Christmas 1970 inside my donga in Camp 6 on Loloho Beach
It's getting close to that time of year again! Even the op-shops have started playing "Jingle Bells". This photo is from 1970 when photography was still black and white but not so our lives. It's Christmas in Camp 6 on the island of Bougainville in New Guinea where we were building the world's biggest copper mine. I'm sitting on the most important piece of furniture, a beer fridge, flanked by Bob Green and Neil "Jacko" Jackson on my right.
Neil Jackson was Bechtel's head-timekeeper, a titular job description at best as the only time he could be relied on to keep correctly was opening time at the local "boozer". For him it was always 5 o'clock somewhere. He's shown in the photograph when he's already well into his drink but still some time away from turning disagreeable and at times downright ugly.
Bob Green was also a timekeeper who got married just before he came up to the island. He liked his drink but also his wife back in Australia who wrote him long, passionate, and multi-paged letters every day which he received by the fistful on mail-day. He replied to them after the nightly drinking was over but the mental torture became too much and he returned to Melbourne after just a few months.
"Jacko" also moved back to Melbourne where he inherited his auntie's mansion in blue-ribbon Toorak. He finished his days fighting off the neighbours who tried to have him and his dozens of cats and mountains of empties evicted from their genteel neighbourhood. It's rumoured that he was knighted for his services to the Australian brewing industry and lived out his days as Sir Osis of the Liver.
Bob Green and "Jacko" were just two of several unlikely characters who back then I called by that shifty English monosyllable that covers such a vast array of meanings that you can never be quite sure what anyone means when they use the word "friend". We were friends not because we had sought out each other's company but because we were thrown into each other's company through work and circumstances.
I still wonder how in this company of alcoholics and misfits I didn't permanently impair my young body and tender soul. I'd just turned 25. My short life until then had been a series of lucky breaks, and the word 'regret' had not yet entered my vocabulary. An endless succession of more lucky breaks and golden tomorrows seemed to lie ahead of me. How wrong and how right I was!
Looking at that old photo brings back lots of memories which make me feel young again and help me forget that these days when I try to leap tall buildings in a single bounds, I always hit the wall halfway up.
More often, I feel like hitting out at all that annoying stuff that these days masquerades for news, such as the ongoing fallout from Lidia Thorpe's royal protest this week. Yesterday, Senator Thorpe told us she had sworn allegiance to the queen's "hairs" not "heirs" when she entered parliament.
The ABC reports that "She's rejecting calls to resign from the opposition." I don't want to split hairs like Senator Thorpe but shouldn't that have been "She's rejecting calls from the opposition to resign"?
