Ballinger Boys

Waving at the natives - 2

2011-10-21T12:15:00.002+10:00

The road higher maintains its narrow snakiness, as our driver, Ganesh, continues the death-defying act of negotiating roads on which drivers think nothing of passing on blind corners, at speed, whether in a car, bus, truck or auto rickshaw. A few near misses let you know you're alive, as both vehicles come to a screeching halt almost nose-to-nose, then inch their ways past each other and continue.

Add to the excitement of the perilous road journey periodic heavy downpours that create coffee-coloured foam as silt and water mix down the cascades of narrow gorges and vertical drops. Along the way, at the unlikeliest of locations, villages have sprung up over the year. A few micro-businesses sell anything from crisps, soft drinks and pens, to plumbing supplies, saris or motorbike parts. There are also countless people selling home-cooked food, which it's probably sensible to politely decline. All the while along the way, everyone is quick with a smile and a wave at this impossibly large bus and its contents.

Travelling in South India, or, How I Developed My Quads & Hamstrings Through the Use of Squat Toilets on the Subcontinent

2011-10-19T22:57:00.002+10:00

So, stopped to take a leak by the side of the road the other day - as all good Indians do - in the middle of a national park, with the threat of attack from tigers, spotted deer, and several species of monkey, and thunder rolling with grey clouds overhead. At least it's cleaner than most Indian public toilets and you don't need to wear gumboots.

How far can you walk once the rumblings of an Indian post-lunch experience come on? About a kilometre, it would seem, but with ever increasing speed and ever tighter clenching. The sweat drips from you, from the heat of a Thekkady afternoon and the anxiety of the situation, while each vacant block and alleyway becomes more and more inviting as you look around for ways to solve your problem. A mantra rolls over and over in your head - I will maintain my dignity. I will walk briskly to the hotel.

As you race down the street, another couple from the tour passes - smile weakly, eyes ahead. I will maintain my dignity. I will find the toilet at reception because my room is another 50 metres further away. The entry walls to the Muthoot Cardamom County Resort welcome you, but can you make reception or the pool loos? Why are all those people staring? I will maintain my dignity. I will maintain my dignity. You shut the door; you lift the seat.

Dignity maintained.

I find out later that the other couple had speculated that Damian and I had had an argument, because we were returning to the hotel separately, about 100 metres apart, one more desperate than the other to make it back to the resort.

When traveling in places such as this, never EVER leave the bus without wet-wipes or tissues, or at the very VERY least, a left-over serviette from breakfast. Because what you're left with is a hole in the ground and a bucket of questionable water, and if you're very lucky, a small plastic jug. Ensure that if you don't have your little bottle of hand sanitiser with you, that it is in the bus and that you don't shake friends' hands until you have accessed said bottle of sanitiser. Ah, Ooty.

Enough said!

The squatting, of course, has been very helpful in developing the muscles for temple step climbing.

Waving at the natives

2011-10-19T02:52:00.000+10:00

Nine hours on the bus today - twenty-three seats, eleven travellers, and countless bumps and turns from Coonoor to Munnar. These are both hill towns, separated by a vast plain at about 400 metres. Across the plains we see coconut palms, ginger, sugar cane and rice, the rice more so at sea level. In places, narrow streams fed by mountain rain flow through forests of beetel nut palms or ginger.

All along the way, townspeople go about their business, generally oblivious to the bus nudging its way through their streets. Looking out, you notice the men with their lustrous black hair well beyond middle age, and nary a sign of male pattern baldness. The women's hair too is dark and long, some trying to emulate the images of impossibly beautiful women on billboards, cloaked in saris and bejewelled in gold, diamonds and other precious gems. No matter a person's station in life and apparent poverty, most women have some form jewellery - bangles, bracelets and anklets; toe, nose and earrings.

In the hills, the crop is tea, grown between 3000 and 7000 metres. As we climb to Munnar, mist clings to the tea bushes carpeting the slopes, with a criss-cross of paths for the pickers to move around. Only women, generally from the state of Tamil Nadu, are employed to pick tea in this region. Interspersed among the bushes - tea is actually a tree, but is kept to 2 foot bush height for ease of picking - are imported Australian she-oaks, planted to give shade to the bushes during the hotter times. The seeds for the she-oaks were actually not imported, but smuggled into India illegally in the skirts of the wife of a planter!

The Munnar High Range Club

2011-10-15T11:56:00.002+10:00

14 October

Visited the Munnar High Range Club today, a remnant of the Raj and tea plantations of the early twentieth century. We walked in, after another treacherous auto rickshaw ride, to white-washed walls and dark wood panelling. The walls were adorned with faded sepia and black & white photos of planters and plantation managers and their wives, mid-century cricket teams, and other groups gathered overlooking the vast carpets of tea bushes covering the mountain sides. One particular photo was the focus of our flying visit, that of the Kundaly Club, circa 1900. In it, according to an email from Mum, we had to "look for a man with a stick about seventh or eighth from the right in the front row. Behind him, and behind that man again, a touch to the right is your GGF" - Christopher Eric Ley Ward, a member of the High Range Club and manager of the Kanan Devan Hills Plantation Company (Madupatty Tea Estates) in the early 1900s. I now feel even greater claim to being an Anglo-Indian!

Will post photos when we access a computer (using the iPad now, and Blogger doesn't like it re photos).

You can piss in the street, just don't kiss in the street

2011-10-12T23:09:00.001+10:00

12 October

So goes a local expression, which encapsulates the contrasts of India, both visual and social. The streets of every town and along the highways are extensively littered with rubbish of all kinds: paper and plastic bags, food scraps, bits of clothing and leather and rubber (from shoe manufacture), and walking passed all of this can be every type of person - beautiful women in beautiful saris, too cool westernized men wearing the latest inspired by Indian GQ and pop videos, shoeless auto rickshaw drivers and street vendors, and beggars (whether crippled or simply destitute). The paradox is such that outside boutique shops and five-star hotel entries, the rubbish can be found.

And then there are the bodily functions! Pissing (as in the title); spitting, here, there and everywhere (though there's generally plenty of warning to get out of the way as they all have the guttural, back of the nasal cavity snort); and the occasional squat that is the tell-tale sign of something more odourous. Compared to the last time I was here (1982), there actually seems to be much less spitting in the streets (and fewer beggars, come to that).

India remains very conservative - public displays of affection are infrequent, though both women and men hold hands or have their arms around each other's shoulders or waists, similar to what you see in the Middle East. So, yeah, no kissing in the street.

Crowds, noise, food

2011-10-10T03:48:00.003+10:00

7 October

Sitting in our hotel room with a cacophony of traffic sounds below, glasses of Kingfisher beer in hand. We're just back from Spencer Plaza, a shopping mall in the throes of renovation. Lots of stores selling brass statuettes, rugs and pashmina shawls, with traders and spruikers touting their wares - 'just opened today', 'brand new', 'best price'. Also though, department and speciality stores with fixed prices. Damian came away with new sunglasses (dropped his this morning), and I have a new pair of walking shoes - just because. Learning the art of haggling and walking away with the auto rickshaw (took-took) drivers - in the end it's just a few cents difference.

The day started though with a combination Indian and Western breakfast - masala omelette or beans and eggs, and a lot else besides; can highly recommend the masala omelette - plenty of oil, eggs, onion and spices, similar to something we had on our Nile cruise a few years ago. Crowds and noise are the key words on India so far - the streets, the temples, the markets. Visited a Hindu temple as part of a sightseeing tour this afternoon - no shoes, no photos inside certain shrines, and no non-Hindus within other parts too. We did get blessed by a Hindu priest though, so maybe we will come back as sacred cows in the next life. After receiving his jasmine flower necklace from a woman in the temple, Damian paraded around for an hour looking very holy. Not knowing what to do with it later, though, we worried that simply tossing it away would lead to other less favourable reincarnations. Luckily the two Hindu god statues in the foyer of our floor at the hotel accepted the offering.

On another religious note, we visited the Cathedral Basilica of St Thomas (the doubting one). I have always been fascinated by the fact that Christianity has been in India almost from day one - St Thomas is said to have arrived on the west coast of India in about 60AD and died in Mylapore (now Madras/Chennai) in about 72AD, murdered by the spear of a local on a hilltop in the region. Images of Christ and the apostles in the cathedral have a distinctly Indian quality to them - vibrant colours, flashing neon lights, and saintly images likely modelled on Bollywood actors, though St John had a touch of the Chuck Norrises about him. Another fascinating fact - the Cathedral Basilica of St Thomas is one of only three ini the world build on the tomb of a saint, the others being St Peter's in Rome and the Cathedral of Santiago (St James) de Compostela in Spain.

As The Communards once sang - 'Don't Leave Me This Way'

2011-10-10T03:44:00.002+10:00

6 October

Uneventful flight to and arrival in Madras, and then... abandonment! Apparently someone at the travel agency forgot to tell someone at the tour company that we would be on a flight much earlier than anyone else in the group. Arrived at 3:30pm, not expected by Mr Mahesh the tour leader till 10:00pm. Ah, India! Stood waiting, waiting, waiting till 4:30pm, fending off offers of taxi rides, till a kindly airport security guard offered that we use his mobile phone to make some calls. There was an implied suggestion and mention of call charges so I complied with the connotation and handed over 100 rupees. The upshot of the phone calls was... Best you catch a taxi to the hotel!

Ah well, made it one one piece, didn't get murdered and had dinner (in the hotel's Chinese restaurant) without developing diarrhea; it's early days though.

The glamorous life

2011-10-06T10:48:00.001+10:00

Damian being glamorous in the opulent Ambassador Lounge of the extravagant Changi Airport. We have six hours here of free food and drink (no alcohol, but it is only 8.00am), and access to showers and gym (LOL!). Have snoozed a bit, after not snoozing on the plane - alas Temazepam and Bry don't effectively together, especially in the heightened state of the first day of a holiday, it seems). We get to Madras about 3.30pm and meet the rest of the tour group, with things getting underway Friday morning.

Stay tuned and नमस्ते

Namaste all

2011-10-05T22:03:00.004+10:00

So, here we are at Brisbane International, a little weary and waiting for the plane while trying to master Blogger using an iPad - compatability issues. Hopefully we will be able to keep the world up-to-date on the trip.

Come back and have a read!
B&D

THE HOUSE AT THE CROSSROADS

2010-11-19T23:12:00.002+10:00

ONCE UPON A TIME, in a time before pain, three friends lived in a house in a forest. The house stood at a crossroads, three roads from elsewhere that converged in the woods. The three friends stood at the gate, ready for the day. Willem, short but strong as an ox, stood with hammer and nails. Jakob, tall and clever as a fox, stood with traps and knives. Ricardo, thoughtful and full of curiosity, stood with buckets and rope.

Now the friends had not always lived in the house at the crossroads in the woods. No. For Willem had grown up in the town of Berg, away in the mountains. ‘Mother, Father’, he said, ‘I am a man now, and strong as an ox, and I must take my leave of you and make my way in the world’. A tear came to Willem’s mother’s eye as mother and father watched him heave his pack, strap on his work belt and take the road out of Berg. He turned back and waved, and then he was gone, obscured by the market stalls in the town square.

And what of Jakob? Jakob came of age in the town of Fluss, deep in the valley, astride the river. ‘Mother, Father’, he said, ‘I am a man now and clever as a fox, and I must leave this place and set to roaming’. Jakob’s mother clutched at her apron strings as mother and father watched him heave his pack and load his traps into a wagon. He led his donkey down the street then turned to wave and was gone, obscured by the fountain outside the town hall.

And then there was Ricardo, who spent his childhood in the town of Kuste, roaming the beaches and writing of the ships that ventured over the horizon. ‘Mother, Father’, he said, ‘I am a boy no longer and curious beyond measure. I yearn to explore our world’. Ricardo’s parents held each other and wept as they watched him heave his pack and walk down the lane with notebook in hand. He turned to wave and then was gone, obscured by the tears in their eyes.

Each man walked, and each held adventure in his heart. Willem trod the rocky path down from the mountains. Jakob followed the winding paths of the valley by the river. And Ricardo set his eyes on the road that took him inland and towards the crossroads.

As Willem roamed, he stopped every few nights and used hammer and nails and what materials he could find to build himself a shelter. He would sit each evening at dusk and eat a simple meal and marvel at the world he was seeing – travelling merchants, performing bears, and fortune tellers. ‘Three coins’, one had said, ‘and I will speak of your future’. Willem laughed at such things and waved the old crone on her way. But as he ate, a small part of him craved a woman’s company, craved a wife to spend forever with.

As Jakob roamed, he too stopped every few nights, in caves or old trappers’ huts. He ate well, trapping rabbits and preparing them with herbs from the side of the road. And he would sit at dawn and wonder at what the day would bring – soldiers of the king, new animals to hunt, and fortune tellers. ‘Two coins’, one had said, ‘and I will speak of your future’. Jakob laughed at such things, and waved the old crone on her way. But as he sat and ate, a small part of him craved the company of others, to talk and argue and discuss ideas.

As Ricardo roamed, he too stopped every few nights and experienced the generous hospitality of the good folk who lived in the small hamlets of just five or six houses. At night he would lie in the bed in the house in which he stayed and dream of his days on the road – meadows full of game, wondrous structures, and fortune tellers. ‘A single coin’, one had said, ‘and I will speak of your future’. And Ricardo considered this and smiled and handed over a single silver coin.

The crone was surprised, but took the coin as it glinted in the sun and placed it in a pouch that hung at her waist. Holding Ricardo’s hands, she stared into his eyes and closed her own. She leant in close and sniffed deeply at his neck, and Ricardo caught the scent of garlic, old cabbage, and mud, and smiled to himself. The crone opened her eyes to see Ricardo’s smiling face, and her eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘You are different from others’, she announced. She looked him up and down as though to pick out which feature was out of place, but could find nothing to comment on. He was solid and plain, but there were many of those in towns throughout the realm, she knew. She sniffed the thought away and closed her eyes again. For a long moment there was nothing, then she raised an eyebrow. ‘The future of the few’, was all she said, and this time Ricardo furrowed his brow and clutched at her hands. This stirred her from the future she saw behind her eyelids. Is that bad, wondered Ricardo. How few are we? And then he breathed deeply with excitement, when does this future begin? ‘There is a triptych that hangs in the palace’, she continued. How could she have been in the palace, Ricardo wondered. ‘Three couples, one in each panel, stand arm in arm. It is said three brothers once built a house and found their true loves as they roamed the countryside. One had hair of flame. One had hair of honey. But one stands obscured, the tapestry slashed at by an old king’s rage. This is your fate.’ Ricardo stood wide-eyed as she let his hands go, and without another word hobbled away, a single silver coin richer. But how could I enrage a king, thought Ricardo.

The very next day, as the sun found its zenith, the three men came to a crossroads. At first, each approached with caution, but then recognised in the others the look of adventure and the desire to experience new things. The group stood in the centre of the crossroads, and each took in the others for signs of friendliness. And then they all burst forth with tales of their travels.

‘I am Willem of Berg. I have been walking the road these many days and seek to make my way in the world.’

‘I am Jakob of Fluss. I have been roaming the country these weeks and seek to meet new people to call friend.’

‘I am Ricardo of Kuste. I have been exploring the world for some time and seek to know the future.’

And so with hearty laughter and the patting of backs, the three strangers became friends. That first day, they lunched on rabbit, talked of their journeys, and wondered if they would have to continue on their own. ‘You won’t believe the sights I’ve seen – tame bears that juggle fire’, offered Willem. ‘Ah, I’ve witnessed the king’s guard, in all their finery, sun glinting off their armour’, returned Jakob. ‘Can you imagine fine stone buildings the size of mountains’, replied Ricardo. And they all laughed and toasted their travels with tankards of mead, while Ricardo desperately tried to write down every word of the amazing stories.

As the food ran out and the sun began its descent, Jakob looked at his new friends and wondered aloud, ‘What of us now? I have travelled and had experiences, but now I wish…’

‘…to stay put for a time’, continued Ricardo.

‘…and build a place to live’, suggested Willem.

And thus, the house at the crossroads in the woods was built. Trees were felled, timber was sawn, extra wooden nails were fashioned by whittling off-cuts. And seven days saw the construction of the friends’ new home. And what a home – a roofline that was straight from the high street of Berg; door and window arches that spoke of the riverside homes of Fluss; and chimney pots till now only ever found on the finest villas of Kuste. The plans drawn in Ricardo’s notebook came to life at the hands of the three new friends, and after seven days of toil they allowed themselves their rest.

Life was idyllic in the house at the crossroads. Fences, hunting, the building of a well. Each night they sat in company, eating game and drinking mead, talking of their adventures before and since meeting. And talking of dreams of the future. ‘Someone with hair like fire’, ‘No, curls of gold’, ‘No, hair like rich chocolate and shoulders golden from the sun’. They laughed and re-filled their tankards, and clinked them with a passion. And they went to sleep at night alone.

And then one day, a maiden with hair of flame came upon the house, as Willem worked in the garden. On her arm she carried a basket, and as Willem smiled at her she offered him a pastry. ‘I am visiting family, but I can stay a while.’

‘Perhaps you would like to see our garden. We have berries you could use next time you bake.’

And so she returned each day for a week, and Willem invited her to stay. ‘I too have been searching for my true love’, she said, ‘and in my mind he has been a capable man, good with his hands. This has been my dream.’

And then one day, a beauty with honey coloured curls walked along the road towards the house, as Jakob sat repairing traps in the garden. In her hands she carried wildflowers, and as Jakob smiled at her, she offered him one of the most beautiful. ‘I have been visiting friends, but I can stay a while.’

‘Perhaps you would like to see our garden. We have roses you could use to decorate your home.’

And so she returned each day for a week, and Jakob invited her to stay. ‘I too have been searching for my true love’, she said, ‘and in my mind he has been a capable man, able to provide for his family. This has been my dream.’

Ricardo watched his friends, and the way love blossomed with these kind and gentle women, and he looked forward to the day his one true love would arrive in his life. But as the friends set to building two new houses using what the forest provided and the skills they had learnt, it seemed true love would remain the stuff of dreams for Ricardo.

But then one day, from the depths of the forest, someone new appeared. Their hair was neither of flame nor honey, nor did it curl down and rest on shoulders. Standing in overalls and with axe in hand was a man of height and build such as Ricardo had never seen. Tanned shoulders and close-cropped hair, rich like chocolate, distracted Ricardo from the latest plans that he had been drawing for his friends’ houses. Hung at his belt, the stranger carried rabbit pelts of beautiful creams and greys and browns, and as Ricardo smiled at him, the stranger offered one of the softest. ‘I have been working the woods, building and hunting, but I can stay a while.’

‘Perhaps you would like to see the houses we are constructing for my friends. We could always do with another pair of hands.’

And so Hans returned each day for a week, and Ricardo invited him to stay. ‘I too have been searching for my true love’, Hans said, ‘and in my mind he has been a capable man, but creative too and open to new things. This has been my dream.’

And so the tapestry was complete. Three couples standing arm in arm. Three friends who found their true loves as they roamed the countryside. One had hair of flame. One had hair of honey. And one, no longer obscured, with tanned shoulders and close-cropped hair, rich as chocolate. But what of the slashed panel, Ricardo wondered.

Days later, as each couple settled into their new houses, with Ricardo and Hans staying in the original, a squadron of the king’s guard approached on the road from Kuste. Hearing the noise of jingling footholds and whinnying, the couples came out to see the captain of the guard dismounting. As Hans came out, last of all, the entire squadron bowed low. ‘Highness!’, they all cried, and removed their helmets in respect.

The friends turned to Hans, who was wiping grimy fingers on his overalls. Ricardo’s thoughts turned to the king’s rage.

‘Your highness’, said the captain of the guard, ‘your father, the King, begs your return. He has announced to the court that your choice is yours and he recognises the richness this will bring to the realm. Can we send a messenger to tell him you have found what you have been searching for?’

Hans spoke, looking grander for a moment but maintaining the respect for others the friends had come to know. ‘Captain, you may tell my father that I bring with me Ricardo of Kuste, poet and architect of the first order, to by my prince.’ He turned from the soldiers and looked desperately at Ricardo, standing with the others by the gate. ‘If you will be mine, now that you know the truth of who I am. If I may still be yours.’

Ricardo smiled, despite the tear that rolled down his cheek, and Willem and Jakob stood each with a protective hand on his shoulders. ‘I left my family, curious about the world, and I have seen and written of much. You and I are the few, as the old crone said, and our future has begun. I will be your prince, and you, mine. But I ask only that we visit this hamlet at the crossroads in the woods whenever we can.’ Ricardo turned to his two friends, who were now crying tears of joy and sorrow.

Hans bowed low and took Ricardo’s hand. ‘As you wish’, was all he said.

…end…

Endless sunset

2010-08-15T11:44:00.000+10:00

Pray this pre-sunset doesn’t end. Let the sun float above the horizon for at least a year; three hundred and sixty five days of a calming, burnished twilight, warming our necks and narrowing our eyes.

Passersby would seem to perpetually leave work, head home, stop for coffee, amid long shadows punctuating the footpath.

A breeze would come up at intervals and we would raise our collars, while happy in the thought that the next day was still a moment away. And our mochas would find themselves re-filled when we turned back again. Tables and chairs would likely stack themselves for a time, and by our next mouthful would be laid out again as customers drift in and out, here and there, now and then.

Those who exercise would endlessly loop and lap and lift, working towards that personal best that eludes them. An endless tide would ebb the year through, eroding the flesh and souls of those who dare to swim its waters as we applaud their endurance from the long-lit café nearby.

And then the sun would tire and yawn, and realise the boredom in his slumber, as the springs and gears come to life again, and the moon shakes herself free of the cobwebs and dust, and rises to claim her time to reign.

From an idea by Mr W Godwin, Esq.

2010-01-08T11:55:00.003+10:00

A low dim wailing

It seems all beauty is gone,
Soaked deep into the sand
That now dries in the sun.

A pinpoint of sound envelops my head
And flattens to a thin,
Infinite line between my temples.

This continuum of sameness confounds me.
Delivers a madness over and over.
Delivers lessons barely learnt.

A low dim wailing
Speaks of unspeakable desires
In this baffling composition of life.

In a split second’s reprieve
A bridge holds back the downpour,
And while we pass I see tomorrow.

A powder blue sky holding no water.
Wind exiling clouds to another place.
Our bodies reclining on the hill.

An arch of branches reaches over the water,
An iridescent turquoise that plunges to unseen sands.
Your lips are at my ear.

The sand is damp under us again.
A winding thread of footprints leads away.
My arms fold you into me.

Something to finish off the year with...

2009-12-30T20:25:00.003+10:00

...with acknowledgments to Marc Bolan, 'True Blood', 'Stargate SG-1', and Hootie & the Blowfish.

The Hydra's Teeth

The dark rises in the east and envelops the day
As the Hydra’s teeth release him.
He lies heart-sick, eyes filled with gloom,
Through this night of a thousand lies.

Between the body and ascension
I see him tangled in blue,
And even the sound of his footsteps is sad
Along the length of the Corniche.

And deep within builds a roar
That strips leaves from trees
As he stands naked and remembers,
While the horizon closes in.

You won’t, will you?
It doesn’t feel right.
You should though.
Will you?

Empty photo albums of uncollected memories
Will let him start again.
Slice away his sadness.
Wash off the day, wash away the night.

My Soul is a Wilderness

2009-11-01T18:55:00.000+10:00

My soul is a wilderness, a vast plain open to the elements.
A single track leads to some oblivion.
Exposed, I stand in a void, black and hostile to the senses.

Breath and thought freeze there.
The unending outrush of air assails your ears with sweet messages of self-loathing
And the mire of a lifetime sucks at your toes, ankles, knees.

I manage to stroll a little further, to the edge of my mind,
Only to find makeshift scaffolding and whitewashed hessian sacks holding it all together.
How disappointing that it’s this and not art that adorns this internal world.

Annie Lennox

2009-10-17T22:42:00.000+10:00

Don't read too much into it... or maybe you should!

2009-10-12T21:11:00.005+10:00

Hi Folks

Thought I'd share another poem ('poetry' is such a strong word). Hope you can get something out of it.

Love to all
Bry
xxx

Plodding and slow I awaken

Plodding and slow I awaken
Impotent to do anything today.
Last night you left.
Lightly rustling thoughts
Buzzing and numbing.
Where are you?
Spine tingling notions
Blind me to the truth.
Wondering when.
Rein in the suspicion
Out of control.
With your key in the door
There’s blessed relief.

Photography course

2009-08-31T09:04:00.005+10:00

Well, furthering my creative outlets and starting a photography short-course in a few weeks (for 4 wks, then after that, another one for 5 wks). As an example, the images above are from holiday snaps then composed to create DVD covers.

Love etc

A hot tin roof

2009-08-31T08:58:00.002+10:00

The air is light, and carries the sound of cicadas. The just-turned-out fluorescent light in the bathroom glows surreally. Outside, through the dust on the flyscreen, light is diffused indoors.

The heat of your body is disturbing as I lay down beside you. From behind, my hand moves to your chest, my palm aware of your beating heart. Over the next few minutes, our body temperatures equalise as the tin roof creaks and groans. Lying with my lips resting on your back, our breath falls in sync and I drift into your slumber.

We occasionally meet in sleep, an impression of you in the impulses of my mind and soul. Maybe that’s not you though. Maybe you are the oddly dressed schoolgirl, or the growling lion, or the colour blue that recurs within a scene of an abandoned house my soul explores. The house is my security. The abandonment is my giving up to you. The blue, a colour that’s with me constantly in my waking life – the clothes I wear, the sea, the sky.

A possum’s steps outside cause you to stir. ‘Roll over.’ And your hand clasps at my heart, fingertips burrowing into the hair of my chest. One last complaint from the roof as sleep envelopes you again, and the tiniest vocalisation escapes you, punctuated by the squeeze of your hand.

© 2009

Is there anybody there?

2009-08-07T22:05:00.003+10:00

So, it's been a while.

I'm going to start posting stuff again, and will start with a poem from some time ago. Hope you like!

You are here
Orbited by life
The darkness envelops my ears.
A solution, seek it,
Hurried and low.
Burning and filling, fuelling my brain.
I kiss the arctic of your skin
To stand again on legs that won’t,
Squelching to my shins
With the aura of the world around.
Fit to throw furniture,
I leave instead
With salt and sorrow on my tongue.
Gliding over the edge
To the tang I can see,
For the work there is to do.

© 2009

Egypt

2007-11-05T18:37:00.000+10:00

Nile riverboat, Cairo

Sunlight over the Pyramids
At the Pyramids

Journal entry 06.10.07

Cairo today, the Pyramids.

Spent a dusty morning on the Giza Plateau, roaming around the pyramids of Khufu and Khafre. Very few English speaking tourists around - lots of Italians and Spanish. Paid the extra to make the stifling trek down a ramp into the centre of Khafre's pyramid. For a few seconds on entering the tunnel, my chest tightened in a kind of panic and I thought of turning back, but decided the humiliation of defeat would be too much. Focused on breathing and continued down, dripping sweat. After the first descent there was a small atrium where we could stand upright and heard the sound of exhaust fans - imagine the heat if they weren't there. After another descent, braver now, we came into the burial chamber, a large, plain, high-ceilinged hall, with a stone sarcophagus at the end. And that was it - the awe inspiring simplicity made me forget the anxiety. I was there in the centre of a pyramid, deep underground. The ascent was nothing.

After seeing inside the pyramid, we roamed around the Great Pyramid for 45 mins or so, approached by hawkers and camel drivers every 50 paces, or so it seemed - we bought a Bedouin headdress each after some haggling. Even after we had them on our heads, several hawkers came up to us and took them off to re-adjust them, of course expecting, but receiving none. Clambered a few levels up onto the Great Pyramid, up steps that led to an entry, not the original, to take photos. A lot of people around, but probably not nearly as many as at the height of the season (over the next few months when it's cooler). And buses everywhere, of all sizes, in the carpark driving the road to the plateau to the west where a full view of all three pyramids is possible. In that area are many vendors, of beautiful, tacky and just plain ugly pieces, and a caravan of camel drivers and their beasts. A shame that this site must be sullied in these ways for our enjoyment - can it still be a sacred place?

At the Sphinx the crowds were more dense, herded through the funerary temple and up to a viewing area to the left of the beast. It was hot and dusty, again, so it was just get the photo and go. Difficult to be truly awe-inspired when it's snap and go. Which is not to say I wasn't inspired - who wouldn't be by thousands of years of stone staring out across the sand. We had a brief visit to the local Papyrus Institute, where they demonstrated how to make the stuff - thinly slicing the stalks, soaking in water for 6 or 12 weeks (for yellow or brown), then laying strips at right angles to each other to create very strong 'paper'. Later we went to a nearby felafal bar for lunch - felafal and shewerma (basically a kebab).

The Egyptian Museum - Built in 1904 and possibly not cleaned since 1905, the cabinets are probably some of the originals; mummies' coffins are piled 3 high, bunk bed style; small stone figurines line walls; and huge colossi stand in the hall gazing on the visitors. Three separate rooms house Tutankhamun's relics, including the gold bejewelled headpiece. I stood there amidst the many visitors, trying to block them out and take in its thousands of years of hiding in the Valley of the Kings. No photos allowed inside, so had to rely on the pieces in the courtyard - stellae, statues and sphinxes sitting amongst cobbled gardens. We had agreed to meet everyone at 4.30 to head 'downtown' for a little shopping. You can only take in so many museum pieces without description cards before becoming too confused, so we left a little early for the 'cafeteria' - basic, un-air conditioned, smoke-filled. Lovely!

We made our way downtown and found a shopping mall with 7 levels of menswear stores. Damian bought a pair of black leather sandals that may be a bit too big. Dinner included before our departure for the train station for the night train to Luxor (sounds romantic, but not). Our tour leader, Hamdy, sat with us but didn't eat, as he'd had a fast-breaking meal with other staff at the hotel at sunset as part of Ramadan.

Love to all! More later

Bry&Damo

Finally!

2007-10-01T07:58:00.000+10:00

We're off tonight! Huzzah!

A few pix above to give you a taste of what we're about to experience. May blog while we're away, but will upload heaps of pix and stories too when we get back.

Love to all
Bry&Damo

And on a serious note...

2007-08-25T01:35:00.000+10:00

Unnecessarily, the Australian government is set to rubber-stamp a pulp mill in an environmentally sensitive area of Tasmania. The letter below is part of a GetUp! campaign. Visit www.getup.org.au for more information.

"Dear Mr Turnbull,

I am extremely concerned over the proposed development of Gunns Ltd’s pulp mill in Tasmania’s Tamar Valley.

I do not believe the pulp mill should be given Federal approval, and the measures contained in the proposed decision and conditions are grossly inadequate. The pulp mill will have a disastrous effect on the environment, contributing tonnes of greenhouse gasses to the atmosphere and poisonous effluent to the waterways that come under federal jurisdiction.

The fragile local wildlife are not adequately protected under the proposed conditions, and most worrying of all, there are no provisions for fines or shutdown of the mill if the conditions are breached.

I implore you to reinstate an independent assessment process for the mill, and make a decision that appropriately protects Tasmania’s people and environment. I do not believe that granting approval to the pulp mill can achieve that end."

Scissor Sisters

2007-08-10T19:08:00.000+10:00

39 and all laid up - but not in a good way

2007-07-31T18:16:00.000+10:00

Well, last week saw me edge that little bit closer to 40, but I spent the bulk of the week a little poorly. Shivers, sweats, joints throbbing, head aching etc. Fun.

A positive though was the opportunity to spend two sick days familiarising myself with Egypt (we fly out on 1 Oct): watched the four hours of Mankiewicz's Cleopatra (spectacular and ordinary at the same time), and the much more wonderful six hour BBC documentary Egypt. What extraordinary people were the likes of Jean-Francois Champollion, Giovanni Belzoni and Howard Carter - passionate, driven, quirky and not suffering fools. And then there's Cleopatra - character actors playing characters, stars playing themselves, and Liz' costumes getting a billing all their own. Was there any higher light than Richard O'Sullivan (Robin from Robin's Nest, Man About the House etc) and his star turn as the spoilt brat Pharaoh Ptolemny XIII - whining and pouting to give Liz a run for her money.

Two stars from me. And four stars for BBC's Egypt.

Sci Fi alert...

2007-07-12T20:12:00.000+10:00

You'll just have to get used to this...

I LOVE MY SCI FI

It's true, that's exactly whats written on the front of my T-shirt. And you don't get much more Sci Fi than Dr Who. Season three is well under way here in OZ, and about time too, as I've finished watching all my Stargate seasons again, (we'll talk more about this later), and I've been reading everyone else's blogs re the show, getting me all hot and bothered. Now I know what you're gonna say, "it's not as good at the original". So don't. It'll just make you sound old and mean. The visual effects are way better - I just loved the scene with the TARDIS flying down the motorway, in the "Runaway Bride" episode. It gave me chills . Also, if any of you leave any comments here regarding the vicious rumours about the series not returning in 2008, I will hunt you down and give you a stern talking to. And, no comments re me having no life, quoting episode names and all.

WOW

2007-07-12T19:27:00.000+10:00

TRANSFORMERS....The name's been around for years and I may not have collected the toys themselves (or not that I'd admit to). I will however admit to being just a little bit "nerdy eager" to see it anyway. So how did the 2007 make-over stack up?

IT WAS GREAT!!!

I am not going to movie review it, that's Bryan's bit. I will say this though...GO SEE IT.

It's easier this way

2007-07-04T18:34:00.000+10:00

Here are a few pix that might let you in on the void between my ears. Chris Isaak is a fave (more later).

This is us

2007-06-30T23:16:00.000+10:00

Here's a pic of Damo and me taken in Cairns in June 06, a year ago now. We left the Sunshine Coast for the north for a little bit of warmth and sun. Did the usual - reef trip and snorkelling, Kuranda sky-rail, white water rafting, two nights at Turtle Cove Resort, too much eating etc.

Summer holidays

2007-06-30T22:30:00.000+10:00

Yes, yes. I know the title's out of place at this time of the year (southern hemisphere people), but we wanted to get through a bit of a backlog of pix and blurbs from the recent past. December 06 saw us head to Lake Cootharaba, just north of the Sunshine Coast, for a couple of days of camping.

The weather was just right for some time outdoors, including a bit of kayaking up to a place called Harry's Hut in the Noosa Everglades. I took my kayak and Damo hired one, so with a supply of snacks and water, we headed up-river for a few hours in the sun. All up we spent about six hours on the water, there and back; came back with burnt forearms and struggled against the afternoon wind. Got some good exercise and spent some quality time together, before wine, cheese and reheating some chicken chausseur from a few nights before - roughing it? I don't think so!

The pix are sunrise on the lake and kayaking in the Noosa Everglades. Look for more of our backlog to come.

Ignorant Australia

2007-06-17T00:42:00.000+10:00

Recently our local small-town, small-minded newspaper, The Sunshine Coast Daily, featured a 'word on the street' topic as part of its 'letters to the editor' section. The topic: same-sex couples adopting. Will try to locate the original comments, but in the meantime my response, below (which the paper chose not to print), should speak volumes.

10 June 2007

Imagine my disgust and anger at Saturday’s ‘Word on the street’ topic of same sex couples and adoption. Disgust and anger at the perpetuation of ignorance, discrimination and irrationality reflected in the respondents’ comments.

Given the divorce rate and levels of various kinds of abuse within ‘regular’ families, might I suggest the heterosexual world get its own house in order first before railing about tradition, history and society falling apart. With the struggle that a same-sex couple has to go through just to exist, the desire to raise a child in a stable, loving environment, rich with an acceptance of diversity, speaks volumes about commitment and how well that child will grow up to become a valuable member of society.

And what a skewed sample – two straight married couples, given far too many column inches than their ignorance deserves.

Another pic

2007-06-17T00:28:00.000+10:00

Here is a composite of a couple of photos taken in Cambridge a few years ago - it was then a few more years till I started to experiment with Photoshop.

Hello again

2007-06-03T21:08:00.001+10:00

Hasn't it been a while. Have recently submitted a short story for the 2007 Forbidden Fruits 03 anthology, which should come out very soon. Read it below...

A Hot Tin Roof

The air is light, and carries the sound of cicadas. The just-turned-out fluorescent light in the bathroom glows surreally. Outside, through the dust on the flyscreen, light is diffused indoors.

The heat of your body is disturbing as I lay down beside you. From behind, my hand moves to your chest, my palm aware of your beating heart. Over the next few minutes, our body temperatures equalise as the tin roof creaks and groans. Lying with my lips resting on your back, our breath falls in sync and I drift into your slumber.

We occasionally in sleep, an impression of you in the impulses of my mind and soul. Maybe that’s not you though. Maybe you are the oddly dressed schoolgirl, or the growling lion, or the colour blue that recurs within a scene of an abandoned house my soul explores. The house is my security. The abandonment is my giving up to you. The blue, a colour that’s with me constantly in my waking life – the clothes I wear, the sea, the sky.

A possum’s steps outside cause you to stir. ‘Roll over.’ And your hand clasps at my heart, fingertips burrowing into the hair of my chest. One last complaint from the roof as sleep envelopes you again, and the tiniest vocalisation escapes you, punctuated by the squeeze of your hand.

Welcome

2006-08-16T21:43:00.000+10:00

Hi Folks

Just a little note to get things up and running. Come back now and again to see how life is going for Bryan and Damian on Ballinger Road.

We'll try not to be too tedious in telling you what we've been up to, what we're thinking and what our travel plans are.

Drop us a line.

B&D