Wednesday, December 25, 2024

Some of us just go one god further

 

If this story concerns you, call LIFELINE on 13 11 14

 

 

Accordion to a recent study, seven out of ten people don't notice when a word in a sentence is replaced by a musical instrument. Never mind! This is not an important post anyway; just a short note that I won't be going to this year's Community Christmas Carols in the local hall.

Christmas is all about an unskilled Middle Eastern man and his pregnant partner seeking refuge and shelter. It even made headlines at the time.

I've been an atheist long before I could spell the word. At age fourteen, when others attended confirmation in their Sunday-best, I sat through a Freethinkers' function in the local cinema, much to my parents' shame.

Of course, you don't have to be Richard Dawkins to realise that we are all atheists about most of the gods that humanity has ever believed in.

Some of us just go one god further.

 

Monday, December 23, 2024

"How I love a white Christmas"

 

 

At this time of year, whether you're listening to the radio in Darwin, Hobart, Bullamakanka, or indeed in Nelligen or in Fairfield, chances are you'll be hearing Bing Crosby sing the unforgettable lyrics, "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas".

While many people associate Christmas with snow in their yearning for a simpler time, I never want to see that white sh*t again. Right now it's a hot 34 degrees outside (that's with a C behind it, Des; here we no longer give an F when it comes to temperature) which is just perfect for me.

The only time you may hear me utter the words "How I love a white Christmas" would be if I wanted to remember the first six digits of π
(the number of letters in each word gives the digits of Pi, 3.14159 )

 

Friday, December 13, 2024

The Sheltering Desert

 

It was the first year of the Second World War. The German armies had occupied Holland and were already breaking through the first defences of the Maginot Line. Windhoek was in a swirl of war propaganda, and enthusiasm, fear and anxiety coloured every discussion. Even a scientist could hardly hope to keep his head in that hysterical atmosphere. But my friend Hermann Korn and I had already decided that this was not our war. We had seen it coming for a long time, and in fact that was the reason why we had left Europe in the first place. We wanted no hand or part in the mass suicide of civilized peoples.

But now it looked as though the war was about to catch up with us; more and more Germans were disappearing behind the barbed wire of internment camps. Any day the same fate could overtake us. It was a dread thought for two men used, in their scientific work, to the desert expanses and the freedom of the endless rolling plains, and we were determined to maintain our personal neutrality and to defend our independence to the best of our ability. One evening, sitting on the stone steps of our house, we reviewed the situation and wondered if there was anything we could do about it. And then suddenly we remembered what we had once said half in joke: 'If war comes we'll spend it in the desert!'" Extract from "The Sheltering Desert" by Henno Martin

 

Read it online at www.archive.org

 

"The Sheltering Desert" (original German title "Wenn es Krieg gibt, gehen wir in die Wüste") is the story of two German geologists in South-West Africa (today's Namibia) at the start of World War Two: Henno Martin, Hermann Korn, and their dog Otto. They didn't want to be part of the madness that engulfed Europe and fled into the Namib Desert instead.

The book tells the tale of how they survived out there for two and a half years. How they learned to hunt and find water, to build shelter and make tools. It's also filled with astute observations about the human psyche, and what it means to be "primitive." In one passage, Martin writes, "It was about this time that we noticed a change in the subject of our dreams. Animals began to play an increasing part in them and the distinction between human beings and animals became blurred."

It's a calming read that has stuck with me ever since I lived and worked in the then still South-West Africa in 1968/69. Henno Martin and Hermann Korn were two men who chose their own path and whilst the world tore itself to pieces, they conquered life both physically, mentally and, most importantly, peacefully. Their book, "The Sheltering Desert", is a fitting legacy to them from which we can all learn a thing or two.

Thursday, December 12, 2024

Shingles in Shangri-La

 

 

After moving from place to place and country to country for twenty years, I really haven't much to show for: a pile of old passports full of colourful stamps and visas, a few photos from a time before selfie sticks, and this charming little volume of "Lost Horizon" by James Hilton.

My first stay at a Shangri-La hotel was in Singapore in 1975, a mere four years after it had first opened its doors. There, and in subsequent stays in the Shangri-La in Hong Kong and Paris, I was always greeted by the same book on the bedside table, with its flyleaf inscribed by the concierge:

 

"This captivating story you are about to read was written in 1933 by an English novelist who wrote of an idyllic settlement high in the mountains of Tibet.

Today, even amongst those who have never heard of Lost Horizon, the words 'Shangri-La' stand as a synonym for paradise.

In 1971, a deluxe hotel was founded in the thriving city of Singapore in Southeast Asia. In choosing the name Shangri-La, there was a desire to set a standard, to create an identity that would eventually produce a group of hotels unique in the world.

As the group expanded, it has sought to retain all the ideals of its mythical namesake. Serenity, harmony and natural beauty, all characteristics of the Shangri-La group. This enchanting book will give you a glimpse of this world. A world once imagined, a dream that has become a reality.

We hope you enjoy it."

 

A cut above the usual Gideon Bible which you find in more down-market hostelries, don't you think? The shingles pains are kicking in again but I hate to take too many paracetamols. Instead, I shall distract my mind by going to bed and listen to this LUX RADIO dramatisation of "Lost Horizon".

 

 

I copied it onto a tiny USB-stick which I can plug into my bedside radio. You can do the same: simply click on ytmp3.la, insert the YouTube URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AKAgwTtSLRc&t=361s

click on "Convert", and then copy the mp3 file onto a USB-stick. As the concierge inscribed on the flyleaf all those years ago, "I hope you enjoy it."

 


 

P.S. I even have some of my shirts still wrapped up in Shangri-La laundry bags, and never worn since. How's that for a souvenir from long ago?

 



 

The House of Saud

 

Yours truly in his apartment in Jeddah in Saudi Arabia, reading "The House of Saud"

 

The last time I read "The House of Saud" was in my apartment in Jeddah in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. That was in 1983 and so, having long forgotten what I read then, I pulled the book back off the shelf today and started reading it again.

It's a brilliant, well researched, and valuable historical record about the founding of the Kingdom of Saud, [Saudi Arabia], with detailed accounts of its early dealings with the USA, Britain, what now is Turkey, and other Arab nations, and how it grew from a small desert tribe, into a powerful and obscenely wealthy Islamic state. The authors also give readers insight into the Shiite disturbances that began in the 1970s culminating in the seizure of the Grand Mosque, and the bloodshed that followed.

As it says in the book's blurb, "At Riyadh, in 1902 the Desert Raider Ibn Saud [Abdul Aziz] tossed the head of the town governor from a parapet down to his followers below ... thus was the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia founded. Two-thirds of the size of India, it holds a quarter of the world’s oil and has six times more overseas assets than the USA. A land of desert unchanged for centuries, with wealth and power to make the world tremble ... the domain of the House of Saud."

 

Read it online at www.archive.org

 

Originally born of isolated Bedouin tribes of the desert, the House of Saud attaches great importance to the purity of the bloodline. Marriages between first cousins, or equivalent relations, are preferred, or else carefully selected partners of equal status and purity in another tribe ... To quote from the book:

"As Islam permits each man to keep four wives at any one time, and as divorce is made easy for males under Koranic law, so that the magic number of four can be multiplied many times over in one man’s life, this custom begot not only large numbers of children by a single father, but also an immense ramification of family and tribal inter-relationships through several generations. Nephews married aunts, uncles were wedded to nieces and their children married each other to form a close-knit and, to the outsider, impenetrable mesh."

At the time of writing, the authors estimate that with about 500 princes descending from Abdul Aziz, together with wives, daughters and collateral branches of the family, 'the House of Saud cannot number less than 20,000 people.' The number of Abdul Aziz' wives has never been officially computed but official records show that he fathered 45 sons from 22 different women. In addition there were at least as many daughters from an even wider range of women, including no doubt some unacknowledged mothers among the various concubines and slave girls, not to forget 'wives of the night' whom it was customary [and still is] for Arabian men to enjoy whenever the opportunity arose. All they had to do was to 'marry' the woman or girl for as many hours as they desired, then divorce her by saying 'I divorce you'. Today, many women and girls are kidnapped from Yemen, and other surrounding Arab nations, for the purposes of this euphemism for a 'one night stand'.

In Islamic countries, the Koran and its inherent sharia law, or path to follow, supplies a total and explicit moral code but in Saudi Arabia it is even more than that. It remains there, the only recognised and enforceable code of law, so that the country is held in a '1300-year-old corset of town and desert morality that is deemed to be universally and eternally applicable.' This desert morality is upheld and brutally enforced by Wahhabism:

"In the middle of the eighteenth century, in what now must be regarded as the most fateful meeting of minds in Arabia since the time of Muhammad, Sheikh Muhammad bin Saud, ruler of Diriya, and great, great grandson of Mani, the first identifiable Saudi ancestor, gave shelter to an itinerant preacher of Nejd, named Sheikh Muhammad bin Abdul Wahhab. The preacher was a Muslim 'revivalist' and the world of Islam by then was much in need of rejuvenation and reform ... Abdul Wahhab was a true zealot, come to cleanse the 'stinking stables of Arabia' once more with the Word of God. But the Word of God proved insufficient for the task. Like the Prophet, Abdul Wahhab needed a sword as well – and to his eternal joy, he found one in Muhammad bin Saud and his family ... Although Muhammad bin Saud was only one of the numerous quarrelling Nejdi sheikhs at the time, little more important than the rest, he evidently grasped that a man who had a message would give him an edge over all his rivals, enabling him to unite Bedouin and townsfolk in a new jihad to extend his personal dominion ...

... Accordingly, in 1744 Muhammad bin Saud married off his son, Abdul Aziz, to a daughter of the preacher and thus sealed a compact between the two families that has been continued unbroken by their descendants ever since ... Contemporary Saudi Arabia, for all its money and the new corruption and idolatry that wealth has encouraged, remains in theory and to a surprising extent in practice, a Wahhabist state, officially dedicated to the preservation of pure Islam as propounded by Muhammad bin Abdul Wahhab."

The book takes the story of the House of Saud and of Saudi Arabia only up to 1979 and Juhaiman bin Muhammed Utaibi's crazed attempt to seize the shrine at Mecca but it remains relevant.

The authors - one of whom, David Holden, was murdered execution-style in Cairo, Egypt, in 1977, click here - seemed to think that the 'regime' had little chance of long-term survival, yet here we are, forty-five years later, with the House of Saud still an arbiter, if not the arbiter, of much of Middle Eastern politics.

And here I am, forty years later, still amazed at how I survived those lonely years in the world's largest sandbox, and still reading about it.

 


 

ABC iview is showing right now "The Kingdom: The World's Most Powerful Prince" - click here.

 

Monday, December 9, 2024

My first Australian Christmas

 

 

Do you still remember what you received for Christmas in 1965? I do! A pair of what were then quite popular elastic clip-on braces which, in my particular case, had been ingeniously strapped length-wise over a wooden ruler. I did use the ruler for a while but never once wore the braces.

The reason I remember it so well is because I had arrived only some four months earlier and this was my first Christmas in Australia. Even while still in Germany I had already spent half-a-dozen Christmases away from my parents' dysfunctional homes - plural, because they divorced when I was six and I had alternated between them until I left altogether when only 14 - and for me there was nothing sentimental about Christmas, but perhaps my new boss at the bank must've thought so because he instructed one of the married employees to invite me for Christmas dinner at their home.

This particular chap was a rather rotund invidual who cycled to work and sometimes forgot to take off his bicycle clips and always wore a pair of those shirt sleeve garters and, yes, a pair of elastic clip-on braces. Even to me, who took in everything new unreservedly, he seemed to be a figure of fun and the least inspiring person I'd met in those first few months, and I would have politely declined his invitation had my English been up to it.

I don't remember much else except that they were a childless couple, she as skinny as he was fat, and that their house was full with his in-laws, his wife's parents and sisters and brothers, who had come down from Roma in Queensland. Much of what went on passed me by, partly because of my natural shyness and partly because of my lack of English, until I received that pair of elastic clip-on braces, never worn but always remembered.

 

Sunday, December 8, 2024

‘At least he built the Autobahn’

 

 

Many post-war Germans remember this phrase from their conversations with parents and grandparents pointing to how the Nazi regime could receive such widespread support.

Perhaps Trump's mercifully only four more years will go down as the time when all this "LGBTQIA-inclusive" language was put back into the rubbish bin of history and we can all breathe a sigh of relief and say, "At least he brought back the proper pronouns".

 

Saturday, December 7, 2024

Eine frühzeitige Weihnachtsgeschichte

 


Lies das Buch hier

 

Manchmal weiß man so gar nicht mehr, wo man hingehört im Leben. So wie Betty, die vor den Feiertagen Bilanz zieht: "Es war, als hätte ich zu leben vergessen." Wie ein riesiges Plüschschwein namens Erika dem Leben wieder einen - wenn auch verborgenen - Sinn gibt, davon erzählt Elke Heidenreich in einer ihrer schönsten Geschichten.

 

 

Und keiner kann den melancholisch-versöhnlichen Ton besser ins Bild setzen als Michael Sowa, dessen Erika so anschmiegsam und eigenwillig ist, das man sie sofort lieb gewinnt!

 

Friday, December 6, 2024

The true meaning of Christmas

 

 

One of the main reasons we have the custom of giving and receiving presents at Christmas, is to remind us of the presents given to Jesus by the three Wise Men: Frankincense, Gold and Myrrh.

I think frankincense and myrrh are slightly out of fashion, and my budget doesn't run to gold, so what to give as a Christmas present to those from whom I expect yet more useless gifts this Christmas?

How many times have you encountered the "Batteries not included" message on the packaging of a battery-powered appliance which you received but couldn't use until you had bought some batteries?

It's pretty annoying, isn't it? So this year I have decided to turn this message on its head and just give them the batteries.

Merry Christmas from the Wise Man at Nelligen.

 

Thursday, December 5, 2024

"Shingles on my roof, shingles on my body"

 


Tom Neale sitting on his bed on Suwarrov Island,
looking not the least bit worried about shingles

 

Despite having suffered from it for over three weeks, I keep forgetting what it's called without the help of my little home-made mnemonic "Shingles on my roof, shingles on my body". Am I suffering from an early onset of dementia as well?

(Yes, I know, they're called tiles, really, but "Tiles on my roof ..." only rhymes with something I haven't got - yet. If I did, I would have trouble sitting down, whereas my shingles only give me trouble lying down.)

To distract myself from all this misery, I've read Tom Neale's "An Island to Oneself" again - and so can you by clicking here. On re-reading it online, I noticed that it has quite a few typos in it which are not of my own making as I copied the text of the book from somewhere else on the internet.

I simply couldn't be bothered fixing them as I'm suffering too much from ... ahem, "Shingles on my roof ..."

 

Wednesday, December 4, 2024

I hope the canoe is included in the sale

 

 

Almost three years ago, a very good friend - perhaps the only good friend with whom I had experienced an almost instant meeting of the minds, and with whom I had endless discussions about books, politics, philosophy, world affairs, in fact, just about anything because he knew something about everything - finally reached the end of his 87-year-long life - click here.

For several years already, he had been heading towards the end - no, not life itself, but something else: the end of any likelihood of change in his life - and in our discussions he had allowed himself long moments in which he had paused to ask the question: what else have I done wrong?

Almost three years later, the property that he had kept in such immaculate shape for fifty years, despite a persistent urge to do something else and see more of the world while there was still time, is now for sale - see here.

 

293-295 Old Nelligen Road, Nelligen, NSW 2536

 

The property will be auctioned this coming Saturday. Whatever the price, it will never pay for all the hard work over a long lifetime that my friend put in to make "Sproxtons" what it is today. I hope the canoe is included in the sale. I gave it to him many years ago in exchange for one of the many favours he did for me. It was far too small a present to such a good friend.

 

P.S. Update on 7/12/24: The auction is cancelled, presumably through lack of interest, and it's now for sale through other "Expressions of Interest".

P.P.S. Update on 11/12/24: By all means, express your interest, but only if you're interested to pay $3,000,000 to $3,300,000 (Adam Porteous's pre-auction price guide had been between $2,800,000 and $3,000.000).

 

Sunday, December 1, 2024

The only person who is with us our entire life is ourselves

 

 

Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away. This video clip will!

 

Friday, November 29, 2024

In memory of the late Noel Butler of Wewak, a remarkably unremarkable man

 

Childers, Queensland, by night

 

It's almost thirty years ago when my best friend from my New Guinea days, Noel Butler, sent me this funny "Childers by Night" card and wrote,

 

"Dear Pete, Hope your outlook on the future is not
as black as this. Mine is but that's inevitable."

 

I had no idea how prescient and indeed deadly serious his message was until a couple of months later I received a phone call from a woman. She introduced herself as Noel's sister and told me that Noel had just passed away! The only death we experience is other people's.

It may seem that Noel had never achieved much in his life except get through it. And after his life had come to an end, he left no more trace of his sojourn on earth than a stone thrown into a river leaves on the surface of the water. But the way of life that he had chosen for himself and the peculiar strength and self-reliance of his character left a great influence on me so that, long after his death, I still remember him as a very remarkable man.

 

Noel's airport arrival card on 13 November 1967,
one day before boarding the PATRIS

 

Noel and I first met aboard the liner PATRIS in 1967 when he was going on a European holiday and I was returning to Germany. The PATRIS had been scheduled to call at Port Moresby in New Guinea but, following the Six-Day War between Egypt and Israel, the Suez Canal closed and the ship was re-routed around the Cape of Good Hope.

However, the many New Guinea expats who had already booked, Noel amongst them, still joined the ship in Sydney. As did Graeme Bell's All Stars Band. And so for the next four weeks I would sit in the ship's Midnight Club and listen to the many yarns of high adventure told by those larger-than-life New Guinea expats while Graeme Bell's All Stars played their ragtime music.

During the day, Noel and I would sit on deck for hours, hunched over a chessboard. Our mutual love of chess and my interest in New Guinea started a friendship which lasted until his death almost thirty years later!

 

Christmas 1975 on the Wewak golf course

 

We kept up a regular correspondence during all those years which Noel spent mostly in Wewak in the Sepik District, before PNG's Independence in 1975 and old age forced him to return to his homestate Queensland.

I had come up to PNG in late 1969 and worked there for several years. During this time I visited Noel on his small country estate outside Wewak and Noel came to spent Christmas 1973 and Christmas 1974 with me. Or at least he tried because by the time he arrived on Bougainville in 1973, I was in Arawa Hospital being prepared for an urgent appendectomy; and when he came to see me in Lae in 1974 I was already packed up and ready to fly out to my next assignment in Burma.

 

Christmas 1975 on the beach in Wewak outside the Windjammer Hotel

 

Our paths crossed more frequently after I had temporarily come back to Australia in 1979. I visited him several times and observed with some concern his struggle to make himself at home again in Australia, first at Caboolture, then at Mt Perry, and finally at Childers. He never quite succeeded since, as he put it, after a lifetime spent in PNG, "my spiritual home will always be New Guinea".

Perhaps this struggle is something else that we shared. I, too, still think almost every day about those many farway places in which I lived and worked. The years spent there have left me unsuited in many respects for life in the deep south. I feel suspended between my past life in the islands and my present life in mainstream Australia, and I still seek a place where I can feel truly content.

"Über den Himmel Wolken ziehen, über die Felder geht der Wind, ... irgendwo über den Bergen muss meine ferne Heimat sein."   
                                                                         Hermann Hesse


 

Tuesday, November 26, 2024

Of Christmases past

 

In Camp 6 at Loloho on the Bougainville Copper Project
left-to-right: Neil "Jacko" Jackson, yours truly, Bob Green

 

It's that time of year again when thoughts turn to Christmases past. We didn't use the word 'Christmas' then. Christmas came with too much emotional baggage. It reminded us of families and homes which we were far away from or didn't even have.

Of course, I'm talking of those many years - decades, in fact - spent in boarding houses, construction camps, hotels, and company housing. Come Christmastime, those who had families and homes had gone; those who didn't hadn't.

 

Yours truly in the chequered shirt in the middle

 

There was Barton House in Canberra, usually throbbing with life from its 300-odd - and some very odd - inmates, which turned into a morgue by Christmastime. The dining room was roped off except for one table next to the kitchen. That one table was large enough for those left behind.

It's hard not to be reminded of something when you're surrounded by half a dozen gloomy faces. So for my last Christmas in Canberra in 1969, just before I flew to my next job in New Guinea, I hitched and hiked to Angle Crossing where I spent a solitary weekend writing letters which is the only device that combines solitude with good company.

 

Canberra's then Youth Hostel at Angle Crossing, over the hill from the Murrumbidgee River

 

Years later, and just one day before Christmas, I booked myself into hospital on Bougainville Island with acute appendicitis . "You'd better get on the next plane out and into a hospital at home", the doctor told me. He was already deep into his medicinal alcohol and had trouble remembering which side my appendix was on. "This is my home", I said. He made one long incision just to make sure he wouldn't miss it.

What I had missed was that my best friend Noel Butler was coming over from Wewak to spend - ahem! - Christmas with me. He must have got there while I was still under the anaesthetic, because there he was standing at the foot of my bed. He'd gone to my donga and waited and finally asked the hous boi where I was. "Masta bagarap long haus sik".

 

Yours truly and Noel hunched over a chess board in New Guinea

 

We tried again the following year by which time I had moved to Lae on the north coast of the New Guinea mainland. By the time Christmas and Noel had come, there was just enough time left for a drink at the club and a game of chess before I flew out to my next job in Burma.

And so it went on, year after year, either coming or going or laid up with something, deftly avoiding Christmas. It's not so easy anymore!

 

Saturday, November 23, 2024

So schrieb ich vor zwei Jahren

 

 

So schrieb ich vor zwei Jahren:

Ich kam gerade von "Melbourne" zurück wo ich eine sehr ruhige Nacht verbrachte. Auf dem Wege zurück zum Haus tauchte ein Angler aus dem Nebel auf dem Fluss auf. Der hatte wohl auch eine ruhige Nacht in seinem Boot verbracht. Manchmal brauchen wir solch ruhige Momente um mit unserem Leben klarzukommen.

Im Haus zurück, fing ich an meine Haferflocken zu kochen und den Komputer anzukurbeln wo ich eine E-mail von einem Armin Müller fand:

"Hallo Peter, hier ist der jüngere Sohn von Bärbel. Ich habe die traurige Pflicht auch Dich zu informieren. Bärbel ist am 23.11.22 verstorben. Die Beisetzung fand in Braunschweig-Mascherode statt. Ich hatte deine Nummer in Ihrem iPhone gefunden, konnte Dich als den Auswanderer zuordnen und eine kurze Suche brachte mich auf eure Website."

Bärbel und ich trafen uns als Lehrlinge in 1962 als ich schon im dritten Jahr meiner Lehre war und sie gerade ihre Lehre angefangen hatte. Wir saßen uns gegenüber in der Feuerversicherungsabteilung und daraus wurde dann eine Freundschaft die noch mehrere Jahre nach meiner Auswanderung anhielt. Wir erneuerten sie als ich im Februar 1984 zur Beerdiging meines Vaters wieder nach Braunschweig kam und wurde dann eine Brieffreundschaft als ich in 1985 Griechenland wieder verlies.

Oder besser gesagt, wieder eine Brieffreundschaft denn dass war es schon einmal für einige Jahre nach meiner Auswanderung in 1965 gewesen. All diese Brief schickte sie mir in 2011 um mich daran zu erinnern mit den Worten: "Doppelt so viel habe ich hier noch fallst Du sie haben möchtest."

 

 

In späteren Jahren schickte sie mir noch Fotos von einem Betriebsausflug den ich schon lange vergessen hatte - siehe hier - und nahm auch Fotos auf von meinen Elternhäusern am Altewiekring und Cyriaksring - siehe hier und hier. Und hier ist meine Antwort an ihren Sohn Armin:

"Lieber Armin, das ist doch völlig unmöglich und gar nicht zu glauben!!! Bärbel und ich kannten uns von unserer Lehre in der Hamburg-Bremer Feuer-Versicherung in der Münzstrasse, und wir trafen uns zum letzten Mal in 1984 als ich nach Braunschweig kam zur Beerdigung meines Vaters. Unsere Verbindung war in den letzten Jahren wieder abgebrochen, wohl deshalb weil ich hier unten am Ende der Welt in einem ganz anderen Millieu lebe und überhaupt keine Verbindung mit der (k)alten Heimat mehr habe. Wie ich mich erinnere war ihr letztes Lebenszeichen von der Ostsee mit einem Foto mit ihr und Deinem Vater am Strand. Danke für Deine Email und die Mühe die Du Dir machtest Dich mit mir in Verbindung zu setzen. In meinem Alter ist man daran gewöhnt solche Nachrichten zu erhalten, denn mehr und mehr alte Freunde und Freundinnen versterben nach und nach. Dennoch hat mich diese Nachricht besonders gepackt denn sie bringt mich ganz zurück an den Anfang meiner beruflichen Karriere und bevor ich überhaupt Gedanken hatte je einmal nach Australien auszuwandern. Meinen herzlichen Beileid an Dich und Deinen Bruder und Vater."

 

 

Meine alten Erinnerungen sterben langsam aus.

 

 

Friday, November 22, 2024

The "Marie Celeste" of the Clyde River

 

 

The story of the "Mary Celeste" might have drifted into history if Conan Doyle hadn't published it in his "J. Habakuk Jephson's Statement" in 1884. His sensationalistic account set off waves of theorising about the ship's fate; it also immortalised the vessel's misspelt name as "Marie Celeste" which I have used for the houseboat pictured above.

It is usually moored further up the river but still visible from "Riverbend", with no-one visibly aboard, and then, at the start of yet another weekend, it has miraculously shifted downriver to a mooring just off "Riverbend", again with no-one visibly aboard. Another case of "Marie Celeste" indeed!

 

 

I've had my breakfast, watched the documentary again, and also had another look outside - yep, she's still there, as quiet and mysterious and seemingly abandoned as ever, the "Marie Celeste" of the Clyde River!

 

 

 

Thursday, November 21, 2024

Opportunity shop knocks!

 

 

Even during my restless years, I belonged to several book clubs, including Reader's Digest and TIME-LIFE, whose publications 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 a dollar or two. (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 couple of dollars 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!

 

Wednesday, November 20, 2024

In praise of the quiet life at "Riverbend"

 


 

A quiet life sounds like an option that only the defeated would ever be inclined to praise. Our age is overwhelmingly alive to the benefits of active, dynamic, ‘noisy’ ways of living.

If someone offered us a bigger salary for a job elsewhere, we’d move. If someone showed us a route to fame, we’d take it. If someone invited us to a party, we’d go. These seem like pure, unambiguous gains. Lauding a quiet life has some of the eccentricity of praising rain.

It’s hard for most of us to contemplate any potential in the idea because the defenders of quiet lives have tended to come from the most implausible sections of the community: slackers, hippies, the work-shy, the fired…; people who seem like they have never had a choice about how to arrange their affairs. A quiet life seems like something imposed upon them by their own ineptitude. It is a pitiable consolation prize.

At "Riverbend", the quiet life is no pitiable consolation prize. It is the very raison d'être for living here.

 

Tuesday, November 19, 2024

'Mal was zum Nachdenken!

 

 

Elke Heidenreich writes in a personal way about a topic that affects everyone: everyone wants to grow old, but nobody wants to be old. In her new book, she deals with growing old and creates a work that only she can write - personal, honest, and wise. As she writes, "In old age, you bear the consequences for everything you have done. But with it comes serenity, and you understand: Most is completely unimportant. You should just breathe and be grateful."

 

 

Here's a preview of the first few pages - in German, of course: click here.

 

Hotel zum Letzten Kliff

 

 

The axiom in joking is, a person's favourite joke is the key to that person's character; and so it is for a culture (however, you won't trick me into discussing with you Australian culture which is mainly agriculture and horticulture).

Instead, I want to tell you about the failed attempt to introduce a German version of Fawlty Towers to the Germans. A pilot episode of the show, called 'Zum Letzten Kliff' ('To the Last Cliff'), was broadcast in December 2001. In it, Basil and Sybil became Victor and Helga, an unhappily-married couple who presided over a chaotically awful hotel called 'Zum letzten Kliff' which was relocated to a North Sea island called Sylt (pronounced 'Zoolt'). The hotel also featured a young waitress called Polly, while the Manuel character was reinvented as a waiter named Igor from the Republic of Kazakhstan.

It never caught on in Germany, perhaps because it didn't include the phrase which anyone who has seen the original now uses to sum up the terrible anxiety we all have about trying, and failing, to not say the wrong thing: 'Don't mention the war!' It was so tasteless, it was hilarious.

 

 

I don't care if you don't care for it. Who won the bloody war, anyway?

 

Nelligen - where did the name come from?

 

 

Nobody seems to know, not even my wife who usually knows everything! ☺

As Stuart Magee explains in his beautiful little volume of local history, The Rivers and the Sea, "the need for the place arose in the 1850s when Braidwood and its satellites such as Majors Creek, Araluen and Mongarlowe were up to their ears in the explosion of people and commerce surrounding the discovery of gold.

The movement of goods, people and information between Braidwood and Sydney was chancy and oh so slow. Depending on the weather, bullock trains might take three weeks or three months. Horse-drawn carriage or dray was usually quicker but limited in capacity and expensive. Down the mountain lay the very navigable Clyde and thence a 24-hour run by steamship to Sydney. There was, as I understand the historian Reynolds, some competition between Currowan and Nelligen as to which would receive Braidwood's blessing, and Nelligen won out.

So, in the 1850s, the town was laid out and the road from Braidwood was opened. And a tough road it was too. There is a number of old photos showing the grim results of teams of horses and bullocks going over the side of the Clyde Mountain road.

Nelligen boomed! Over the next 20 years there arose four pubs, two stores, a blacksmith, a bakery, a police station, a court-house, schools, churches and a post office, Above all was the terminal building of the Illawarra Steam Navigation Company. If today you were to set up your picnic in that nice little park between the general store and the wharf, you would be smack in the middle of the 126 x 45 feet ISNC's jetty and store (oh, very well then, 38 x 14 metres). Twice a week the steamers plied between Nelligen and Sydney, stopping at the far less consequential village of Batemans Bay on the way. The size of some of the paddle-steamers, and later screw-steamers, is astonishing. The Kembla, a paddle-steamer in use on the Clyde from 1861, was 183 feet long. The S.S. Moruya was 150 feet and 530 tons. The S.S. Allowrie was 180 feet. It ran aground on a mudflat in the river on one occasion and had to await the high tide to float it off. The last steamer to call at the Port of Nelligen was in 1952 - 99 years after the first."

But the goldfields centering on Braidwood started to run down, then the timber industry went into decline, and, Stuart continues in his little book, "after such a pivotal role in the development of the southern parts of the state, Nelligen has been deserted even by the highway and left to fend for itself.

All up and down the coast the faces of small towns are being tarted up and titivated by tourist-boards and enthusiastic councils. But Nelligen remains untouched and unimpressed by such progress. Not even the modern marvels of reticulated water and sewerage have imposed themselves upon it." Not yet, Stuart, but work is underway and by Christmas both will have been imposed on us.

"If I lived there I would hope not to see it change. But you sense it may just be resting after its great exertions and sooner or later some bright spark will again see it as the right place to do heroic things." (reproduced with Stuart's permission)

There is so much more in this delightful book but I won't spoil your anticipation as I am sure your local Angus & Robertson has a copy of this enjoyable read!

As for the name of Nelligen, I've had it explained to me that a certain Nelligen butcher had a wife by the name of Nell. Apparently, he did away with her and threw the body in the river. Unlucky for him, the Clyde is a tidal river and on every rising tide her body would float back up again, prompting locals to exclaim, “Here comes Nell again”. (This is NOT the official version of how it got its name but it's as good as all the others.)

 

Monday, November 18, 2024

Commas are important people!

 

 

Did you know that Australian author Peter Carey won the 2001 Booker Prize for "True History of the Kelly Gang" – a work that contained not a single comma? Amazing, huh? Of course, one might wonder why he bothered, but still.

I agree that commas are not condiments and you shouldn't pepper your sentences with them unnecessarily. Even so, a well-placed comma is the difference between “what is this thing called love?” and “what is this thing called, love?” And between “let’s eat, Grandma!” and ... well, you know the rest. (My favourite book on this subject is "Eats, Shoots and Leaves"; I believe an earlier Australian edition was called "Eats, Roots and Leaves".)

 

 

A misplaced comma might even be damaging to your health. Compare "Do not administer any liquids which are diuretic" (some liquids are permissible) and "Do not administer any liquids, which are diuretic" (all liquids are forbidden). And don't even get me started on the Oxford comma: "I love my parents, Donald Trump and Angela Merkel." Donald Trump and Angela Merkel are not my parents; a comma after Donald Trump would've made this clear - and, for the record, I don't love either.

What I do love are early mornings on the jetty! Shingles or no shingles, the sun is out and so am I! And I've chosen to reread "The Old Man and the Sea". It's a short book, written in Hemingway's typical sharp and muscular style, which was eventually named the "Iceberg Theory", as it used simple language on the surface with a wealth of meaning hidden below. And it has short sentences with very little need for punctuation.

Still, commas are important people! (please insert a comma as you see fit)

 

A tale with a sting in the tail

 


 

Burg Thurston works at Batemans Bay's Innes Boatshed which has been a local landmark since 1955. There he made friends with a giant black stingray called "Nobby".

“Over time, the stingray got more confident”, Burg says. “Now I jump in, he shoos the other stingrays off and comes in and glides up my belly.”

"I loved to surf in the mornings and when I started working the morning shift I was often a bit anxious when I knew I was missing the waves. Then I realised, if my mind was always in the surf while I was working, I was going to miss what is right in front of me, which was the stingrays and how beautiful the boatshed was, and how good my job actually was.”

Did you yell 'Encore'? Well then, here it is:

 


 

Wherever you are and whatever you do, this film may inspire you to take your focus off what you haven't got and turn it to what's right in front of you.

 

Sunday, November 17, 2024

Arabian Sands

 

I recently found a beautiful hardback copy still in mint condition of Wilfred Thesiger's "Arabian Sands", the book about Arabia to end all books about Arabia. I've only just now found a beautifully made doco-movie by the same name which follows Wilfred Thesiger's crossing of the Rub Al-Khali, Arabia's "Empty Quarter".

Sprawling over parts of Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Oman, and the United Arab Emirates, the Empty Quarter—or Rub' al Khali—is the world's largest sand sea, holding about half as much sand as the Sahara Desert. It is one of the most arid regions on the planet, and stretches over twelve hundred kilometers from west to east, and is up to six hundred kilometers wide.

 

 

It had been the goal of all Arabian explorers from Richard Burton onward and, although Wilfred Thesiger was not the first to cross it, he was the first to explore it thoroughly, mapping the oasis of Liwa and the quicksands of Umm As Sam. He crossed it with Bedu companions twice, and his trek across the western sands from the Hadhramaut to Abu Dhabi was the last and greatest expedition of Arabian travel.

 

Wilfred Thesiger's "Arabian Sands" in his own voice with subtitles

 

It all began when, in 1945, an entomologist, O.B. Lean, acting on behalf of the Middle East Anti Locust Unit (MEALU), hired Thesiger to search for locust breeding grounds in southern Arabia. Feeling least at home in his own culture and with his own kind, Thesiger resented the juggernaut of western "civilisation" and its inexorable movement to squash what he believed was the colour and diversity of the earth's peoples.

His sympathies were with the indigenes, and his closest human ties were with certain of them who were his companions on his many journeys. Few other explorers of recent times have tried so genuinely to see the world through the eyes of these foreign peoples.


 

 

His best years were the five he spent among the Bedu of south Arabia, and one cherished companion from those days, Salim bin Ghabeisha, now a greybeard in his 60s, remembers him. "He was loyal, generous, and afraid of nothing. He was a wonderful man to travel with," he said. Thesiger could have asked for no better epitaph. He died in 2003.

 

 

It's been almost four decades since I walked the burning sands of Saudi Arabia. I'm left with my memories as I read "Arabian Sands" while sitting close to a burning fireplace with a painting above it of a "modern" Saudi camel being driven across the burning sands in a TOYOTA pick-up truck.

 


 

P.S. Are you drawn in by the desert as I was all those many years ago? Don't let the spell go to waste; come and watch "Lawrence of Arabia".

 

Saturday, November 16, 2024

The internet is for people who can't sleep

 

Back Row (left-to-right)
Volker Kluge / Wolfgang Ihlemann / Joachim Schumacher / Helmut Ullrich / Ulrich Schäfer / Andreas Morgenroth / Helmut Bolle / Volker Wisse / Hendrik Heinemann / Jürgen Kreul
Middle Row (left-to-right)
Klaus Kratzenstein / Herbert Becker / Dagmar Kroll / Jutta Veste / Heidi Werner / Christa Funke / Wenzel Tappe / moi / Joachim Stut
Front Row (left-to-right)
Gudrun Otto / Heidi Nabert / Petra Küster / Sigrid Röseling / Herr Sapper, teacher / Barbara Ziegert / Margret Brandenburg / Ingrid Behrens / Waltraud Häupler / Karin Käsehage
(No prize guessing where I am in the photo!!!)

 

And I was still wide awake when this email came in late one night: "Ich hoffe Du bist etwas überrascht eine E-Mail zu bekommen, aber wir sind in die selbe Klasse in der Heinrichschule gegangen, auf dem Klassenfoto bin ich unter dem Namen DAGMAR KROLL. Würde mich freuen etwas von Dir zu hören! "

Let me translate before you rush out and enrol in a Berlitz German Language Course: "I hope you're surprised to receive this email because we attended the same class at primary school. My name is Dagmar Kroll and I'm the third from the left in the middle row in this photo taken on the last day at school. Would love to hear from you!"

What a surprise indeed! Dagmar found the photos another schoolfriend had sent to me previously and which I had put up on my German blog - here and here - and she's busy scanning some more to send to me. This seems to be a case of "good things come to those who wait" - for over fifty years! - because we were refugees from East Germany and had little money, and none at all for such frivolities as school photos.

Of course, she also asked the obvious question, "Why did you leave Germany?" Well, no one ever emigrates because of the success they've enjoyed at home. No one ever says, "Well, I have a happy home life, I'm rich and I have many friends - so I'm off." The only reason anyone has for going to live in another country is because they've cocked everything up in their own.

Being just nineteen years old, my opportunities for cocking things up had been rather limited by the time I left; in fact, my only - and certainly biggest - cock-up until then had been that I allowed myself to be born to parents who were so dirt-poor that they packed me off to work as soon as I had reached the minimum school-leaving age of 14.

Being the youngest solo-migrant on board the migrant ship FLAVIA, a television crew had asked me the same question before it left Bremer-haven. I had no answer in front of the whirring newsreel camera and still have no answer today. I mean, how do I explain the sense of dissatisfaction and frustration that affected me at the time?

We can't choose our parents and are born into the prison of our race, religion and nationality. I had no problem with my race which, being blond and blue-eyed, helped me to slip into Australia under its "White Australia" policy, but I'd already renounced my Lutheran upbringing and joined the German Freethinkers, and many years later also changed my nationality by becoming an Australian. Two out of three isn't bad, is it?

True to her word, Dagmar sent me three photos of a class reunion in 1983 which, come to think of it, I could've attended as I was at the time working in Jeddah and Athens. Another missed opportunity? Perhaps not, as my life had moved in a completely different direction from those stay-at-homes with whom I had little in common during my school days and would have had even less in common twenty-three years later.

 

Class Reunion 1983 - for names see last photo

Class reunion 1983 Get-together at Teacher's house after the reunion
from left to right: Joachim Stut - Dagmar Kroll - Franz Sapper (retired teacher) -
Barbara Zieger - Gudrun Otto - Volker Kluge

Class Reunion 1983
from left to right; back row: Volker Kluge - Herbert Becker - Wolfgang Ihlemann - Wenzel Tappe - Helmut Ullrich - Ulrich Schäfer; middle row: Heidi Werner - Ingrid Behrens - Jutta Veste - Dagmar Kroll - Christa Funke; front row: Gudrun Otto - Petra Küster - Sigrid Röseling - Franz Sapper (retired teacher) - Barbara Zieger - Waltraud Häuptler

 

However, I would've liked to have met "Herr Sapper" again before he passed away sometime in 1987. He was a great teacher who helped me overcome my lack of a tertiary education by giving me this personal letter which helped me into my first job after completing my articles.

My favourite author, Somerset W. Maugham, wrote a story entitled "The Verger" about a man without formal education who ended up more successful than he might've been with the right kind of schooling.

I count my blessings every time I watch the movie as I count my blessings to have had such a wonderful teacher, a real "Mr. Chips". Rest in Peace, "Herr Sapper"!