To all bean counters past and present

 

 

Bookkeeping by double-entry is amongst the finest inventions of the human mind. More than five hundred years ago, in the very first book published on the subject, bookkeeping was outlined in a form which still prevails around the world today.

The 'father' of double-entry bookkeeping was a Franciscan monk born near Florence in the 1440s which just goes to show that accounting can be habit-forming. His name was Luca Pacioli, just like this software.

 

 

In the highly unlikely event that you have an accountant amongst your friends, why not put a bit of excitement into his otherwise boring life by giving him a copy of Jane Gleeson-White's book "Double Entry"? It is a beautifully written history of accounting, one double-entry at a time.

 

 

As dedication in the front of the book, you may pen this little poem:

An Accountant's Life
He was a very cautious man, who never romped or played,
He never smoked, he never drank, nor even kissed a maid.
And when up and passed and away, insurance was denied.
For since he hadn't ever lived, they claimed he never died.

 

---

 

P.S. No need to give me a copy: in true double-entry fashion, I already own two copies, one in paperback, the other as a beautiful hardcover.

 

The hermit of Packe Island

 

Gösta (a.k.a. Ron) Brand, the hermit of Packe Island

 

II had never heard of, let alone met, Gösta Brand when in 1977 I lived and worked on Thursday Island, commonly known as TI, although at that time he was still very much alive and living on nearby Packe Island. I came across his story many years later and had it confirmed by my old TI-friend David Richardson.

 

Extract from "Den överkörda kängurun" published 1975 Author: Tore Zetterlund (1915-2001) Photo and photo texts: Eino Hanski (1928-2000) Every boy's dream comes true I was sceptical until the last moment. It was Eino who had heard about him and had contacted the man's brother in Sweden who confirmed that the story was true. He had read the story in a book by a Danish travel writer. It was about a modern-day Swedish Robinson Crusoe who was said to live alone on a tropical island to the north of Australia. A real Jack London figure who had left Sweden more than 50 years ago and had lived a life of adventure as a sailor, pearl fisherman, crocodile hunter and hermit. "It sounds like a piece of fiction" I said. "That sort of things doesn't happen anymore. It's as dead as the brontosaurus. It's just the boy inside all of us that still dreams of such adventures." But Eino could produce evidence that this modern-day Swedish Robinson Crusoe existed. He had contacted the man's brother, a Viktor Brand, a farmer who had lived all his life on a farm in Simlångsdalen in Sweden. Viktor confirmed that he had a brother named Gösta who had left Sweden fifty-one years ago. He had received the occasional short letter and card from his adventurous brother. The last one had been postmarked "Thursday Island", but that was more than a year ago. He thought he had been sick. Maybe he wasn't even alive any more. Just in case we ever got as far as Thursday Island and found our modern-day Swedish Robinson Crusoe, we recorded a greeting from Viktor on Eino's tape recorder. Thursday Island was almost as far away from Sweden as one could get. Our first stop after a long international flight was Sydney in Australia, then a domestic flight to Horn Island in the Torres Strait between Australia and New Guinea. Then a short ferry ride across to Thursday Island. (There was also a Friday Island nearby which made me think of Robinson Crusoe again) We had brought with us the cassette recording of Viktor's greetings and a bunch of family photos. The community on Thursday Island was as large as a Swedish fishing village. It reminded me somewhat of Byxelkrok on the island of Öland. The population consisted mainly of coloured people, not Australian aborigines but South Sea islanders from Melanesia. There were no racial barriers as there seemed to be on the Australian mainland. On our very first evening on the island we freely mixed with snooker-playing and beer-drinking blacks and whites alike in the hotel bar and were able to ask questions about Gösta. Nobody knew a Gösta Brand but they had heard of an old Swede called Ron Brand who lived on Packe Island, an hour away from Thursday Island by fast boat. But he was supposed to be seriously ill, and nobody knew if he was still alive. Next day the postmaster confirmed that Ron was identical with Gösta - Gösta had simply been too difficult to pronounce for the local people. Two hours later we were on our way to Packe Island in a small boat owned by a South Sea Islander. About twenty minutes into our bumpy ride he yelled, "There is his boat! I am sure he is on it!" At the risk of capsizing our little dinghy and turning us into shark-food, Eino took out his camera and started filming. The boat, an average-sized sailing boat with an auxiliary motor and a dinghy tied to her stern, lay at anchor a few hundred metres off Horn Island. We spotted the bare torso of a man inside the cockpit who disappeared into the cabin as we approached. "I think he is sick," mumbled our boatman. However, as we got closer, he re-appeared from the cabin and we saw an emaciated, wiry, brownish man wearing a slouch-hat as protection against the sun. I called out in Swedish, "Are you Gösta Brand? We have come from Sweden to bring you greetings from your brother Viktor." He answered in a mixture of Swedish and "Sailor's English." Yes, he was Gösta Brand. He lived on Packe Island but had anchored his boat here because he was ill and had wanted to come a bit closer to civilisation. He thought it was his lungs, but he wasn't interested to go to a hospital. And he definitely didn't want our help to return to Sweden! " I would die on the spot," he laughed. "I have lived far too long in the tropics. If I should die, it has to be on my island or on the boat here." He was friendly and happy and not at all unsociable as we had anticipated. We suggested that he should follow us out to his island, so that we could film him there. He didn't seem unwilling but was probably too sick to be in front of a camera and also afraid of leaving his boat. With the help of a bottle of whisky he finally agreed to wait for us until the next day when we would come back in a larger boat to tow him back to his island. Next day we managed to hire a twin-engined speedboat that bounced along at more than 30 knots. I helped Ron lift the anchor and sat next to him in his boat while we were towed out to sea, with Eino filming from the speedboat. It turned out to be a more dramatic film than we had anticipated as the waves became bigger and wilder until they completely drenched us and filled the dinghy with water. Close to capsizing, we desperately waved our arms to tell the speedboat to turn back. We were wet, depressed and angry as we dropped Ron and his boat back in the same spot where we had found him. So much for our efforts to film this modern-day Robinson Crusoe's existence on his tiny island! I don't know whether it was the influence of the whisky or the prospect of appearing on Swedish television but suddenly Ron did agree to leave his boat and come with us to his island in our speadboat. "As long as you bring me back here afterwards," he said. An hour later, after having passed other deserted islands, we stepped ashore on a South Sea island straight out of a "Boy's Own" setting. The calm waters of the bay in front of Packe Island were absolutely clear and blue, and the sand was soft all the way up to the palm trees. Palm trees that Ron had planted himself while he had built his hut and the bamboo fence surrounding it. The hut was painted white and had a roof of corrugated metal. For almost twenty years he had lived here totally alone after having cleared a piece of land and the beach in front of it. For all this he paid a peppercorn rent of ten dollars a year to the Australian government. He regretted that a group of cultured-pearl farmers had moved in at the other end of the bay. We thought he would have welcomed having some other people nearby but he regarded them as trespassers on his island. He told us about the many adventures he had had and showed us some nasty scars on his legs from crocodile bites. He had become an Australian citizen and for the last few years had been getting a government pension which took care of all his material needs. But he still went crocodile-hunting on occasions or fished for barramundi, always accompanied by a native from one of the other islands. "They are my best mates," he said. On the beach sat his canoe, named "Minnehaha"", meaning "Laughing Water" in some Red Indian language. Yes, he had lived amongst Red Indians, too. That was in Canada, before he came to Australia. "Why did you choose this life?" we asked. "Because I love my liberty!" he answered quickly and without hesitation. He had obviously considered this question many times. "Didn't you ever miss a woman?" "Yes, of course, but then I also have to get hold of a woman. I have never lived with a woman. I love my liberty!" It sounded self-assured but by the time we had finished our filming and were to leave, we thought we knew the price he had paid for his freedom - what he called his "liberty" - and his carefree existence. He had seemed strangely touched by our visit as we recorded his message to his brother in Sweden. "You are both welcome to come back and stay on my island," he said as we were about to depart. "Bring your wife and kids with you." We could tell that he meant what he said although he knew quite well how unlikely another visit would be. Not many people ever come this far. I had one last look into the cabin of his boat before I climbed down the rail. There were three guns, two with telescopic sight, a cracked mirror, an old radio, some cans and a pair of old-fashioned spectacles. The sum total of his life, plus loneliness, hardship, and the occasional sickness. As we left, the outline of where he sat in the boat waving goodbye was getting smaller and smaller. Very soon it would be hard to believe he existed at all. But both Eino and I had the tooth of a crocodile he had given us to prove that he was real!

Read the original article in Swedish here

 

 

Shades of Somerset W. Maugham's story "German Harry"?

 

---

 

From the TORRES NEWS 20 June 1978:

From the Torres NEWS 27 June 1978:

 

The Lottery of Life

 

 

The chances of winning the largest payout in a lottery is about 1 in 14 million. And yet our brain – that faulty walnut through which we assess reality – has the habit of holding out hopes for our happiness equivalent to winning the jackpot.

If we could really see what life was like for most people, if we could peer into everyone’s lives and minds, we would know how frequent disappointments are, how many unfulfilled ambitions there are, and how much confusion and uncertainty is being played out in private and how many breakdowns and intemperate arguments unfold every day.

Knowing this can comfort and reassure us and make us a little more forgiving towards ourselves for not having won the Lottery of Life.

(Of course, if you were born in Australia, you have already won first prize in the Lottery of Life; so just relax and enjoy it!)

 

You can take the boy out of the youth hostels, but you can't take the youth hostels out of the boy

 

Yours truly during his hostelling years in Australia in the mid '60s

 

I was a constant and keen 'Youth Hosteller' as a youngster with the "Fahrenden Gesellen" in Germany and joined up with the local Youth Hostel Association in Canberra as soon as I had arrived in Australia in 1965 when there were very few hostels at the time.

Canberra's first hostel was a modest farm worker's cottage along Naas Road just outside Tharwa which was followed by an old farm building near Angle Crossing. Then we raised money for the first purpose-built hostel at Black Mountain through a 'buy-a-brick' campaign. More here.

 

The hostel at Angle Crossing in July 1969, five months before I left for Papua New Guinea

 

I've just found these old membership cards which are like a time-capsule of my hostelling days during my first two years in Australia.

 

My then address in Canberra: BARTON HOUSE, Brisbane Avenue, Barton A.C.T.

 

Collecting stamps from the hostels one stayed in was part of the fun of hostelling. These stamps document my first holiday in Australia when I hitchhiked north to Cairns, and stopped at Tullebudgera on 27/8/1966, at the National Fitness Camp Magnetic Island from 31/8 to 5/9/1966, and at Tullebudgera again on the way back to Canberra on 11/9/1966.

 

The Seekers were all the rage back then, and that Athol Guy-looking guy was yours truly in 1966. And don't bother to comment on my "speed-signature" acquired during my daily signing of hundreds of cheques at the bank. In my old age, it has been restored to copperplate script.

 

I was a very active member of a Youth Hostel group in Port Moresby
before I went on to my next assignment in Burma at the end of 1974

 

As for the youth hostels, they were very different from what they are now. The idea of doing chores around the hostel during your stay was much the norm, so that hostellers helped out with reception duties, cleaning, cooking and general maintenance within the hostel for the welfare of everyone. That way, a great community spirit was fostered.

Today's youth hostels are as good as, and often better than, many hotels and while they still offer cheap dormitory-style accommodation; single, double and family rooms with private bathrooms are also available.

Well, you can take the boy out of the youth hostels, but you can't take the youth hostels out of the boy, and while I no longer stay at them as often as I did sixty years ago, I have remained a member ever since.

 

 

And so can you! Check it out here.

 

Saint Jack

 

What a brilliant movie! Now read the book at www.archive.org

 

Politically, Singapore is as primitive as Burundi, with repressive laws, paid informers, a dictatorial government, and jails full of political prisoners." Which is how Paul Theroux ranted about Singapore in his 1973 book "The Great Railway Bazaar", by which time it had been his home for three years, from 1968 to 1971, teaching English at the National University of Singapore.

It was also the setting for his first Asian novel, "Saint Jack", published later that same year. It was good he was elsewhere when it appeared, because Singapore's government didn't like the novel or its author any more than he liked the government, and banned the book.

It sold moderately elsewhere, until Peter Bogdanovich turned it into one of his best movies, shot on a low budget and on location. A phony script for a film called "Jack of Hearts" was submitted to obtain the official approval and this is what the Singaporeans on the cast and crew were told they were shooting as the cameras recorded the true grit of the waterfront, street markets, and notorious Bugis Street. The film, of course, was banned in Singapore when it was released in 1979.

"Saint Jack" tells the story of an affable American pimp who helped American GI's find companionship while on R&R in Singapore during the Vietnam War. Theroux has never said he knew any such individual, but his years of residence in Singapore give the novel a ring of truth.

Watching it decades after I had visited Singapore repeatedly while stationed in Rangoon in what was then Burma, it has more than a ring of truth about it: it is exactly how I remember Singapore from my days there in 1975 and again when my Saudi boss sent me back several times in the early 80s to supervise his transshipments through Sembawang.

 

 

Since then the world has changed, and so has Singapore, but a kindly soul, Toh Hun Ping of Singapore Film Locations Archive, went to the extraordinary trouble of splicing together yesteryear's street scenes in "Saint Jack" with today's equivalents. Thanks for the memories, Hun Ping!

 

Opportunity shop knocks!

 

Even during my restless years, I belonged to several book clubs, including Reader's Digest and TIME-LIFE, whose books cost the usual $29.95 (plus postage & handling) which then was a week's housekeeping money (or the cost of a lavish dinner-for-two to which I never treated myself).

When it was time to relocate, I would put the books into boxes (which cost money) and the boxes into storage (which cost more money).

Then, twenty years later, when all my travelling was done, I got the boxes out of storage, only to discover that many of those books I had so carefully boxed and stored, could be bought at an op-shop for 10 cents, or perhaps 20 cents, but never more than a dollar. (And ditto for all those vinyls, those fragile black things handled with kid gloves lest they got scratched. They are on sale now, unscratched, for just ten cents!)

If I had my time over again, I would buy nothing new as I can hardly image a world without op-shops. Generally staffed by kindly older ladies, they're little rays of sunshine amidst the primarily drab and boring shopping experiences of the twenty-first century. Apart from large, wildly expensive department stores like David Jones and Myers, where else can you go that sells such a wide variety of goods? If you're lucky the ladies might even offer you a cuppa and a biscuit.

Throughout history people have always worn second-hand clothes and treasured pre-loved things. In most families (and in my family in particular!), younger siblings (and I was the youngest!) have long been the recipients of their older sisters' and brothers' hand-me-down clothes, while donating unwanted garments and household paraphernalia to the needy has been practiced by those who are more privileged. While once upon a time such benevolence was generally practiced informally, over the last several decades shops dedicated to selling pre-loved wares have sprung up in cities and towns, large and small, all around Australia.

I can't remember when I discovered my first op-shop. I remember once seeing a funny shop with funny-looking people going in and out but it was quite some time later, when op-shops had gone mainstream and into main street, that I entered a store which had that peculiar odour created by used clothing and household items within.

In days gone by, if I needed a new belt to accommodate that expanding waistline, I would have gone into a men's wear store and happily paid $20. These days, I go into an op-shop and choose from a range of real leather belts with real brass buckles, and never pay more than a dollar. As for books, I have found books I never knew existed and never paid more than a dollar for them.

Once such treasures are discovered, it boosts one’s endorphin levels, thus creating euphoria which can last for hours or days, depending on the perceived value of the find (and relative purchase price). A word of warning though: repeated discoveries of this nature will lead to the addiction of op-shopping!

When the going gets tough, the tough go op-shopping!

 

We were all citizens of the world

 

 

Why is it that whenever I hear Rick declare his nationality as "I'm a drunkard", I immediately think back to my character-forming years spent on the Bougainville Copper Project?

Of the thousands of men that worked there, and the scores I knew, there was only one who did not drink - alcohol, that is! - but then he didn't do much of anything else either. As for the rest of us, we were all citizens of the world and drinking responsibly meant not to spill it.

I've always thought that all of us should have been commended for our services to the Australian brewing industry, and I can think of at least one who should have lived out his days as Sir Osis of the Liver. I won't mention his real name as a show of respect for the dead which he must be by now as no liver could have taken all that punishment for long.

All that was almost fifty years ago, and while I still enjoy the occasional glass (or two) of wine, my liver has never ceased to be surprised by the sudden stream of lemon-and-ginger tea it's been metabolising ever since I settled down. Speaking of which, remember the rumours about the stuff they put in our tea in the camp to keep our mind of it ...?

Well, fifty years later, I think mine is showing signs of beginning to work!

 

Berlin - The Downfall 1945

 

Read a preview here
The audiobook is on Youtube here and here

 

After several days of high temperatures, today is a cold and grey morning, hardly the setting to read Antony Beevor's depressing book "Berlin - The Downfall 1945" but I'll persevere for as long as my hot cup of coffee will last.

The Red Army had much to avenge when it finally reached the frontiers of the Reich in January 1945. Political instructors rammed home the message of Wehrmacht and SS brutality. The result was the most terrifying example of fire and sword ever known, with mass rape, tanks crushing refugee columns under their tracks, pillage and destruction. Hundreds of thousands of women and children froze to death or were massacred because Nazi Party chiefs, refusing to face the reality of defeat, had forbidden the evacuation of civilians until it was too late. Over seven million fled westwards from the terror of the Red Army.

 

 

The Nazis sent fourteen-year-old boys on bicycles in suicidal attacks against Soviet tanks, and as the Red Army encircled Berlin, SS squads roamed the city, shooting or hanging any man not at his post. Hitler, half-crazed in his bunker, issued wild orders, determined to bring down the Reich capital and all its inhabitants in the monstrous vanity of a personal Götterdämmerung. Stalin, meanwhile, was prepared to risk any number of his men to seize Berlin before the Western Allies could get there.

 

A glimmer of hope: Berlin in July 1945

 

I was born just months after the end of the war had ended but my family was in Berlin during that time although they never talked about it afterwards. Perhaps it was just too gruesome to put into words. Berlin became to Germany what Stalingrad had become to Russia. As one angry Russian colonel in February 1943 yelled to a group of emaciated German prisoners in the rubble of Stalingrad, "That's how Berlin is going to look!"

At almost five hundred pages, it will take many more grey mornings and many more hot cups of coffee before I'm finished with this book.

 

I'll be his only patient who can pronounce his name!

 

The staff at the Moruya Medical Centre
Pin the tail on the donkey: who is the German doctor?

 

I've just spoken with the receptionist at the Moruya Medical Centre to find out if I could become a patient of Dr Jorg Ziergiebel, MD, FRACGP, FRCS A&E (Ed), MRCP (Lond.), MRCGP (UK), DFFP (UK), JCCA accredited GP Anaesthetist. When she asked why I wanted to change from my current Pakistani doctor to a German one, I said because I'd be his only patient who can pronounce his name.

According to his webpage, Dr Ziergiebel [Ziergiebel means 'ornamental gable' but, of course, you knew that already] worked as a nurse and as a Medical Officer in the German Defence Force prior to his graduation in Medicine from Rostock University, Germany, in 1994. His post-graduate training, mainly in the United Kingdom, involved several specialities, including Accident & Emergency Medicine & Surgery, General Medicine, Anaesthetics, General Practice, Intensive Care Medicine, Orthopaedics, Neurology & Urology. Since his move to Australia in 2003 he has been working as a General Practitioner in Moruya. He is a Visiting Medical Officer at Moruya & Batemans Bay hospitals, providing inpatient/anaesthetic and accident & emergency care. He also provides Anaesthetic services at the private Mogo Day Surgery. He holds an appointment with the ANU Rural Clinical School as a senior lecturer and academic coordinator for the Eurobodalla and is supervisor for GP registrar training. Being involved in the training of medical students & young doctors is a particular passion of his. He is happily married, proud father of 2 lovely children & enjoys being with his family & animals & loves the outdoors, flowers & music. Favourite animal: big cats, favourite flower: iris & favourite colour: orange.

There isn't much wrong with me - other than what Padma finds wrong, that is! - and I only see my current Pakistani doctor once every six months to get a new script for my cholesterol-lowering pills after which we discuss the situation in the Middle East and our time in Saudi Arabia where I worked for three years and he grew up when his father worked there.

I may as well get my next prescription from Dr Ziergiebel and then talk about how my family fled to the West during the Berlin Blockade while he could just walk across from Rostock after the German Reunification. We may even have time to discuss the movie "Das Leben der Anderen".

 

Morgenstund hat Gold im Mund

 

 

It's very early morning at "Riverbend". There's been some light rain overnight and as I cook my porridge and look out the window, the morning looks all cool and green. It's all porridge and petrichor.

In moments like this I wonder if I could ever live anywhere else again. No neighbours, no noise, no nothing - just peace and quiet and plenty of space to be myself and be by myself. And then there's the added problem in a new place of finding a new car mechanic I can trust, a new GP who knows the difference between modern medicine and over-servicing, a new dentist who's happy enough to accept the declining business of looking after my last few teeth, and a new handyman who turns up on time.

And then there's the weekly trip into town when I can never cross the street or enter a club without someone calling out to me, "How ya goin' mate?" Before I realise it I've just spent another hour chatting away with someone I wouldn't have given the time of day to when I first came here thirty years ago. Even the op-shops now know my taste in books and DVDs and always keep some at the back of the shop just for me.

And I can't let you go without first telling you about the etymology of the ubiquitous "How ya goin' mate?" It all started back in 1788 with all those hundreds of male convicts and an acute scarcity of females. The convicts' constant concern was "How ya goin' to mate?" Over time they dropped the "to" and it became "How ya goin' mate?" - a bit like when they changed the "God be with you" into "Goodbye"; I bet you didn't know that either!

So, without wanting to get too personal, tell me: "How ya goin' mate?"

 

Remember Poseidon?

 

Nickel Queen, released April 1971

 

It was the summer of '69. It was a time of 'free love', the Vietnam War and ... a nickel mining boom. The company was Poseidon – Australia’s legendary boom stock. Poseidon’s shares went above $280. Poseidon tanked. It went from zero to superhero to bombed-out crater, all in six months.

I'd just come back from South West Africa, rejoined the ANZ Bank in Canberra and then gone to Papua New Guinea to escape the hand-to-mouth existence of a banking career. I was totally ignorant of the Poseidon boom but my new colleagues in the chartered accounting firm of Hancock, Woodward & Neill in Rabaul talked of nothing else - when they weren't drinking which was most of the time!

First out of sympathy and then as a convert, I spent what little money I earned on VAM and Kambalda shares which, after I had bought them at several dollars each, went down to just a few cents and then to nothing.

 

The address says it all: PO Box 187, Rabaul, New Guinea

 

All this came back to me as I watched Nickel Queen which I've just discovered on YouTube. It's loosely based on the Poseidon boom and worth watching, if only for those sounds and scenes from a bygone era.

 

PO Box 12, Kieta, Bougainville, New Guinea

 

As they say, "I started out with nothing and I've still got most of it left".

 

 

Don't speak ill of the dead!

 

 

And I won't except to say that in a long career spanning fifteen countries and more than fifty jobs and assignments, Cecil Burgess was by far the worst boss I have ever encountered.

Of course, in hindsight he did me a favour because, without his obnoxious, stubborn, and ill-mannered behaviour, I may never have left Thursday Island again but succumbed to its soporific lure and, like Dorothy in the poppy fields of Oz, fallen asleep and dozed away the rest of my life there.

I bought this little book, written by one of his sons, online for $4.99 which is a small price to pay to find out more about this man who, for the only time in my life, made me dread to go to work for the six-or-so months I had the fortitude to bear his presence. Chapter 7 describes his bombing missions over Germany during World War II; perhaps he thought he hadn't quite finished the job when he found out that I had once been a German.

 

 

I had always thought of Cec Burgess as a dyed-in-the-wool bachelor but from reading the book learned that he had divorced his first wife Jane in Tasmania in 1971 on the grounds of alcoholism and then joined the Presbyterian Church's Aboriginal mission service on Mornington Island.

There he met the Aboriginal woman Edna Roughsey and they lived together in Cairns when he got the job of accountant with the Island Industry Board (IIB) on Thursday Island which ran a store and supermarket on Thursday Island and on the surrounding islands.

In 1977 the Island Industry Board hired me as their accountant. Cec had become the manager and during my time on the island was in an on-and-off relationship with Doreen Yardley who worked in the same office.

Later, he started writing to a woman in the Philippines. He made a couple of trips to Manila to meet Mary Romaro. At the age of 67 he married her on October 31, 1981, in a ceremony on Thursday Island. They divorced again in 1989, all of which seems to prove the theory that God gave men a brain and a penis but only enough blood to run one at a time.

Cec Burgess retired from his job on Thursday Island in 1983, and died in Tasmania in 2008, aged 94. If you want to order the book "His Own Man", click here - but be warned: the book is as boring as the man was himself.

 

 

Memories of Bay Street

 

Toasting my new overseas job with my then neighbour before leaving for the airport. He was the Tin Man I wrote about in "Dig here!".

 

It was January 1981. After more than ten years overseas and the last eighteen months on the road in Australia, I'd taken up a permanent accounting position with the construction company AV Jennings in Townsville. The work was easy and the pay adequate.

We had bought this small house on the beach at Pallarenda just ten minutes out of town. It was as comfortable as an old pair of slippers with holes in them, and I had begun to turn domestic with gusto.

 

The house is just to the left of the swimming enclosure and marked with a red dot

 

The house was just one block away from the beach and the shark-proof swimming enclosure. From the corner window we could see the ocean and Magnetic Island on the horizon. The sound of the surf was always in our ears, and brolgas and curlews walked the streets at night. So many happy memories! If it is true that we remember memories in order somehow to eliminate them, then happy memories are the worst. That is the trouble with real life: the happiness is so rarely saved for the end.

 

 

One day we met a chubby Labrador walking down the road. We liked him and he liked us, and from then on he spent more time with us than with his owners. We called him "Labby" and he listed to it.

 

I named it KARAWEIK in remembrance of a dinner at a restaurant of the same name in Rangoon where I had decided to ask a certain person to share the ups and downs of this unpredictable life with me. I loved her without knowing how, blindly living married life as if I were still a single man. "Never say you know the last word about any human heart!"

 

Money was still tight and our furnishings were sparse and second-hand but we lived in the tropics and spent as much time outside as inside.

 

Even the washing machine was an old twintub with the lid missing (on far left)
which we bought for fifty dollars and for which I cut a wooden replacement lid

 

I had a water diviner sink a bore and instal a pump which was connected to a timer which started each morning at 5 o'clock to wake us up to another glorious morning in the tropics. I grew vegetables under the elderberry tree along the side of the house with amazing results.

 

 

It was an old house - even the toilet was downstairs - but it was solid and had survived several cyclones and, above all, it was comfortable.

 

 

I tried to be a handyman, with mixed results and "Lubby" for company.

 

 

It was beautiful one day and perfect the next, and I couldn't wait to get back to our little house by the beach after a day's work in the city ...

 

 

... until eight months later the fatal phone call came in: did I want to work overseas again? The call of the wild again and a new challenge! So it was back to New Guinea and then Saudi Arabia, and finally Greece. Shades of Hermann Hesse: "But there is no centre in my life, my life hovers between poles and counterpoles. A longing for home here, a longing for wandering there."

We left Pallarenda for New Guinea in January 1982. These oh-so-long-forgotten photos had been taken barely three months earlier. Then I found two more photographs with a strange car parked in the driveway.

 

 

I flipped them over, and on the back was my best friend's handwriting:

 

 

"Taken Dec. 1982" and printed in March 1983. By the time my old mate Noel had visited Townsville to see where I had lived I was already working in Saudi Arabia, and by the time these photographs reached me, my domestic bliss was over.

A little over three years later I was back in Townsville but the magic of just walking back in and picking up from where I had left off had deserted me. You can't step into the same river twice! --- to which a good friend added, "... but you can sure step into the same pile of shit more than once!" Je suis vraiment très très désolé, Daw Khin San Myint!

As Hermann Hesse wrote: "Many detours I will still follow, many fulfillments will still disillusion me. One day, everything will reveal its meaning."