a silver lining bringing glee to the Arabs and Indians who run the car wash businesses around the suburbs. Water restrictions were temporarily lifted allowing cars and windows to be hosed clean.

The weather office say it will return but I guess that probably means it won’t.

Photo and text by Roger Morton

In February 1990 when the weather was great for sailing in the Bay of Islands, the Queen visited Waitangi to celebrate 150 years of Britishness. A celebration not shared with much enthusiasm by the Maori population of NZ/ Aotearoa. The Queen however excelled herself in her speech, which blamed the immigrant/settler governments for not honouring the Treaty which her ancestor (Queen Victoria, no less) had signed with the Maori of the day. There was a lot of squirming from the NZ Prime minister and the MPs present.

We were sailing in the Bay of Islands at the time and had a good look at the maritime displays with warships and sailing boats from the past 150 years. The stars of the show were the 150 foot long Waka Taua, the warships of the old Maori days and they were magnificent. Made from a single tree they were carved and hollowed out by incredibly laborious methods using stone tools. These were being paddled by as many as 100 men in each. So far was the bow man from the sternmost, they needed 3 sub-captains to give the orders for maneuvering these enormous craft.

When sailing the rhythmic sound of the "sea chanty" could be heard from a long distance. The surfers were an added delight.
see Roger Morton's photographs at Proud Chelsea

Coogee Beach Jones by Al Muhit

PART 5 Resume: At the Missions Hospital in Manali, Wal learns about or meets the Good Samaritan, the Exhausted Eric, the English girl Julie, Dr George and Keith …

Five minutes later the taxi pulled up at the Holiday Inn. Wal wanted phones, room service and credit card facilities. The Good Samaritan went in to check the room “We must have a ground floor one, he had said earlier,  " last night she tried to throw herself off the top of the hospital." Wal and Keith waited either side of Rebecca in the taxi.

Rebecca was quiet in the room. The boys were whooping at the luxury. There was tennis on the telly and beers for all.

When Rebecca went to the toilet the Good Samaritan called out " don't lock the door 'Bec".

"I wont " she replied. The door locked. The Good Samaritan was on his feet and stood with his ear to the door.

" She can't get  out the window " he whispered. A few minutes passed with tennis playing while the three of them waited, frozen. When the door unlocked they quickly took up nonchalant poses in front of the telly. There was no more trouble.

Wal made calls to UK, Sydney and the Amex office in New Delhi, he booked two seats on a flight to New Delhi from Kullu for the next day. When everything was in order Wal noticed that the boys were settled in. "Are you staying the night? " he said.

"Yeah I think so" said Keith. The phone went. It was the front desk informing him of a 'housie  game' in the foyer to which Sir was invited.

Wal passed on the game but went down to pay for the flights. " There will be two guests staying the night" he told the man at the desk.

"Thank you sir, have a pleasant night." Back in the room, talk was restricted, voluntarily, to harmless, banal, male banter. It reminded Wal of the Fawlty Towers episode when John Cleese's wife reminds him not to mention the war, only this time it was the 'bad trip'.

The Good Samaritan spread Rebecca's sleeping bag across the path to one door and Keith bunked up on the sofa across the other.  Wal slept in the bed with Rebecca, who although looking terrified, had continued to stay calm, on the outside at least.

Wal found out two days later that at this time she believed Wal was the devil and the three of them were taking her to her death. She was waiting  for a chance to escape.

The night passed uneventfully.

In the morning  the four of them breakfasted on the lawn outside the room, waving to the wealthy Indian couples on either side. They laughed and joked with the two boys expressing theatrical dismay at the room service prices. The Good Samaritan said he wanted to go to Kullu anyhow and asked if he could come. “Fine,” said Wal.

They said goodbye to Keith who went off in a taxi with the Good Samaritan, who was to pick up his pack and return. As they sat in the room Wal tried to talk with Rebecca who was very quiet. She said Kullu was dangerous for her and she didn't want to go. Wal mentally repeated his mantra "GET HER OUT OF THE COUNTRY". "We wont stop" said Wal. "We will go straight to the airport. "

“How do I know you are telling the truth? " she said.

"Rebecca I'm your father, I've come to take care of you."

She  looked at him distantly, and fell silent again.

Wal checked out and they waited in the foyer for the Good Samaritan to return. Wal had been on a regular dose of Valium and codeine phosphate since he arrived, so he was reasonably calm.

In the taxi Rebecca is more agitated. She asks the driver, "Excuse me. Can you tell me where we are going ?"

" To Kullu airport, madam. " he replies. Wal has positioned himself between Rebecca and the only rear door and the Good Samaritan is sitting in the front left seat. A few minutes pass "Stop the car please" Rebecca says to the driver.

" Why do you want to stop ? " says Wal.

"I want to get some cigarettes."

"Rebecca I have a carton of cigarettes."

" I want  a different kind."

" We are running late." pleads Wal.

"Stop the car please." says Rebecca, ignoring him.

" OK lets stop. " said Wal.  The Good Samaritan shakes his head, but the car stops and Wal opens the door. Rebecca, walking very slowly, almost regally, goes up to a cigarette stand and choses a pack. Wal stands close behind, the Good Samaritan waits beside the van. As she gets her change Rebecca asks the stall owner in the politest of voices "Excuse me,  which is the way to Kullu Airport." The man points the way they have been driving. "Thank you" she says and heads back to the van calm and confident. She repeats this exercise six times, each time something is bought and the person questioned points the right way.

As they are driving the Good Samaritan is rabbiting on about this and that to distract Rebecca. He mentions a temple on the other side of the valley. After a moment Rebecca reaches into her pack and starts to put on more clothes.

Later Wal finds out she believed that she was being taken to the temple to be killed and she was dressing warmly because she had been told it was cold up there.

Suddenly the van has a puncture. They get out while the wheel is changed. Rebecca asks a passing man "which is the way to Kullu airport?" They had just driven through the centre of Kullu, and the man points to it, instead of the airport. She begins to walk away.
Wal takes her arm "He is wrong Rebecca".
Rebecca looks at him and says "Let me go!"

to be continued …

Cover Picture

Nothing changes. The situation in Kabul continues to be explosive and no doubt extremely precarious.

Photo by Mr Mwezi