I know Bali from four angles.
One: the revolution of affordable air travel in the 1970s has revolutionised the way middle-class Australians holiday. What was once a trip in the caravan to Mooloolaba or Brunswick Heads (which could have been to Cornwall or Wales in a not-so-distant past version of our culture) to fill the union-enforced 2 weeks of annual leave; is now, for the same or less expense; a hop to one of several tropical air ports in a sub-$500 return airfare radius - Nadi, Port Vila, Phuket and Denpasar, where tourism industries have grown like fungi clustered around the runways to cater for this market. Indonesia - despite its proximity - features traditionally the greatest disparity in currency out of these options and hence is the best deal and draws the greatest hordes.
The aim is relaxation - a pleasant view, a neutral temperature, essentially nothingness , a blank period of existence - to have the basic necessities and comforts provided, interjections of entertainment and nothing more - a room, a clean lavatory, clean linen, three high-calorie meals a day, alcohol and Tobacco, and the physical sensual pleasures of massage or prostitution, depending on the depravity of the individual.
These 10 days are but a brief escape from the bondage of full time work and servicing a mortgage in their home country.
The young adult who buys a package holiday to Bali from Flight Centre and drinks bintangs on Kuta beach in this fashion may be disparaged by others of his age as being less adventurous or to posses inferior cultural sensitivities, and this may be so, but ultimately is not their commitment to domestic sensibility and responsibility more noble?
An Australian youth - and I am generalising here - in his first years of independence has a choice - to prolong his adolescence as a romantic backpacker, wanderer, a pseudo-vagabond and spend a year or two abroad, or to immediately occupy themselves in the depressing business of building a career, a family, a house deposit, the foundations of his estate.
A hard working young man can gather a house deposit and secure credit for a loan in his early twenties. A traveller in his early twenties deposits an equivalent sum in hostels and cafes around the world - not to mention the greatest loss - time - a year long of third-world backpacking may total 10 grand if frugal, but is four times that in lost industry.
The more sophisticated tour of Europe remains in our culture as if it was a short hop across the channel for young gentleman of noble birth in the Victorian era.
Bogan parody is nothing but classism and likewise elitism directed at the ghastly Australian cultural outpost of Kuta is merely an expression of a more privileged class to whom individualistic self-development by way of extended and more distant travel and university study takes priority over an apprento, ute ownership and wealth creation, and once all that is in place - a quick trip with the boys to Bali (yewwww).
Two. Surf Pilgrimage.
The psychedelic-fuelled cultural revolution of the 1960s - Jimi Hendrix, The Beatles, Black Nationalism, Feminism and so on, was also experienced in the world of surf.
Surfing as a counter-culture, a method of creative expression; an art form; is I argue, is one of the most important contributions of white Australia to global culture - and Bali was a critical frontier where heaven-on-earth was discovered by an adventurous generation of artistic spirits. The seminal film Morning of The Earth (1972) would establish Uluwatu as a surf Mecca, and if you go there now you will find it utterly overrun.
Surf travellers come from all over the world to Bali in the mode of pilgrimage - paying homage to the pioneering artists mentioned above, just as modern hippies are drawn to visit the Ashram the Beatles spent time at in Rishikesh, but also a metaphorical God who created the miracle of nature of a coral reef perfectly angled so that swells break in the perfect shape to ride.
Three. The quest for enlightenment.
Ubud, Bali, in the last two decades has emerged as a global centre for all those with the economic power to abandon worldly pursuits, fly over, and practice yoga - much has already been written in a cynical tone about the yoga-mat-carrying middle aged woman here for this purpose.
What I am interested in lately is the fantastical pursuit of 'breatharianism'. Victor Truviano, known as the worlds preeminent breatharian is currently in residence at Ubud. Victor, an Argentinian, claims to have not the need to eat food and lives off pranic energy.
Given the amount of people in the world whom worship the historical Jesus myth, it is not surprising that rumours of a real and living man with similar supernatural powers might attract attention.
Four. Canguu: Hipster Wall Street.
Travel west from Kuta and you will start seeing hipster-aesthetic street art and find Canguu. Its initial appeal over adjacent towns was a couple of decent reefbreaks that drew the surfers initially, and now it has transformed into an outpost of the kind of culture found in Noosa, Byron Bay and Bondi beach - surfing, coffee, youthful business enterprises: bikinis made in Bali and sold in Sydney boutiques, all-in-one surfshopsslashcafeslashgalleries. It is quite a separate scene to the youth with aesthetic sensibilities in inner Brisbane or Melbourne. I define the difference as being pointed towards the ideal of good health, or not.
Surfing, primarily an artistic pursuit, has the pleasing side effect of generating fitness, almost without effort. In Brisbane, with no ocean to play in, the children experience not this joyful intersection of nature, expression and exercise, and direct their abilities instead to operating a computer, drawing, painting, photography or musical instrument playing - activities which develop only the musculature of the fingers and hands and do not engage the body as a whole.
Indeed, some youths revolt against the concept of sport and fitness altogether, and revel proudly in a state of ill health and bad diets, covering their body with clothes to demonstrate their taste, shaping their hair quite carefully, and rely on God-given facial features as the sole biological element of their beauty. These youths do not go to Bali.
Five. Bali itself.
I know nearly nothing of. The country plays a charming host to all these scenes, mostly without complaint and with a smile, and partially with an undercurrent of gangs, crime, violence and territorialism. They humour us by putting up with our attempts at Bahasa Indonesia, yet the true tounge of the isle remains mostly secret.
The economy is ever-growing, highways and overpasses are being built, and according to trickle down economics the standard of living might rise, I suppose?
The beauty of the landscape is ever-eroding, new hotels and condos being built on the cliff line, and the water becoming more putrid.
As an Australian, it is tempting to draw a parallel between England's invasion of Australia with Australia's invasion of Bali. The Balinese people, after all, are indigenous to their isle. I had a dream once that the government took over Bali in an official sense, and the roads were re-laid, gutters and stormwater drains installed to Australian standards, and high-vis wearing garbos collected the rubbish from green wheelie bins in neat rows on a Tuesday morning. Would this be improvement?
Monday, April 3, 2017
Friday, March 31, 2017
Susie's Warung part II
It goes he same way every time.
The Jetstar flight gets in ‘round midnight. A taxi fare is negotiated out to the Bukit Peninsula. A Nasi Goring from a late-night roadside warung for supper and sustenance for the morning surf is catered for at a Circle-K (water, crackers, and nuts).
The Taxi drops one at the clifftop parking lot, and it is always a challenge on the legs, loaded with bags and board, navigating with wary exploratory steps the myriad stepped alleyways that lead down the cliff.
Bingin is asleep at this time.
Down the beach, and one squints at the whitewash in the moonlight, and evaluates the volume to get a gauge of the size of the swell the sun will reveal in a few hours.
Along the beach, shoes sinking in the sand: not far to go now, the third-last along the stretch, memory tells, should be Susie’s.
The first time I completed this ritual, I was drawn there like a moth to a lone light, because it was the last open, two men continuing to request beers and cigarettes from one of Susie’s tired attendants.
The second, all were asleep. I simply found my own vacant room upstairs. The doors are not fitted with locks. Upon coming down in the morning, at first light, I was greeted with a smile, and not the least bit of surprise, for Suzie’s was not a place with a website or where one can book ahead.
I say was, because this time I was faced with a ghastly sight.
Where there once was a humble glass counter that held the cigarettes, and which atop sat the greasy laminated menus and the tally-book for each guests account, and besides which were the bamboo platforms with woven palm mats - massage tables and board racks by day, where by night Suzie used to stretch out and sleep - across this whole area was now an imposing bar, and the walls had been painted, and ornaments were scattered around that were consciously aesthetic.
The old common squat toilet was now a suite with a private balcony with a ‘do not disturb’ tag on the handle.
And on all the themed furniture was a mess of bottles, cigarette boxes and empty Yakults.
Civilisation had fallen - aesthetic created and care removed, for a mother wipes her child’s bottom out of love, and although Susie would clear every table and straighten the chairs at her earliest convenience, a conscientious guest would reciprocate by at least consolidating the waste or returning the bottles to the bar.
To sit comfortably at a cafe, pretentiousness must be nil. Because of the common man’s poor taste, they are more likely to be empty, and thus one does not feel pressured to give up his table.
The new manager behind the was on her phone for several minutes before she turned her head up to grant me attention. "Sorry, we're full". I turned my back on the establishment and slept on the couch of a cafe a few doors up the beach.
Rest well, Susie's.
Friday, April 29, 2016
The Butterflies
On the edge of a city was a tall mountain, and besides it a great meadow where wildflowers grew. On the mountain slope, obscured from the city by a forested ridge, was a cave where two butterflies had slept.
Dawn breaks. The cave fills with light and the morning dance of the butterflies cast a playful shadow on the wall.
Out in the meadow, the sun has lifted the morning dew; it hangs in the air above the grass; fresh oxygen and pollen amidst the mix; the insects fill up with sticky nectar and become jolly; a tropical crescendo fills the air.
The butterflies saw all of this and sought their favourite flowers; which by their deduction shined like silver amongst sand; and traced delightful vectors on the zephyrs in between, until they were quite sated.
"Where shall we rest when the sun goes down, dear delightful sister of mine? "
"Silly sister, the sun is still high, and why worry about night until night is upon us, come, the day is young, and we will flutter over the stream; flutter under the fronds and watch the patterns."
"But sister, I am afraid that when the sun lowers later, we will be on the meadow still, and quite lost, and if in the deep night the air gains a chill, the dampness will collect on our wings and might damage them"
"Little one, whom knows my position at all times by the faintest turbelence I emit; such is your love for me, must we discuss this now with lips wet from nectar and the air still a delightful viscosity for flight?"
So they sailed down to the stream; gurgled a scale such that latent surface tension induced an opposing synchronous pulse; and the sun glistened on nodes.
And after they had played, they rested on the sand bank.
"Do you remember sister, a cave we visited long ago?"
"Why yes sister, and you were scared to enter at first I recall, but you liked the warmth of the wood burning"
"It has been so long, I wonder if the mountain has not disappeared, we should go check at once, while the sun is bright and shining, we shall be able to make out the shadow against the cliff "
"Stop, sister, for though it may feel cool here on this shady bank, the meadow is dry and if you try to cross it now you will surely die of thirst"
"But sister, where shall we sleep? If a heavy rain comes, sure, we can shelter under a leaf, but the hills could be flooded and the river might swell and replace the volume of air we occupy, and we will be submerged !"
"My dear one, wait here now and rest your wings, the wind is freshening to the south-east, and as the sun reaches its last quarter we will cross the meadow on a mighty gust; you will not weary by laborious flight my sister, but to stay on course requires a quick wit and a firm hand"
"But I'm quite frightened of a mighty gust!"
The wind quickened the water and waves rushed down the sandy bank. The butterflies tested its strength by angling slightly off the parallel.
"When you see a ghost upon the water; the gust is coming; be ready."
It came and it took them; an eagle soared overhead, a eucalypt swayed with the rustle of a thousand leaves; and the koala held it's ear in close to the trunk.
Dawn breaks. The cave fills with light and the morning dance of the butterflies cast a playful shadow on the wall.
Out in the meadow, the sun has lifted the morning dew; it hangs in the air above the grass; fresh oxygen and pollen amidst the mix; the insects fill up with sticky nectar and become jolly; a tropical crescendo fills the air.
The butterflies saw all of this and sought their favourite flowers; which by their deduction shined like silver amongst sand; and traced delightful vectors on the zephyrs in between, until they were quite sated.
"Where shall we rest when the sun goes down, dear delightful sister of mine? "
"Silly sister, the sun is still high, and why worry about night until night is upon us, come, the day is young, and we will flutter over the stream; flutter under the fronds and watch the patterns."
"But sister, I am afraid that when the sun lowers later, we will be on the meadow still, and quite lost, and if in the deep night the air gains a chill, the dampness will collect on our wings and might damage them"
"Little one, whom knows my position at all times by the faintest turbelence I emit; such is your love for me, must we discuss this now with lips wet from nectar and the air still a delightful viscosity for flight?"
So they sailed down to the stream; gurgled a scale such that latent surface tension induced an opposing synchronous pulse; and the sun glistened on nodes.
And after they had played, they rested on the sand bank.
"Do you remember sister, a cave we visited long ago?"
"Why yes sister, and you were scared to enter at first I recall, but you liked the warmth of the wood burning"
"It has been so long, I wonder if the mountain has not disappeared, we should go check at once, while the sun is bright and shining, we shall be able to make out the shadow against the cliff "
"Stop, sister, for though it may feel cool here on this shady bank, the meadow is dry and if you try to cross it now you will surely die of thirst"
"But sister, where shall we sleep? If a heavy rain comes, sure, we can shelter under a leaf, but the hills could be flooded and the river might swell and replace the volume of air we occupy, and we will be submerged !"
"My dear one, wait here now and rest your wings, the wind is freshening to the south-east, and as the sun reaches its last quarter we will cross the meadow on a mighty gust; you will not weary by laborious flight my sister, but to stay on course requires a quick wit and a firm hand"
"But I'm quite frightened of a mighty gust!"
The wind quickened the water and waves rushed down the sandy bank. The butterflies tested its strength by angling slightly off the parallel.
"When you see a ghost upon the water; the gust is coming; be ready."
It came and it took them; an eagle soared overhead, a eucalypt swayed with the rustle of a thousand leaves; and the koala held it's ear in close to the trunk.
Saturday, March 19, 2016
Approaching the Himalayas
Day 1
We took a jeep an hour north from Uttrakashi along the Ganga valley, stopping for a roadside Aloo Paratha breakfast. We passed a dam, a government-funded hydro-electric project that supplies power to Uttrakashi and Rishikesh.
The Ganga’s course is heavily modified. At parts it splits into a high and low channel. There is earthmoving equipment seen regularly along it’s banks. I’m not sure if they are harvesting rocks and gravel to build roads or engineering the course of the river. You do see piles of rocks on the roadside and men engaged in breaking them into smaller rocks with hammers - the work of slaves and convicts.
As we entered the village from where we would start, the guide diverted this way and that to greet people. The cook smiled at me and said “many friends”. Our guide's chivalrous nature and regular jokes with both me English and his crew in Hindi make him a likeable fellow indeed. He has a round nepali-looking face (though he is Indian) and wears a polo shirt, jeans, and neat trekking boots.
Also in our party is the cook, a sly, friendly man I walked beside for most of the day today and two porters.
One is a real old man of the hills. he must be at least 65 and is still putting a giant load on his back, the bulk of the weight anchored via a strap on his forehead. I imagine his family at home pleading with him to hang up the boots, but he protests he’s got another good ten years in him and prides himself on the fact he has not lessened his load since thew day he was 21. He wears a red beanie, a smart blue shirt and pants with a pinstripe vest over the top (unbuttoned). He has a necklace with a small religious icon as a pendant. His boots are sturdy and cheap. He pauses during conversation (in Hindi) at intervals to suck some spit that has collected in the corner of his mouth back to where it can be swallowed. He has a bung eye, it’s aperture enlarged and watering.
No-one carries or drinks water, there is an empty bottle affixed to the top of the porters load to fill at creeks at each camping spot.
Eventually we climbed above the tree-line. The very top portion of the hills are grassy. Buffalo graze and wildflowers grow. In winter you can ski here, though there is no lift, so a day’s skiing is two runs.
One of the guides said we might encounter nomads. These people (Gulur) live in the hills and come down to the cities of Rishikesh and Haridwar for winter. Their diet is mainly milk. They get married at 13 or 14 and the women are very strong, so I am told.
I asked what language they spoke and if they are Hindu? They speak Hindi but are Muslim was the reply, with the added Hindu element of abstaining from beef. We never spotted them in any case so remained as mysterious as they were described.
In the distance are tall snow capped peaks, visible early in the climb but disappeared as we ascended into the mist and cloud. Tomorrow we will walk across a large meadow which offers a great view of them, depending on visibility. I have seen photos in the trekking offices’ wall.
I feel a little uneasy having commissioned four men, and hoped that the crew felt some enjoyment additional to the obligations of employment, around the campfire spinning yarns.
Frued’s argument is that culture exists to shield us from nature, and religion exists to humanise whatever effects nature still has on us. When camping one feels especially at the mercy of nature and is thankful for any small cultural blankets to wrap oneself in.
We have our human-companion animals to help us. Horses and dogs have no wild life to escape to - they remain in range of their human companions though no rope holds them and they are free to run away. Our guide is adorably enthralled with the horse-baby, who runs around clumsily near it’s mother. It is three months old. At night they must tie it to it’s mother because there are snow leopards who endanger it.
I saw two of the nomadic people on the top of the hill. Their shaggy black large dogs patrol our campsite and mark their territory next to out tent. I asked the guide if they were dangerous. “Yes, nighttime” he simply replied.
Day 2
Each horse wears a bell around it’s neck. I suppose so they can be found again if lost. The bells sound at a number of different pitches and form a delightful symphony together, not dissimilar to wind chimes. As I was sleeping the night before two were sounding a semitone part.
They day was marked by several encounters with the nomads as we passed their homes along the track. I found out they are not indigenous to the mountains as such, migrating here 40 years ago. The children do not go to school and tend to the cattle herds instead. Each day they sell milk in the market of a village nearby, or travel by motorcycle to Uttrakashi to trade there. The milk is known to be pure and not watered down.
We stopped at one of the family’s homes to take lunch. They heated milk over the fire for us - sweet and thick. It was raw and unlike any milk I’ve had from a plastic carton taken out of the refrigerator. It was unsettling until the last gulp whereupon I craved more immediately.
The hut had four people living within; a mother, a shawl around her head, her baby, plump and snotty-nosed, and two men: the taller one wearing a small analog wristwatch and a #3 haircut, and the shorter with puffy, weeping, closed up eyes; one moreso than the other. Their dress was arabic in style, revealing their Islamic faith.
I considered the role of milk in adult human nutrition.
It is true that no wild animal drinks milk as an adult - cows notably eat grass and turn it into milk for it’s calf. But a calf drinks nothing but for the first portion of it’s life, and it is sufficient to build all the matter and tissues in the body - hair, bones, brains, eyes, hoof. We are not so different from a calf; we have all the same basic tissues - therefore milk must be nearly sufficient to make up a diet.
The arguments levelled against milk are that it contains an oversupply of certain nutrients, particularly fat and hormones, that suit the requirements of a baby more closely than adults. But in this context, where people are working the land to gather any food they can for survival, living out of a wooden hut, and walking up and down a mountain each day, an oversupply of anything is not a concern, so milk is something to be lived off, as a replacement to grains for example.
There are other foods too. We stopped earlier to gather a fleshy spring-onion-like plant, with thick flat leaves.
We also picked wild strawberries - tiny, the size of a regular blueberry, but fresh and sweet. The joy gained from each tiny mouthful, however, is about equal to the effort of stopping, bending down, and picking one.
I would probably think the same about any food though, if I had to hunt, gather or produce it through agriculture myself and not obtain it through no greater inconvenience than a trip to the shops and the handover of money. In fact, I had even thought about offering one of the porters some money to gather a bowlful for me so I could eat satisfying mouthfuls, many berries at a time. This would represent the usual fashion I obtain food.
The hut was divided into three zones. In the middle was a earth-floor area, which raised into an earth cooking stove, bench top, and shelves housing clean metal kitchenware.
To the right, divided by a thin log running the length of the home (which doubled as a stool), was the sleeping area, straw covered in blankets. There were more blankets hanging on a rope above. On the other side, which also had a long log sectioning it off (which allows two rows of people to sit facing each other) was an earth-floored area for animals.
Sleeping there was a small cow, it’s front legs folded under itself, like it was kneeling, and back legs gathered at it’s slide. It looked sickly and weak; it’s limbs seemed more flexible than usual; it’s skin looser. Flies feasted on moisture around it’s eyes and snout. Every now and then it’s ears twitched in a vein attempt to evict them.
What was this creature? Was it some miniature sub-species of house-cow, designed to be kept as a pet? Was it’s body withered because it was confined inside all the time, held in by a log at knee height across the doorway, to be adored and cuddled to the detriment of it’s health? Could the thing even walk or did it just sit there?
No, I found out later it was a week-old calf, which explained all of my confused observations.
After leaving the house we stared our descent. We were to be camping by the riverbank. I could see the opposing face of the mountain and the gully seemed an impossibly long way below. Its was raining and steep. The pack seemed extra heavy as it pounded down with the force of gravity with each step. The porters made fast progress, rolling with the downwards momentum of the load on their backs; they ended up so far ahead the guide and I lost them.
When we reached the river I waited underneath a small cave while he went looking. By the time we found the campsite an impressive fire had been built built to negate the rain
The food is excellent - dahl, oily vegetables, fire-roasted chapati, rice, and fresh cucumber and carrot. My only complaint is that I am served first with platters of food around me. The crew does not begin eating until I am finished. This model possibly works better with bigger groups, but it is terribly awkward eating alone, and reveals a class divide between them and I.
The rivet we camped beside carves a deep gorge through the landscape. All vegetation near the waterway had been scoured away, and the banks were raw, loose sediment, interspersed with boulders of all sizes. The hills were shrouded in mist upstream, the trees prolific and untouched.
I have spent so much time on coastlines, it is magnificent to go deep into the heart of a continent, where much water finds it’s way into nonetheless, hangs heavy in the atmosphere and pours down to give life and at times vengeful violence.
We are lucky still to have wilderness zones on earth, despite the masses of humanity who swarm to the cities and expand their frontier of destruction outwards. Mountains, by their nature, will be the last vestiges of wilderness because their slopes defy dominance. Even in Australia, you still see bush covering hills when the surrounding plains are yellow and cleared. Luckily, nature does not have the same bias against settling in mountains and are rich with life.
Day 3
We climbed all day today to the mountain village of Mahji to stay the night. The houses take the fashion of wood or mudbrick walls and plastic sheeting roofs. People light fires in the house and the insides are smoky.When it stopped raining, the young, shy, softly spoken porter and I took a trip to Do De Tal lake, 8km return. The path was flat and ran along the mountain face. We walked in quiet companionship.
The lake itself was worth the trip to see - similar in size and setting as I imagine Thoreau’s Walden Pond to be. Trout broke the surface here and there and sent concentric ripples outwards.
At the mouth of the creek that fed the lake, thirty or so trout were waiting, swimming slowly into the oncoming current for morsels of food to emerge from upstream. They disappeared when I disturbed them trying to take a photo.
In the mid-distance are peaks with gullies near the top that still contain white cracks of snow. Some of them appeared not much higher from where we were and I hoped to stumble upon some to crunch underfoot. The prospect of snow surviving well into summer in small shaded parts excites me very much.
We passed a couple of mountain springs - the very type all bottled water companies claim as their source. One such spring supplies water to Majhi - they have directed it’s flow out of a metal spout that juts out the rock face. Water flows freely and continuously in the order of a litre a second. My water bottle, once filled, is immediately coated in condensation as if just fetched from the fridge.
This evening I was faced with the option of joining the crew on the dirt floor of the hut. In the end, I caved and had them pitch the tent for me in the front yard. Thus, a 3m³ first-world zone was created deep in the third.
The people are poor, but save for the lack of chimneys, life does not seem unappealing. Nature provides the necessary inputs and outputs for survival, such as the water source I have mentioned and ample fodder for cattle. The population density is low enough for nature to deal directly with human excrement - there are no toilets.
Where poverty is intolerable is when mixed with urbanity. The people I have seen living on the fringes of cities - under railway tracks, next to dry watercourses, sewers or rubbish dumps - have it tough. They lack the land required to produce food or keep animals, and deal with many other people’s waste entering their environment as well as their own.
Day 4
Our cook developed a toothache on the second day - he spent that afternoon in bed in pain after he duly prepared all the food. It continued on the third and his cheek was now quite swollen. I tried this morning to convince him to go home, offering to pay for the extra taxi; but he insisted the pain had gone and he would finish the trek.
The weather stayed clear for our walk, cutting along the side of a mountain on a slight decline. When we arrived at our destination - the front yard of a closed hotel in Bibera - a cluster of shacks around a crystal clear creek, with some terraced agriculture (including a marijuana plantation) - it was really quite hot and he sun was blazing.
I went for a swim in the creek. The water was fantastically cold off the mountains. I submerged my head a total of three times and indulged in some rock-hopping and sunbathing. I was appreciative of the simultaneous feeling of hot and cold as I lay wet on a sun-warmed rock, for the blood circulates through all and maintains an average temperature.
Friday, March 18, 2016
Haikus
How free it must be
to live a life
that is not ironic?
***
In a day, the landscape shapes the course of water.
in an age, the course of water shapes the landscape.
***
State library computer terminals
two effacing rows
piglets suckling
the teat of first world public facilities
***
Instinctive child's play
preparation
for war
***
Hey, get off my wave!
did you see my wave?
i got some good ones today.
did you get any photos of me?
***
UQ students
Ekka show public holiday
Mt Tibrogargan
halfway up
two boys
wearing camelpaks
each giving instructions to their respective girlfriend
***
Monday morning
foul mouthed
bottom left gum tobacco-sore
wave of appreciation
workers file onto ferry
showered and groomed
foundation evident on the faces of old women
invisible on the young
***
Bulimba
mid-morning
riverside promenade
waterfront residences
glass balustrades
corrosion stains
Three runners
$840 worth of Lorna Jane
to live a life
that is not ironic?
***
In a day, the landscape shapes the course of water.
in an age, the course of water shapes the landscape.
***
State library computer terminals
two effacing rows
piglets suckling
the teat of first world public facilities
***
Instinctive child's play
preparation
for war
***
Hey, get off my wave!
did you see my wave?
i got some good ones today.
did you get any photos of me?
***
UQ students
Ekka show public holiday
Mt Tibrogargan
halfway up
two boys
wearing camelpaks
each giving instructions to their respective girlfriend
***
Monday morning
foul mouthed
bottom left gum tobacco-sore
wave of appreciation
workers file onto ferry
showered and groomed
foundation evident on the faces of old women
invisible on the young
***
Bulimba
mid-morning
riverside promenade
waterfront residences
glass balustrades
corrosion stains
Three runners
$840 worth of Lorna Jane
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
30 Day Bikram Yoga Blog: Day 1/2
DAY 1
The 1630 session it was to be. Towel, water bottle, yoga mat, shorts. Wallet. $39 bought us entry into the cult. Enter the carpeted hall; the type where each cheap polyester strand is not woven but erect. A young Bikram Choudury sat on the righthand wall in a cross legged pose; in front of us a mirror so we could see the deficiencies on our physique in comparison.
The series of postures began; the rote-learned dialogue through a headpeice microphone sounded, some phrases so mechanical they passed from the lips and into the ear without meaning imparted or received. It mattered little - we knew the drill - the cadenza enough to infer beginnings and endings.
The air grew viscous, blood flushed the skin; capillaries tore in a maddened an effort to excise heat. But as with all discomfort that does not proceed to death; the apex of suffering was afterwards forgotten, and the oaths sworn mid-session have their terms relaxed; and in this climate I entered into discussion with the studio owner.
After I received obligatory dose of encouragement, I asked "What's the theory in regard to humidity in Bikram?"
"40/40. Forty degrees and forty percent humidity according to the Bikram manual," the teacher replied.
"It must have been in the high nineties in there."
"Well we open the windows if it gets too stuffy"
"But even so, the mirror was fogging which meant the air was saturated; it could not hold any more moisture. No matter how hot it is one should still feel a chill on the skin; the evaporation of sweat. Our heat regulation system must be allowed to continue unabated and I say, the humidity levels made it quite impossible."
Another lady, thin and loose-skinned veteran unperturbed by the preceding trails, chimed in "You'll get used to the sweat. When I started I didn’t sweat as much as I did now; but now I finish and my towel is completely wet. You don't stop sweating"
The studio owner smiled to signify that was the end of that matter; the sweat a justification in itself.
DAY 2
Hot afternoon sun, slanting through the car windows. Eastbound to Bunnings Cannon Hill. I was off to buy a humidity meter.
The guidelines didn't end at 40/40; the go on to state " Temperature can be adjusted for extremes in humidity; LOW humidity + HIGHER temperature; HIGH humidity + LOWER temperature".
What line could I draw between scientific data-collection and causing offence?
I erred in the aisle, the choice between a cheap plastic analog meter and digital tablet-display with an external sensor. I bought the plastic one at first, and tested it inside and outisde the car. 35° in the car: fair enough, but when I walked out under the shade of some trees where I estimated the temperature to be no more than 30°, and more likely around 28°, the needle had not dropped within two minutes, and I had to return and buy the more expensive one, for if I was to mount a credible argument I must have faith in the accuracy of the reading, and though analog meters can certainly be accurate, a) they must be calibrated (and this model lacked any means to do so) and b) the accuracy depends on the precision of the mechanical components, and at this price point they could only be of poor quality. So I will take the digital scale in with me tomorrow and present the results.
The 1630 session it was to be. Towel, water bottle, yoga mat, shorts. Wallet. $39 bought us entry into the cult. Enter the carpeted hall; the type where each cheap polyester strand is not woven but erect. A young Bikram Choudury sat on the righthand wall in a cross legged pose; in front of us a mirror so we could see the deficiencies on our physique in comparison.
The series of postures began; the rote-learned dialogue through a headpeice microphone sounded, some phrases so mechanical they passed from the lips and into the ear without meaning imparted or received. It mattered little - we knew the drill - the cadenza enough to infer beginnings and endings.
The air grew viscous, blood flushed the skin; capillaries tore in a maddened an effort to excise heat. But as with all discomfort that does not proceed to death; the apex of suffering was afterwards forgotten, and the oaths sworn mid-session have their terms relaxed; and in this climate I entered into discussion with the studio owner.
After I received obligatory dose of encouragement, I asked "What's the theory in regard to humidity in Bikram?"
"40/40. Forty degrees and forty percent humidity according to the Bikram manual," the teacher replied.
"It must have been in the high nineties in there."
"Well we open the windows if it gets too stuffy"
"But even so, the mirror was fogging which meant the air was saturated; it could not hold any more moisture. No matter how hot it is one should still feel a chill on the skin; the evaporation of sweat. Our heat regulation system must be allowed to continue unabated and I say, the humidity levels made it quite impossible."
Another lady, thin and loose-skinned veteran unperturbed by the preceding trails, chimed in "You'll get used to the sweat. When I started I didn’t sweat as much as I did now; but now I finish and my towel is completely wet. You don't stop sweating"
The studio owner smiled to signify that was the end of that matter; the sweat a justification in itself.
DAY 2
Hot afternoon sun, slanting through the car windows. Eastbound to Bunnings Cannon Hill. I was off to buy a humidity meter.
The guidelines didn't end at 40/40; the go on to state " Temperature can be adjusted for extremes in humidity; LOW humidity + HIGHER temperature; HIGH humidity + LOWER temperature".
What line could I draw between scientific data-collection and causing offence?
I erred in the aisle, the choice between a cheap plastic analog meter and digital tablet-display with an external sensor. I bought the plastic one at first, and tested it inside and outisde the car. 35° in the car: fair enough, but when I walked out under the shade of some trees where I estimated the temperature to be no more than 30°, and more likely around 28°, the needle had not dropped within two minutes, and I had to return and buy the more expensive one, for if I was to mount a credible argument I must have faith in the accuracy of the reading, and though analog meters can certainly be accurate, a) they must be calibrated (and this model lacked any means to do so) and b) the accuracy depends on the precision of the mechanical components, and at this price point they could only be of poor quality. So I will take the digital scale in with me tomorrow and present the results.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
Sunday, August 16, 2015
A poem written on Mudjimba Island, December 2014
The earth is a place where humans live together
We have troubles
Evergy is necessary for our survival
We get energy from the earth and sun
Technology has enabled energy to be supplied to us in excess
Man has attachments
Fat and sugar are amongst them
So is sex
Sex is necessary for our survival
Every person has a mother and father
Family is the essential unit of human existence
Perhaps we all started as one family
No-one knows if Jesus or Buddha existed, but human oral history records and remembers them
If only as a symbol
Jesus symbolises forgiveness
Sin is equal to attachment
Money and power allow sex and fatty and sugary foods to be delivered at will
Financial security is essential for survival
A child is raised under the financial stability of their family
A person can develop any skill he applies himself to
A child learns quicker than an adult
A man can use his skill to deliver an income
Some men can use their hands to build things
All trades require a cognitive aspect and a physical aspect
The end products always have an element of their creativity and it is art
A man's greatest work of art is a house he builds for himself
A man has fat on his belly to show how much wealth he has
A child lives under their parents until it is time to start their own family
The cycle of life is ever repeating
A rainforest is in perfect harmony between birth and death; the dead trees power survival of their offspring shooting up around them
Genetic lineage reveals who is one's mother and father
The cycle of life is not complete until the mother and father unite - asexual reproduction as trees and bacteria do is only propagating versions of themselves.
Until they find a partner
With each generation is improvement
An animal has instincts necessary for survival. They are:
- Territory
- Sex
- Protection of infants
- Acquisition of food
Humans have all the same instincts
We pass on knowledge of how to survive to our children with culture
Laziness is a form of attachment
All work has rewards
A man must work against his will
Any animal will grow fat if given an excess of food
Our role as humans is to overcome this urge
All work is a series of choices or decisions
Avoiding making a choice forms a barrier to achievement
All choices, when they are made, are usually the right ones
Any choice that seems like the wrong one we make to teach us a lesson
The human body is God's work of art
All evolution has led to our development
Religion and science are confused in opposition - they are both seeking the same truth from opposite sides.
The church seeks power to satisfy the attachments of its leaders just as a large corporation does
However, every religion houses good hearted individuals who embody the principles of Jesus or Buddha, which is to love one another, and forgive others for their misdoings against us
For they cannot be blamed
They are only facilitating their own survival or falling back on cultural norms granted to them by their parents which may be flawed
All men are one - however we are separated into tribal groups with shared genetics to aid our survival
A large group of people united by nationality and religious symbols can maintain possession of some land
All geographic forms are female - that's why we say
"There she is"
"Thar she blows"
"She'll be right"
The Earth has birthed us, so she is female
Attachment and greed are easily fallen towards
The sore in the side of Coolum is an example of this
An individual would have made a sum of money by extracting those rocks, and so would those he sold them to
But they cannot be blamed
They are only ensuring their survival
The garden of Eden in the bible is the Earth itself
Perhaps some people have not yet separated themselves from God and live in harmony with her
The earth is a bountiful garden
Our intellectual superiority to other species means we can survive at the top of the food chain
We can even take command of giant species like the elephant and train whales in ponds - but we must be careful with these species to ensure we do not use them to satisfy our desires
The body is in decay, always
All arrangements of matter are temporary
Even the great pyramids, built to defy mortality, will one day crumble away
Sooner or later we will die and our bodies will return to the Earth
We have troubles
Evergy is necessary for our survival
We get energy from the earth and sun
Technology has enabled energy to be supplied to us in excess
Man has attachments
Fat and sugar are amongst them
So is sex
Sex is necessary for our survival
Every person has a mother and father
Family is the essential unit of human existence
Perhaps we all started as one family
No-one knows if Jesus or Buddha existed, but human oral history records and remembers them
If only as a symbol
Jesus symbolises forgiveness
Sin is equal to attachment
Money and power allow sex and fatty and sugary foods to be delivered at will
Financial security is essential for survival
A child is raised under the financial stability of their family
A person can develop any skill he applies himself to
A child learns quicker than an adult
A man can use his skill to deliver an income
Some men can use their hands to build things
All trades require a cognitive aspect and a physical aspect
The end products always have an element of their creativity and it is art
A man's greatest work of art is a house he builds for himself
A man has fat on his belly to show how much wealth he has
A child lives under their parents until it is time to start their own family
The cycle of life is ever repeating
A rainforest is in perfect harmony between birth and death; the dead trees power survival of their offspring shooting up around them
Genetic lineage reveals who is one's mother and father
The cycle of life is not complete until the mother and father unite - asexual reproduction as trees and bacteria do is only propagating versions of themselves.
Until they find a partner
With each generation is improvement
An animal has instincts necessary for survival. They are:
- Territory
- Sex
- Protection of infants
- Acquisition of food
Humans have all the same instincts
We pass on knowledge of how to survive to our children with culture
Laziness is a form of attachment
All work has rewards
A man must work against his will
Any animal will grow fat if given an excess of food
Our role as humans is to overcome this urge
All work is a series of choices or decisions
Avoiding making a choice forms a barrier to achievement
All choices, when they are made, are usually the right ones
Any choice that seems like the wrong one we make to teach us a lesson
The human body is God's work of art
All evolution has led to our development
Religion and science are confused in opposition - they are both seeking the same truth from opposite sides.
The church seeks power to satisfy the attachments of its leaders just as a large corporation does
However, every religion houses good hearted individuals who embody the principles of Jesus or Buddha, which is to love one another, and forgive others for their misdoings against us
For they cannot be blamed
They are only facilitating their own survival or falling back on cultural norms granted to them by their parents which may be flawed
All men are one - however we are separated into tribal groups with shared genetics to aid our survival
A large group of people united by nationality and religious symbols can maintain possession of some land
All geographic forms are female - that's why we say
"There she is"
"Thar she blows"
"She'll be right"
The Earth has birthed us, so she is female
Attachment and greed are easily fallen towards
The sore in the side of Coolum is an example of this
An individual would have made a sum of money by extracting those rocks, and so would those he sold them to
But they cannot be blamed
They are only ensuring their survival
The garden of Eden in the bible is the Earth itself
Perhaps some people have not yet separated themselves from God and live in harmony with her
The earth is a bountiful garden
Our intellectual superiority to other species means we can survive at the top of the food chain
We can even take command of giant species like the elephant and train whales in ponds - but we must be careful with these species to ensure we do not use them to satisfy our desires
The body is in decay, always
All arrangements of matter are temporary
Even the great pyramids, built to defy mortality, will one day crumble away
Sooner or later we will die and our bodies will return to the Earth
Friday, August 14, 2015
Approaching Cooloola
I
“Though fire and water will always be opposites, nonetheless moist heat is the source of everything, and this dischordant harmony is suited to creation”
- Ovid, Metamorphoses
I am atop a very tall dune on an isthmus of land: the sound of the ocean at my left and Lake Cootharaba to the right. The sun is rising; each ten minutes becoming noticeably hotter as the angle to the earth’s surface nears the perpendicular as has less atmosphere to inhibit its radiance. The patterns of texture and glass have changed across the silken surface of the lake; no movement perceivable by watching for any period of time; but when glanced at at intervals a different is arrangement apparent altogether.
The wind is so light the lake cannot decide to be ruffled in its entirety, yet not present enough that it all may be smooth; what dictates the boundaries between subtle and arbitrary, a splash of a fish catalyst enough to invite ruffle; the shade of a floating twig harbouring an acre of still water behind it; for chaos begets chaos, and peace begets peace, just as an ionic salt solution at the point of saturation needs a first crystal to form for any others to follow, or a moisture-laden air is enticed to turn to cloud with the disturbance of an aeroplane.
The dune is tall, and the vegetation so well developed that I was at first sceptical if it should be classified as a dune at all and there was not some bedrock responsible for the elevation; however, save for a very thin layer of detritus, underneath is pure white sand. The plants, while holding dense complexity in their collective colonisation and individual form that only comes with time, are stunted in their growth and rarely reach above my eyeline in height, betraying the dearth of nutrition available; for sand is the product of the ocean driven out of its element by wind and waves; the kingdom of terrestrial plants forced to make what use of it they can, envious of their cousins in the valley below thriving on rich sediment.
Last evening a man appeared at dusk, donning Nordic walking sticks, ankle socks and a professionally-small backpack 3/5ths the volume of my own; signs his trekking experience was the greater. Of course, I dreaded the two or so hours to follow before we were politely able to retire to bed.
Today he had walked two legs instead of one: this trek training for another he referred to only by name, without an accompanying description (that I was apparently supposed to be familiar with).
When I did ask, I sensed mocking in his reply, but also a small disappointment; the track perhaps so gruelling its mere name was a boast, and in my naiveté I was unable to appreciate the full magnitude of his claim.
At this point, my tea had reached the boil and I offered him a cup; he quickly refused, stating he had better find a spot to cook some dinner, with the implication that it was to be remoter than within conversational range.
It was now my turn to feel disappointed: that glumness that social interaction would not happen replacing the fear that it would.
I formerly believed that offers of generosity were most politely refused, for they are only the economic loss of the giver and the gain of the receiver; however this opinion was due to being a child, and rarely with the facility to have anything to offer, and almost constantly in a state of acceptance; this is as natural in youth as the opposite is true in old age; hence a grandparent’s spoiling of grandchildren an enjoyable indulgence for both parties.
The exchange between two men of equal circumstance is an intricate dance, and just as good manners compulsed me to offer tea, a corresponding obligation rests on him to accept it. For good manners are the cornerstone of all friendship. This ideal is more strongly held by the older generation than our own; but one which we are erroneous in abandoning. Two men from any walk of life acting in accordance with social etiquette will be able to tolerate each other's company even if the beliefs that dwell in their hearts differ. For close friends, whom derive joy from what is shared between their hearts and intellect; these things are but gold leaf; insufficient for a friendship to stand upon alone, but when combined with good manners, a glorious one indeed. Let me here redefine manners as goodwill, because although manners, as all customs do, vary throughout the world, they are universally underpinned by a will to avoid inconveniencing one's fellow man with disregard to any inconvenience caused to oneself. Hence, the young man opens the door for the old lady, and shoes are removed to delay the necessity of the next sweep for the host.
II
I am at cooloola sand patch: it is somewhat like a glacier or a ski slope: particles so small they approach liquid in behaviour (or at least that illusion is given); pure white sand lined by trees, marked by the tracks of humans and dingos, the setting sun out of sight. As I look westward over the hill a procession of clouds approach; orange, then red, now fading pink, the sky above purple in space, a blue-yellow contour to the north. Note only the bottom half of each cloud is illuminated, stringy like fairy floss, and now the hues of sunset are gone altogether, clouds uniform and grey again.
I turn to the east now, and it never quite becomes dark; for the moon is full and brilliant, alighting the outside of the discs of cloud that surround it yet part in the middle to offer me full view, and the sand becomes luminescent: the reflective qualities that render it white under the sun are equally suited to the silver of moonlight, and for tonight I am on the moon itself, it is alien and barren, the breeze cool and hostile; I am vulnerable but safe.
The dry eucalypt forest gives way to needle-leaved she-oak on the boundary; the hardiest of the species; the conditions such that only it can exist here. Amongst groves, the sand is blanketed by shedded needles.
As we move further towards the bare centre, a small she-oak punctures the white sheet here and there, thin and windblown, trunks at 45°, impossible to tell if they are young or merely stunted from exposure, and whether its they will find some kind of worthy soil with their roots or must exist on light alone.
A walk across the sand patch the next day reveals its true immensity, the impressive field of view I commanded at camp but a fraction of the whole. It is here where the dunal system I doubted before is in full flight.
The wind has turned from blowing lightly from no direction in particular yesterday, to a strong marine SE tradewind today. Through a chink in the foredunes one can see a triangular portion of white-capped ocean a long way below, and this is the force that powers the sand’s slow motion, not flowing downwards as I imagined yesterday, but upwards against gravity.
The sand patch is marked as a permanent feature on the map, for within one lifetime it more or less may be, but it is not, for where I am the she-oaks push the frontier of forest forward, not being mobile themselves they throw forth shoots and seeds; seedlings and saplings. Some will survive, turn sand into soil and chance will throw a new generation forward again. And now I look more closely they are not the only species; miniature banksia, a prickly-small-leafed shrub, even a eucalypt grow in sparse lines and clusters.
On the other side of a crest, both wind and gravity in its favour, sand, newly arrived and loosely packed, invades established forest and swallows whole trees as thick as I.
It is just that a band of wind-ruffle moves across the lake’s surface with a momentum of its own, disturbing tranquillity and leaving tranquillity behind. Here, though the smooth sand looks peaceful, it is destruction and chaos, while the forest; appearing intricately intricate, is permanence and calm.
***
I did consider doing a large-scale line drawing on the sand, but someone of course had the idea first – on the opposite bank a large name and love heart – and I found it to detract from the dune rather than complement it.
A dune does represent a sheet of canvas - the uniformity means marks can be easily distinguished. Like fresh snow, a walker has the rare opportunity to make a virgin print; but the instant one does so the beauty is diminished; footprints can only mar the surface.
The question is; as a medium for art, which damages the environment the less: this pen on paper or the sand drawing? I may insist that I am better off withholding my urge to make marks directly on nature and use my purpose-made tools. But the harvest of pulp, mining of pigment, and the drilling of oil to shape into a pen surely erodes beauty elsewhere on the earth far away?
***
III
Here on a hilltop, by a small margin the highest in the vicinity; there are several others nearby of about equal height that all in all raise the horizon all 360 degrees, the tops of tall fire-scarred ironbarks in the midfield merging with those across the valley. Picture me at the centre of an orange juicer – the manual type, not mechanical – that is only really suited to juicing oranges (and perhaps grapefruit): moulded plastic, from the 90s or earlier; a relic of a time when there was some narrow-mindedness as to which fruits are suitable for juicing, before the walls were busted down in the late 90s and a proliferation of juice bars and electronic juicers occurred, and suddenly all manner of vegetative material was fair game, until the 2010’s, when it was collectively realised that the removal of fibre: the juicer’s essential function, was not beneficial to health; concurrently a number of dried products emerged - spirulina, chia and the like –that did not hold any liquid of their own, so in order to be drunk, must be combined with a liquid substrate, hence the smoothie and blender overtook, rendering the object I refer to redundant for a second time, however owing to the pleasing minimalism of their design, I would wager IKEA still produce a version.
The hilltop, though tranquil now, was this morning loud with bird calls from every direction, a battle of sorts being waged between two crows and a tribe of noisy minors. It was so spirited I was impulsed to (quite illogically, I admit) sound some calls of my own. Occasionally, the verbal would progress to the physical and the crow was forced to flee, successfully intimidated despite being larger in stature, barking with earnest distress as it was chased in circular laps before resuming its perch atop the bare crown of a perished tree of the type crows are fond.
The skirmish was interrupted twice by a screech of a higher frequency than the rest - lorikeets – the melee silenced as if in submission; they flashed through the trees with greater speed and agility than all, like F1-11s on surveillance patrol, unthreatened; not spurned to either attack or defend; their manoeuvrers for play or exhibitionism rather than operational necessity. It was like a teacher’s walk through the playground that forces a temporary truce amongst the brawling pupils, and just like the effect of the entrance of a junior teacher is negligible and the headmaster’s profound, the respect granted to the lorikeets is a sign of mysterious and severe punishment they are capable of delivering should it be trespassed.
Now the allusion is raised, the cacophony seems not unlike a schoolyard in which no individual words are heard, but still the motivations behind the communication are felt; tussles for territory, allegiances and enemies, leaders and followers, confrontation and surrender.
Just now, some hours later, the crow has returned to his perch, but without the social structure, his position is meaningless; he let out a few vain calls and flies away; the irreverent laughter of kookaburras on neutral ground some distance away a reminder dusk is here.
***
IV
My last morning on the trail. Awoke craving tea, made tea and ate the rest of last night’s dahl and rice. I am out of sugar – tea has changed recently from a drink to which sugar is an optional addition to a mere vessel for carrying sugar; the drinks fridge at any takeaway is proof that this is not unusual for drinks: soft drinks, iced teas, flavoured milks; sugar in different suits. One may as well take sugar into his own hands and add it liberally to home-made drinks to save donating a profit margin to the companies in the business of craving-satisfaction, for when we eat out we are seeking to do just that; part of what we pay for the blindfold so we may not know the quantities and ratios of pleasure-giving ingredients – namely salt, carbs, fat and sugar – we attribute instead to secret recipes, skilled hands or specialised equipment. Some, however, have not forgotten this: older rural generations for whom eating out is not part of their culture, or, at most, an annual event, and salt can be found at the centre-stage of the dining table; oil not bought in boutique glass vessels but heavy plastic drums; the post meal pilgrimage to the 7/11 confectionary aisle replaced by expertly made cakes, biscuits and puddings; white flour the most essential of all pantry items.
***
I am in a section of rainforest, earlier in the walk only found in small pockets hugging a creek or a particularly shaded gully, identified by a single palm tree; a lone representative of the species that had somehow traversed miles of drier woodland all around to arrive.
Yesterday I passed through two hours of forest of this type, leaves in the understory becoming fleshier and broader. Strangling figs appeared: some just as ambitious tendrils hardly noticed by their hosts; others locked in the apex of battle, hitherto separate fingers meeting to encircle the circumference of a mighty gum, nevertheless defiant and shouldering the load; other figs victorious, the trunk it owes its shape to rotting or completely absent, a hollow centre glimpsed through chinks in flesh, bent under the strain of the former tree’s collapse in the last throes of life.
It is miraculous that forests a few hours walk from each other vary so much; the rain not falling by pure chance over to region to result in an average uniform distribution, but favouring (by small amounts) certain sides of hills to others. Whereas, on higher ground, the soil is crumbly and dry and the leaf litter crisp and eager to receive a raging flame, here everything is damp, despite no recent rain; the underside of my tent damp, the logs placed by the park-keepers not acting as furniture as intended, but as part of the biome, rotting in their place, covered in moss and fungi, not appealing to sit on any longer. My campfire only started after much coaxing, gathered branches relinquishing water vapour in suffocating plumes of smoke amidst much hiss and crackle, before they could alight and, in turn, offer a dehumidifying service to the next log placed atop.
***
I am at Poona lake that is perched up high. The rainforest abruptly ended before I came across it. I had been climbing for a while next to a creek that was almost a caricature of one – a neat parabolic gully – so obvious it could have been designed and carved out of the sand by an excavator, with no apparent increase in vegetation density leading to it; despite the ceremonious channel, the watercourse itself an idle series of pools covered in dead palm fronds.
It was with relief that about the same time the incline flattened and the surrounding vegetation changed away from rainforest, the creek took on a more familiar appearance; now choked with greyish reeds and lined by friendly paperbacks.
It is curious that where water collects in greatest abundance, rainforest is not found – not in the valley of the Noosa River where the ground is not damp but positively wet – there be a low, nearly treeless marsh; neither here, on the shores of the perched lake; no, the balance must be just right; water must linger in its passage from the canopy to the floor, long enough for everything in between to be damp, but ultimately drain away.
In sections around the perimeter of this lake, between the reeds and water, is a narrow band of white sand and look – humans – reclined and undressed, pale skin of similar hue, only contrasted against a towel placed underneath, the optimistic mummer of their voices mingling with bird calls.
This quirk of geography - sand beside water - resembles a beach enough for the visitors to follow the accompanying cultural protocols. In Brisbane a similar phenomenon exists at South Bank. If the sand itself is too busy the mode of behaviour can extend onto grassed sections; as long as an observer can understand the original intention, they are not offended, although in another public part of the city they might be.
Here, towards the end of the walk, there are several points of access by car so I should not be surprised to encounter mankind. I met an older couple, not beach-bound, but armed with day-packs, sensible hats, binoculars and bird catalogues. I asked if they were bird watching – he replied, “well, everything” – nodding to a mushroom below as though to mean “this too”.
With much delight, the lady showed me in her book a species of native pigeon she had just spotted – the largest of the Australian pigeons. Suddenly everything seemed the more sacred and beautiful, and I regretted squashing a mushroom with my walking stick on a whim earlier on; and now I think about how strongly one feels a subconscious pressure to conform with the ideals of those he is in company with (if the disagreement is not so opposite he can confidently reject it outright); for I can recall the discomfort of being around others where the identification of a particular pigeon would seem amusingly trivial.
Eurasia
"We, as First Nations Peoples, have the international right as independent Nations Peoples to assert our right of self-determination under international law."
- Nyoongar Ghurradjong Murri Ghillar, Aboriginal Sovereignty Leader
"Declare independence!
Don't let them do that to you!
Declare independence!
Don't let them do that to you!
Start your own currency!
Make your own stamp
Protect your language"
- Bjork
The Aboriginal sovereign embassy was first established in Canberra in 1972 and have since been intermittedly established in the capitals around Australia. The Brisbane embassy was forcibly evicted from Musgrave Park by police in 2012 under orders from the Brisbane City Council.
A nation's sovereignty is defined by necessary components: autonomy, control over an area of land, a defence force, a flag, a head of state, a passport and a currency. This work uses currency as an artefact of the state, usually glanced over as a mere object of function, but when studied we see they are rich in endemic symbology: national, religious, biological.
The landmass of eurasia is laid out here in a simplified form: each note placed in accordance with the state it was born from. We can trace the euro-asia contour of facial features of the figures along the bottom row; kings, the finest men of the land; we can see the beauty of the nation's history; thousands of years of development of the arts distilled into select examples of architecture, technology; even the visual style of the abstract patterning of the borders.
The Aboriginal man stands entrapped by a foreign symbology, dressed in foreign dress; he has not his own script on the bill as the Omani Arabs and Thais proudly display; his own nationality denied.
Where does Australia belong? Do we remain a part of the British Empire as our coins suggest? Are we perhaps, as modern political discourse reads, part of Asia? Or neither? Our identity crisis is represented by the spacing of Australian notes at opposite poles of the continent.
In a modern post-colonial generation that seeks to dissolve racial boundaries, this work forces the viewer to reconsider race; and asks if we are ready to move beyond it, given it's close link to nationhood and the burgeoning Aboriginal sovereignty movement.
Saturday, August 1, 2015
New Dehli
Jack was in Dehli. Clutching the Lonely Planet to his breast he navigated his way through the humid melee outside the airport and into a taxi with weary determination.
After they exchanged pleasantries, the friendly taxi driver (who's name was Rahul) started the conversation
"I have good friend from Australia. His name Shane. He come here for gemstone business."
"What business?"
"Gemstone. Delhi is gemstone trading capital of the world."
Jack raised his eyebrows. He didn't know this. Suddenly wary, he checked his money belt was still under his shirt.
Rahul continued. "You want? My friend has small shop. You come see."
"I'm alright mate. I might just go crash ay."
"Yes, yes, you come see. No buy. No problem."
They pulled up at a dark alleyway, as indistinguishable as any other.
"Come."
Jack's door was open. Rahul was beckoning. Jack hesitated.
"I'm sweet mate, if we could just head to the hotel it'd be great."
The driver either didn't understand or simply didn't oblige.
"Yes come. Five minutes, no problem. Just looking."
Jack reluctantly followed his new friend down the alley. They descended into a dim room. A dozen or so men were sitting on stools and smoking. They were all wearing bumbags.
Jack was escorted to sit in front of one of the most overweight men. Like a fishing tackle box, his bumbag folded out to reveal terraced compartments of glittering jewels. Five other men soon unraveled their own collections in a congested semicircle. There was no escape. Deals were being offered for one jewel, five jewels, or twenty jewels and one for free.
"Na, na, I don't really want to buy anything" Jack said in a fluster.
Rahul thought it high time to put his new customer's mind at ease.
"I call my friend Shane from Australia. He talk to you and tell you okay. I call him."
"Na it's okay, I don't need to speak to him"
Rahul pulled out his Nokia and punched in a number from a scrunched up business card in his shirt pocket. The ringing phone was thrust into Jack's hand.
"G'day, Shane speaking".
To Jack's suprise there was an Australian accent, crisp over the international telephone line.
"G'day?"
"Who's this?"
"Jack."
"Jack? Where's Rahul?"
"You're Aussie?"
"Yeah mate. I'm a gem wholesaler in Sydney. Who are you?"
"I'm just traveling. Your friend here thinks I want to buy gems."
"Mate, if it's quality gems your after, you're talking to the right bloke. Tell him how much money you have and he'll find you something nice. You'll triple it back home. Just don't get done by customs."
The voice sounded familiar to Jack.
"Wait, is this Shane-o? From Coffs?"
"Na mate, I'm from Sydney. Now .."
The phone line cut out.
As Indian men relentlessly shoved gems into Jack's hands, he thought wistfully back to his mate Shaneo from high school, who used to buy cartons of Red Bull from the servo and sell them for five bucks each at lunchtime. He could have sworn it sounded like the same guy.
After they exchanged pleasantries, the friendly taxi driver (who's name was Rahul) started the conversation
"I have good friend from Australia. His name Shane. He come here for gemstone business."
"What business?"
"Gemstone. Delhi is gemstone trading capital of the world."
Jack raised his eyebrows. He didn't know this. Suddenly wary, he checked his money belt was still under his shirt.
Rahul continued. "You want? My friend has small shop. You come see."
"I'm alright mate. I might just go crash ay."
"Yes, yes, you come see. No buy. No problem."
They pulled up at a dark alleyway, as indistinguishable as any other.
"Come."
Jack's door was open. Rahul was beckoning. Jack hesitated.
"I'm sweet mate, if we could just head to the hotel it'd be great."
The driver either didn't understand or simply didn't oblige.
"Yes come. Five minutes, no problem. Just looking."
Jack reluctantly followed his new friend down the alley. They descended into a dim room. A dozen or so men were sitting on stools and smoking. They were all wearing bumbags.
Jack was escorted to sit in front of one of the most overweight men. Like a fishing tackle box, his bumbag folded out to reveal terraced compartments of glittering jewels. Five other men soon unraveled their own collections in a congested semicircle. There was no escape. Deals were being offered for one jewel, five jewels, or twenty jewels and one for free.
"Na, na, I don't really want to buy anything" Jack said in a fluster.
Rahul thought it high time to put his new customer's mind at ease.
"I call my friend Shane from Australia. He talk to you and tell you okay. I call him."
"Na it's okay, I don't need to speak to him"
Rahul pulled out his Nokia and punched in a number from a scrunched up business card in his shirt pocket. The ringing phone was thrust into Jack's hand.
"G'day, Shane speaking".
To Jack's suprise there was an Australian accent, crisp over the international telephone line.
"G'day?"
"Who's this?"
"Jack."
"Jack? Where's Rahul?"
"You're Aussie?"
"Yeah mate. I'm a gem wholesaler in Sydney. Who are you?"
"I'm just traveling. Your friend here thinks I want to buy gems."
"Mate, if it's quality gems your after, you're talking to the right bloke. Tell him how much money you have and he'll find you something nice. You'll triple it back home. Just don't get done by customs."
The voice sounded familiar to Jack.
"Wait, is this Shane-o? From Coffs?"
"Na mate, I'm from Sydney. Now .."
The phone line cut out.
As Indian men relentlessly shoved gems into Jack's hands, he thought wistfully back to his mate Shaneo from high school, who used to buy cartons of Red Bull from the servo and sell them for five bucks each at lunchtime. He could have sworn it sounded like the same guy.
Big Day Out
Toby was in a predicament. He was at Big Day Out with a few mates. It was their third time. All the boys were pumped to see the Foo Fighters.
The problem was this time Alex, Toby's new girlfriend, had joined.
Toby had identified the potential discord a week before when he noticed that Alex, after a thorough analysis of the festival programme, had penciled in Jonsi playing at the same time as the Foo Fighters. He voiced no protest at that time.
She even laminated a 'final' copy and confirmed Jonsi for the 10:00-10:40 time slot in neat orange highlighter. It was set in stone.
As the days passed Toby grew increasingly anxious. As they went shopping so Alex could buy new sunglasses he stayed silent. And as she programmed her festival playlist for the car journey, Foo Fighters were conspicuously absent.
He did not raise the courage to break his silence until the day of the festival itself at approximately 2145 hrs, when the party of four momentarily stopped outside the porta-loos. From here, the road split to the green stage one way and the main stage the other.
"Sooo ... What's on now?" Toby said, feigning innocence and studying his programme.
"Jonsi babe" said Alex.
The two other boys were already walking with the masses towards the main stage.
"I'm kind of keen to see the Foo Fighters"
"I thought we both wanted to see Jonsi?"
"Would you mind if I, like, met you after?"
"What? you want me to go by myself?
The boys were disappearing from sight. "Well..."
"The Foo Fighters? Are you serious?"
"Or whatever, I'm easy"
Toby had to play this carefully. He knew the Foo Fighters were too mainstream, too masculine for Alex. He feared that even expressing his desire to see them might reveal an uncultured side to his personality that Alex might not find attractive, like when she caught him listening to Nova instead of Triple J.
As the couple continued to debate (which had taken Alex by much surprise) another group of four passed them. A skinny lad dressed in high fashion did a double take.
"Alex?"
"Reilly?"
The two hugged.
"Umm" Alex began, "Toby, this is my ex, Reilly."
"What's up man" Rielly said.
Toby offered his hand for a handshake but received from Rielly only an ironic fist bump.
"You guys coming to Jonsi?"
The invitation from Rielly was directed more at Alex but it was Toby who replied.
"Yeah. We're pumped to see Jonsi."
"Sick."
The problem was this time Alex, Toby's new girlfriend, had joined.
Toby had identified the potential discord a week before when he noticed that Alex, after a thorough analysis of the festival programme, had penciled in Jonsi playing at the same time as the Foo Fighters. He voiced no protest at that time.
She even laminated a 'final' copy and confirmed Jonsi for the 10:00-10:40 time slot in neat orange highlighter. It was set in stone.
As the days passed Toby grew increasingly anxious. As they went shopping so Alex could buy new sunglasses he stayed silent. And as she programmed her festival playlist for the car journey, Foo Fighters were conspicuously absent.
He did not raise the courage to break his silence until the day of the festival itself at approximately 2145 hrs, when the party of four momentarily stopped outside the porta-loos. From here, the road split to the green stage one way and the main stage the other.
"Sooo ... What's on now?" Toby said, feigning innocence and studying his programme.
"Jonsi babe" said Alex.
The two other boys were already walking with the masses towards the main stage.
"I'm kind of keen to see the Foo Fighters"
"I thought we both wanted to see Jonsi?"
"Would you mind if I, like, met you after?"
"What? you want me to go by myself?
The boys were disappearing from sight. "Well..."
"The Foo Fighters? Are you serious?"
"Or whatever, I'm easy"
Toby had to play this carefully. He knew the Foo Fighters were too mainstream, too masculine for Alex. He feared that even expressing his desire to see them might reveal an uncultured side to his personality that Alex might not find attractive, like when she caught him listening to Nova instead of Triple J.
As the couple continued to debate (which had taken Alex by much surprise) another group of four passed them. A skinny lad dressed in high fashion did a double take.
"Alex?"
"Reilly?"
The two hugged.
"Umm" Alex began, "Toby, this is my ex, Reilly."
"What's up man" Rielly said.
Toby offered his hand for a handshake but received from Rielly only an ironic fist bump.
"You guys coming to Jonsi?"
The invitation from Rielly was directed more at Alex but it was Toby who replied.
"Yeah. We're pumped to see Jonsi."
"Sick."
Tuesday, July 28, 2015
MDMA
Different genres of music are inspired by different drugs. One cannot separate Reggae and Marijuana, The Velvet Underground and Heroin, the later Beatles and LSD, Rock'n'roll and booze.
Of course, drugs are not required by the finest minds to create: there are innumerable examples of geniuses who found the clarity of sobriety the best mode of working: and any musician brilliant on drugs is certainly brilliant without. It does not matter for the audience what the performer has indulged in before the show - they cannot share in the experience and the performance is seldom better for it.
Nevertheless, creative types, moreso than any other part of society, are drawn to drugs for some reason, and the characteristics of the drug make it's effects felt on the work, whether as a subconscious guiding or an effort by the artist to portray what experiences they have witnessed in the throes of a trip.
The artists of the old world need not worry about harming their brain with drug-use; neither the chemical drugs capable of causing sinister injury, nor the field of neurology to study and observe them existed yet.
The old-world drugs: cannabis, opium, cocaine, alcohol and nicotine (and in prehistory and tribal cultures, a number of plant-based sedatives and hallucinogens including kava, psilocybin, ayuasca, mescaline and so on); had not been criminalised and could be reliably obtained from their organic sources through honest trade.
The progress of science in the 20th century resulted in man's new ability to synthesise compounds not found in nature. This created a new class of drugs - the pharmaceuticals - and also the new recreational drugs.
New compounds were invented one at a time and put to test on animal and human subjects to determine their utility - beneficial or detrimental.
Sometimes there would be a delay until the harm was made known by the drug, such as thalidomide and birth defects in the 1960s, and an unfortunate generation would wear the damage, for the damaging effects cannot be known by science until some creatures, sometimes human, have suffered them.
The neurotoxicity of MDMA has been demonstrated by O'Hearn et al. (1996) and Croft et al. (2001). The most quoted study (Ricaurte et al., 1988) was with doses comparable to those in real life on primates - in which serotonergic axons were damaged seven years later. Gouzoulis-Mayfrank et al.(2000) have found a decline in cognition in human users which may be permanent.
The brain remains largely a mystery. Though we try to understand it as if it were a computer, compartmentalised into different sections for different functions, how a work of art is received from the ether and made into fruition - no man understands; therefore how the physical damage MDMA imparts on particular neurons impairs artistic expression is also open to conjecture.
The other heavyweight drugs; heroin, cocaine, that admittedly may cause more deaths due to impeding functions of the body or overdose, are, by comparison, innocuous to the mind.
If marijuana is tied to reggae, MDMA is tied to rave culture. It is improper to study genres such as techno, trance and hard house without assuming the intended audience, hundreds or thousands of them to be simultaneously under the influence of MDMA.
Rave culture for a young person is fallen towards in a similar fashion to religion; it offers a sense of belonging and connection centred around the MDMA experience rather than a concept of God.
The brain flooded with serotonin appreciates different things to a sober state; but none appear to be profound or even interesting. There is nothing to be gained by going outside and contemplating the wonders of nature on MDMA, not has anything insightful been uttered. Fluro colours, glo sticks, enclosed rooms full of neon lights and the nauseating, incessant, metronomic beat. Yes, the older generation have grounds to stand on when they reduce the genre to 'doof'. It is an apt description.
Now, before you accuse me of being closed minded towards a particular genre, let's ask: is rave culture and the multitude of sub-genres of locked-tempo dance music - the end product of the collective action of MDMA on the minds of humans - reflective of truth and beauty as all good art points towards, or a shallow illusion, a whole genre only made enjoyable by veritably damaging one's brain?
(note: I mean not to vilify electronic music in general)
References:
Croft RJ, Klugman A, Baldeweg T, Gruzelier JH. Electrophysiological evidence of serotonergic impairment in long-term MDMA ("ecstasy") users. Am J Psychiatry 2001 Oct;158(10):1687-92.
Gouzoulis-Mayfrank E, Daumann J, Tuchtenhagen F, et al. Impaired cognitive performance in drug free users of recreational ecstasy. J Neurol Neurosurg Psychiatry 2000; 68:719 -725.
O'Hearn E, Battaglia G, De Souza EB, Kuhar MJ, Molliver ME. Methylenedioxyamphetamine (MDA) and methylenedioxymethamphetamine (MDMA) cause selective ablation of serotonergic axon terminals in forebrain: immunocytochemical evidence for neurotoxicity. J Neurosci. 1988 Aug;8(8):2788-803.
Ricaurte GA, Forno LS, Wilson MA, DeLanney LE, Irwin I, Molliver ME, Langston JW. (+/-)3,4-Methylenedioxymethamphetamine selectively damages central serotonergic neurons in nonhuman primates. JAMA. 1988 Jul 1;260(1):51-5.
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