Rites of Passage

Brown is Omnipresent

2010-03-16T20:44:00.062+11:00

Brown is Omnipresent

Some time ago, whilst I was nearing the end of my time in a part of NSW that grows much greener pastures than where I am presently living, my mind turned to the landscape I would be returning to and I pondered the question: what colour will it be, back on the monaro, when I return? The general response and I presumed a pretty safe bet, was that the monaro landscape would be brown in colour. Brown! Brown!! Brown I thought!!! Yes, brown I hear you say. But what is brown? Is brown simply a colour or more of a condition? Or is brown a state, the result of a condition?

There are many common connotations around brown that imply a lot more than the primary meaning. Many of them are fairly disparaging with implications far from flattering. So when I posed the question, what colour will the Monaro be? and the response was brown, immediately I saw the colour brown and felt the implications, the conditions and the none too flattering connotations; drought: bare dry soil, erosion, browned off pastures, desperate farmers, desperate livestock, drab and dull run down farms, lonely depression and mission brown. These thoughts led to other thoughts. How would we feel if the ocean was brown and the sky was not blue, but brown, a dusky shade of brown? Would we be down for the early swim exclaiming what a beautiful day it is if this was the case? No, I think we would be a little less likely to be partaking and happily exclaiming. I think we would be feeling a little browned off and more than a little cautious before entering the water and pretty uneasy once we were in the water.

Water and Sky being so brown, we would be feeling a little browned-off.

A quick search and I find brown comes from the old English word, brun, which has Germanic origins and was used to refer to any dusky or dark shade of colour. Browned off, is idiomatic, slang, which does not put the colour brown in the group of happy, mood altering colours. To be browned off is a condition that tends to suggest a person is a little miffed, not particularly happy, bored, fed up, annoyed. Pissed off. Browned off does not imply the best of circumstances or that things are in prime condition. Browned off, be it used to describe a human condition or the state of the land and plants, spells trouble, spells trouble smoldering, slowly brewing, dull annoying trouble. Brown. O oh, the land is turning brown, the plants are browning off.

There are different shades of brown. Some I can think of are; practical brown, earthy brown and alluring brown, but these are not always the first shades of brown people associate with or think of and its seems that anything brown is to be avoided.

Where did such a weird word for a colour come from? That I have already answered, - but still?!, my mind boggles. On the land, brown is often perceived as a harbinger of lean and hard times, times without bounty or prospects. When I think about it, the colour brown is rarely used to colour the everyday appliances most people use. It seems brown objects are not that alluring, brown objects do not have much appeal. I don't think I have ever seen a brown car except for when it is dirty and then, despite these dry times, 'wash me' drawn on the dusty rear window becomes mandatory. I have seen some brown sunglasses and brown shoes but even these seem to be not so popular these days. A brown computer, laptop, widescreen TV, stereo; nuh. A brown refrigerator, brown washing machine, brown stove, brown microwave, brown dishwasher, brown ipod, brown phone; nuh. Brown fruit; yep; not so alluring or appealing. Brown shirt, brown tie, brown tongue; not particularly desirable. It appears that brown is unalluring. Brown is not sexy. Brown is to be avoided. Brown does not sell. We tend to avoid calling brown objects brown. We go for something more attractive. The horse outside my window is not a brown, it's a bay. We call a girl with brown hair a brunette, a suntanned australian a bronzed aussie. We make up all sorts of descriptive and attractive names for brown.... anything but brown. Even black conjures up far more lively and imaginative imagery. Black is alive and can be vibrant. Black is sexy. Strange associations are linked with brown.

Brown, huh, and brown is made from the mixing of 3 great colours: yellow, blue and black. These can be vibrant, varied, intense. Why is brown so dull, brown so muddy, brown so brown? Maybe because it is the result of mixing the 3 "subtractive" primary colours and because it only exists in the presence of bright colour contrasts, that is, things that are either yellow, orange, red or rose. I don't know. All I associate brown with at the moment is drought and a browned, waterless landscape; dry, dusty, bare ground, sparse windswept tinder, and to be honest, pretty shitty conditions for farming families, their crops and their livestock.

Will it be this way on the Monaro when I return as most people suggest it will be? A mere, 800km drive south, back to the monaro, in a couple of days will reveal what colour it is. Odds on it's brown, not brunette, not auburn, bay, bronze or buff. Not chestnut, not chocolate, ginger, hazel or tanned, simply brown; drab, unsexy, unalluring, plain old dry brown. Green it will not be.

I drive and drive and drive a little further. During the drive I play with some colours, not with paints or coloured pencils, but in my mind. I choose anything but brown. I travel south, first, for 8 hours down the Pacific Highway and then for another 7 hours, down the Hume Highway. As I drive I notice the landscape turning from green to yellow to another colour.

Yes you guessed it, the Monaro was brown, very brown and immediately the common connotations and implications began to swirl around my mind, swirl in the air, swirl around the landscape, swirl around the towns and span the land in all directions. Brown had set in. Brown was omnipresent. Brown was entrenched across the region as continued below average precipitation, strong winds and heat razed the monaro high plains. Damning conditions and for many on the land the "shit" had, or was about to, "hit the fan". For 17 or more years they had been forced to manage their farms; brown, dry, dusty patches of earth without water, without feed, without bounty or profit. The wide brown land, sunburnt and parched, stretched as far a I could see.

But brown? What of brown, besides the common connotations? I decided to go and have a look around this brown bit of parchment a little more closely to see how things were fairing, specifically with colours in mind.

Again I drive and drive and drive a little further. Everywhere, everything seeped brown: brown shades, brown colours, brown hues and brown tones. Fully saturated browns. Dusky, transparent browns. Rich, earthy browns. Soft, airy browns. Browns in varying combinations; fading, mixing, blending with every other colour, giving backbone, timbre and a tectonic resonance to this land. It carried through the earth, through the stones, though the trees, through the leaves. It lived in the grasshoppers, the lizards, the birds and the butterflies. It lived in everything. I found that brown was in fact alive, healthy, resilient, strong, accountable, resounding from the minutest detail to the widest point of this land. Brown reigned supreme.

As far as the common connotations of the colour brown for farming communities goes, these were clearly evident everywhere, but as I drove and walked amongst the landscape my eyes and mind warmed to new connotations coloured in brown. Brown is earthy, brown is wholesome, brown is timeless, brown is universal.

I drive further across the landscape into its heartland of sheep and the long paddock and get out to stare over a bare, brown, patch of ground to a brown, rusting, piece of farm equipment lying idle in the field some distance away, a fragile stick-like creature silhouetted against the skyline.

An old dusty ute, white, beneath a layer of brown dust pulls up to where I stand.
"You ok mate?", the driver asks; a weathered, sharp-eyed old farmer. Strong, fit looking, the earth revealed in his features and talk.
"Yeah I'm ok. I've just stopped to look at the landscape and take some photos. Looks like rain."
He wore an equally weathered, earthy, akubra hat; sweat stained, soaked in the brown of the land and honest toil. He sat in the ute and looked at me and then out across the land.
Slowly he answered after pondering the scene before us; the bare, brown, piece of land: furrowed, waiting lifeless, but with life held within its bones.
"Rain?!. Huh. Yeah maybe but not likely. We see about as much rain as we see people out here. Hardly ever see anyone stopped out here unless they've broken down. No-one comes out here much at all unless they're lost".

He motioned forwards in his seat to look out over the bonnet at the clouds ahead. "I'll be seeing ya then. You're right, looks like rain. I've got fences to fix and sheep to get. Watch the brown snakes. "
"Thanks. I will".

Now alone, I stood looking out over the land. In this brown scene stretching in every direction I felt an essence of this land and its people.
I felt a wholesomeness, earthiness and timelessness: strong, patient and resilient. And, I saw, that it was brown. Brown, simply a colour. A varied colour the result of the mixing of 3 great colours: yellow, blue and black, and I saw that it was brown, a state, the result of the mixing of 3 precious conditions: wholesomeness, earthiness, and timelessness. Brown sits more comfortably with me now even though I know conditions for farmers and their families is unrelentingly tough and that they pray and hope for rain every day and the green pastures and crops it will bring. Everyone wishes this for the farmers; some respite from this long and wearying drought. But brown, this wide brown land, is, what it is and beyond the brown common connotations it is a land of timeless, wholesome beauty.

Questions need to be asked about the appropriateness of current standard farming practices and of the way we see and honour the land. Our relationship with the land and nature needs to be reappraised. We need to hear and listen to and know the ways of this wide brown land. The politics of land stewardship needs to change. A political will that supports the small organic local farmer and protects the environment needs to be implemented. Community support and input is vital. Maybe we shouldn't be farming this land at all. Maybe we should be letting this land go, letting it go to wild again. It is costing more to produce whatever is produced than what is made anyway and that does not include the cost of environmental degradation. These things I ponder.

I turn the car around after venturing far into the landscape and back-blocks of the Monaro; after seeing the brown earth, smelling it, feeling it and touching the trees, rocks and grasses tinged brown. As I drive I see the beauty in the brown. I do not feel apprehensive or anxious about the land. I know it is in a bad way and that things on the land must change but in terms of colour, the colour I came to observe, I now find the colour brown calming and warming, wholesome, earthy, resilient and rich.

As I drift along my thoughts turn from farming and the landscape and again I play with colours, in my mind, mostly rich, varied, intense browns and I wonder if brown could catch on. I have seen the beauty in the brown and strangely I begin to wonder about all the discarded whitegoods. It gives me an idea. Tomorrow, I'm thinking that I might create a thing of timeless beauty myself and paint the body of an old washing machine brown, fill it with compost and plant out its inside. That makes me think again. Why stop at one. There are millions of these things. I can see a field of discarded whitegoods painted, patterned in varied shades of brown, filled with compost and planted out with a profusion of crops. Those grassed green slopes of power in Canberra would be the perfect place for such an installation. I'm sure it would be a very elegant, sophisticated and very productive living machine then. In fact I think it may even be the most productive thing to ever come out of those hallowed chambers. In-the-mean-time however, I think I'll just start with a couple in my yard and see if it catches on. I'll let you know. Cheers

The Wilderness Society — Bullying tactics used in push to industrialise the Kimberley.

2010-02-19T10:16:00.000+11:00

The Wilderness Society — Bullying tactics used in push to industrialise the Kimberley.

Monaro Torque

2010-01-09T18:42:00.040+11:00

Monaro Torque

Monaro Opened Up.

Monaro Unwound.

Monaro Roaming.

Putting the Peddle, to the Monaro.

Monaro Flat Chat.

Monaro Full Tilt.

Monaro Fully Aspirated.

The Monaro; Meaner, Sleeker.

Monaro Burnout.

Monaro Guzzler.

Monaro Blackouts.

Monaro, Big 350.

Monaro 3 Generations.

Monaro Front Guards.

Monaro Eyes.

Monaro Rear Pillars;

Beefier Monaro.

Monaro Engine Room.

Monaro Hardware.

Monaro Cooling Slots.

Monaro Houndstooth;

Beechey's Monaro.

Monaro Checkcloth Inserts.

Monaro Leaf Springs.

Monaro Long Distance Touring.

Monaro, GTS, 350.

Monaro Line-up.

Monaro Sixes.

Monaro Limited Edition.

Monaro Built-in Toughness.

Daddy Cool's Eagle Rock, Monaro.

Monaro Heritage.

Monaro Coupes.

Monaro Nameplate.

Monaro, 5.0 litre, V8;

'Infra Red', 'Ultra Violet', 'Lettuce Alone' green, Monaro.

Monaro New Entry.

Monaro True Blue.

Monaro Top-shelf.

Monaro Tamed.

Monaro Stormbringer.....

Monaro Heros.

HK Monaro

HT Monaro

HG Monaro

HQ Monaro

HJ Monaro

HX Monaro

HZ Monaro

V2 Monaro

C V8-R Monaro

VZ Monaro

The name 'Monaro' is of aboriginal origin, meaning a high plateau or high plain. There is something distinctive about this place and the landscape and the people. The Holden 'Monaro', first developed in 1968 as a distinctive Australian 'muscle car', was named after the Monaro Region and an image of the Monaro landscape which fitted the car. Monaro torque talks the language of the car. This language talks the life and landscape of the Monaro region. So readers that's Monaro torque. I'm sure in it's day, the Holden Monaro was at home on the streets and gravel roads of the Monaro landscape. It must have been a pretty impressive sight travelling the high plateau and high plains but to be honest I'm sort of glad the Holden Monaro has moved on. I think I prefer a different type of horsepower and torque these days.....I think I prefer Monaro horse torque, a Monaro torque that has been cutting a pretty impressive sight across the Monaro high plains and plateau for 3 generations or more. It looks like horse power, horse torque will continue for a few more generations yet. Can't be a bad thing.

Li Po would have had something to say about this for sure, and Henry and Banjo, for that matter too. Cheers.

Are We on the Monaro Alone in This?

2009-12-17T18:53:00.029+11:00

Today I am wondering if it is as windy everywhere else....or is it only here on the high plains of the monaro that the heated, gale force winds, dry as chips, rough as rasps, blow without relent. Monotonous, hard driven, skin shredding wind, without a hint of moksa.
Every living thing has vanished. The streets are deserted, even the flies have gone. The wind stings in its cutting monotone, a tiresome concert with the sun. Everything takes cover but there's nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. Even inside, the heated wind penetrates. Are we on the monaro alone in this?.
What will bring relief to this cycle of existences? What will bring us sweetly home? What will make the birds sing and the sheep fat? What will make the grass grow and swell that smile? What will allow us to ease the tenuous grip to this hardened existence so familiar?. What will ease the built up tensions and resentments? What will ease this? What?, will ease, This?

Rain.

Overcast skies pouring with rain.

Rain.

The smell of rain on the dry dusty ground.

Rain.

Rain on dry grass.

Rain.

The sound of rain on tin roof.

Rain.

The sight of rain falling from the skies.

Rain.

The sight of rain overflowing water tanks, the sight of rain gathering, flowing down gutters.

Rain.

Rain will ease this. Rain will bring my father home. Rain will soften this hardened shell. Rain will release this cycle of existences. Rain will revive the spirit of this land and its people, afreshed. Rain will reveal the other side; lighter, brighter, relaxed, laughter: no more torment by the wind tearing at the sinews of hope.

Rain.

Wind driven smoke makes it arrival and in the town it settles as the torrid wind sweeps through and is gone. From the cloud of smoke it comes.

Rain.

The wind sings in its cutting monotone in concert with the sun. Everything takes cover but there's nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. Are we on the monaro alone in this?

During this day parts of the monaro erupted in fire. Around Michelago, on the monaro, a catastrophic fire burnt through 11000 hectares of bushland and grazing country, taking some houses, livestock and other animals.

South of Bombala, fires blazed in the Cann River area and over the Snowy Mountains to the west, fires burnt through farmland and bushland along areas of the upper Murray River around Tooma and Walwa. It was a fierce day, the wind awesome. Late in the afternoon the relentless wind shifted direction to the southeast. Still relentless, with gale force, choking smoke filled Bombala and then, in the night, the wind and smoke was gone and rain fell upon the tin.

It is taking some time to acclimatize to the monaro but it has me captivated, it has me intrigued. Never before have I ever experienced anything like this. Driving out of Bombala, several days after this torrid wind event, towards the Snowy Mountains, I covered the ground of the monaro farmlands; the bare hills and gentle valleys, the steep, short sided ravines, the rocky outcrops and the rangelands, the rivers now reduced to waterholes, the solitary gums and distant eucalypt woodlands and as I drove I had the feeling that I was in a desert.

There was not a soul. Everywhere was now brown, dried up, shrivelled. Dirt, rock and scabby plants. Intense blue sky, whispy clouds. The air and the landscape was trying to suck whatever moisture could be found out of any living thing, including me. Sheep crowded lonely trees seeking out shade, panting. At water troughs they clambered over each other to drink.
Birds in seedheads beside the road laboured into flight. There were more than the usual number of dead birds on the road. Rabbits and hare scooted across bare earth raising dust. Desolation came to mind. A desolate scene; an unihabited, barren and wretched landscape.
But is it?

When I first arrived here on the monaro in mid Oct 2009, farmers where feeling elated at the late winter, early spring rains that had fallen over the area. Lingering, late winter, intense weather systems had thankfully carried some of their moisture over the snowy mountains and leaked their last drops across the monaro. A green veneer grew over the landscape. The farmers were happy with this new colour, green, and the feed it provided but the soil beneath was still desperately dry and had no moisture to leak. Dams were empty or near empty and the rivers and streams had given up running long ago. They called it a "green drought" and prayed for more rain.

It seems that this may be the way it is on the Monaro and the way it has always been for the white settlers who came to farm sheep on the monaro. Deperately dry, hot summers and a landscape devoid of feed. But I think that now, 150 or so years on, it is even more desperately dry and devoid of feed and decent soil. In the past, stockmen on horseback walked their herds overland via the dry monaro plains and hills to the alpine areas of the now Kosciuzko National Park where they stayed until late Autumn. Here their animals grazed on large areas of rich native grasses and generally had abundant water. This is no longer permitted and so the monaro is now grazed all year round.

As I drive the early summer landscape of the monaro, wind of several days previous now died, I ponder this landscape: desolate or not?, future farmland or not? I am captivated by it and am taken on a journey to within its realm. I will seek out its nooks and crannies, peaks and troughs and try to understand this land.

If Li Po were here today I wonder what he may have had to say.

Heading North - Home Sweet Home

2009-11-27T21:14:00.004+11:00

home sweet home: this is my "Bibler" Gortex tent called the Bombshelter. It is a 3 @ a squeeze 4 person tent. I love it all to my self but at times I am prepared to share with close friends & family. It's always fun and even in blizzard cards are fun: it feels safe, cosy and a little bit yellow (photo speak for warm). ... Cost, about $1200.00, about the cost to build a house with Habitat in Nepal. As I do my 18 month horse ride north from the mouth of the Murray to Cape York I will enjoy my home. I invite my friends to follow. Preparations for the trip have started. Brumbys arrive soon. Keep posted at my website which I will post soon. All the best, Andrew.

Rejoice in the diversity of this planet in all its variety

2009-11-08T07:59:00.009+11:00

Rejoice in the diversity of this planet in all its variety

This photo is of a Nepalese woman and her child. I came across them early one morning whilst I was walking a dusty path through the pine covered hills of Narkanda in the Indian state of Himarchal Pradesh. We were all surprised to see each other; it was early, it was off the main route, it was nearly winter, it was quiet, still, it was just plain unusual to see anyone, but there we were, strangers, meeting on a dusty path high in the hills. I was taken back to her home: a simple collection of sticks, stones, mud and tin, where inside, her husband tended the fire. I drank chai with them. The early morning sun shone through the trees; an orange light filling the hut with a warming glow. It was the best chai ever and it sustained me for months. Outside the day grew lighter, butterflies wandered through the trees catching the sunlight, birds scooted from limb to limb chasing insects, an assemblage of wildflowers bloomed in the shade. I followed the dusty path, winding down through the forest, past open field and apple orchard tended by man bearing compost; sheep grazing beneath trees loaded with red delicious bounty. I followed the dusty path winding down the hillside moving amongst a procession of bell tolling sheep and a family of shepards, past handbuilt houses of stone and mud, past cows, goats and children playing, past streams with verdant growth and sparkling water. Fodder was being rolled by hand and foot and being stored away inside. Potatoes were dug and brought to the house. Corn had been dried and the husks removed. Beans and peels from fruits and vegetables lay on terraces drying. Chickens scattered.

I followed the dusty path back up through the forest past the Nepalese families abode, now empty, on the edge of the forest. I continued on my way to the high altitude montane plateau of the Indian ChangThang and on to Tso Moriri Lake passing field and river, pass and mountain, yaks, herdsmen and small isolated hamlets and saw endangered Kiang, wild ass running free.

Rejoice in the diversity of this planet in all its variety

Priviledged: A short trip to Aboriginal lands, top end South Australia, July, 2009.

2009-11-06T12:22:00.003+11:00

Left Ernabella midmorning after finalising a few things at clothing store. The boys came by and got some clothes and sporting goods. A lady came by and grabbed a few items. It seems they don't have much money or any money, really. Sad and strange. Saw Prudence and her man this morning. He is a really strong, fit guy. Tall and very straight. I talk with Jack Crombie, a bronco rider from the 40's/50's. Done everything. Travelled the world, competed in the Calgary stampede. A good man, now 75, born in a humpy out the back of Kenwall Park. Walked naked, caught their food. Brought cattle down from Queensland, Northern Territory, down the Birdsville Track. Had a packhorse, bedroll. Worked night and day. Tinned food.

But the man I want to speak to we have still not seen.

We leave Ernabella and head out to Peters place, north and west of Ernabella. Peter Nyaningu's place. 57km of red dirt road through a desert landscape of the Mugrave Ranges. Red rock ranges. Out of the red landscape we meet Peter driving down the road in his old landcruiser. We stop, chat, tell him we are heading out to his place. He seems genuinely pleased. He grips my hand softly and looks into my eyes. He holds my hand for a good while, while he takes in Alans conversation. We go our separate ways along the red earth road, crest a rise and look out across a vast basin in the landscape ringed by ranges, a "cauldren", flat, expansive, the heat of summer I imagine. There would be no crossing this land in summer.

Our destination, Peter's place is beyond the ranges on the distant horizon, across the cauldron. We head across, an easy crossing in the Toyota Landcruiser and stop midway. Peter a full-blood aboriginal elder is the traditional owner of this land.

Rugged up for winter; coat, shirt, shirt, shirt and beanie. Long white beard. Eyes are small in his face but seemingly well seeing. Nearly 80, some teeth missing. Done a bit of travelling. His father came from over the border in Western Australia. Peter born, exact date a question mark, 1930 ?. Used to walk to Ernabella in a day, 57km. What did he carry with him?
At age of 6 he went with his father to Uluru. Walking. 300km or more return.
"What did you carry"?
"spear and womera. no clothes. Have to be fit, strong, - young man".
"Where did you camp"?
"many people from your clan/tribe. no blanket, no clothes, just sleep by the fire".
"What did you eat"?
"night comes quickly - no lights, the fire-side, sometimes dinner or none."
"How did you know where you were going?"
"fires from others indicated their presence, their occupation of the land, we see and go"
"Why Uluru?"

We sit under the verandha of the visitors digs talking to Peter, ancient history and modern day dilemmas. The sun sets under and warms us as we chat. We chat until the sun dips below the horizon. We talk some more. It is a beautiful, quiet, spare landscape. Sacred. We breath it in. I feel priviledged.

todays view from the monaro - 7am from the edge of the Meringo Nature Reserve

2009-11-04T12:04:00.005+11:00

Grey, overcast, cooler; a light wind, a current has come in from the SW-SE, filling the air with cooler, moist air. A hanging dew fills the sky and the folds of the land. Everything is softened. Shadows are filled. The sharpness and harshness of yesterday, gone. The cracks, earth and trees are moisturized after the drying, hot, unrelenting nor-westerly of yesterday. The air smells fresh, wetted. Earth and air, plant and animal hang in the ether on the slow moving currents. A hint of smoke, dampened, lingers. So quiet I can hear the air breathing, gently, slowly. I can hear the pad of kangaroos, unseen, the bleat of sheep, distant, frogs from creek down below. I can hear the trees growing, a snake moving amongst grass and leaves, the call of galah, magpie and crow. I dare not move in fear of breaking the silence. I squat and wait, too much to see. Only with my eyes closed can I know what's there. Todays view from the Monaro fills the air. Today, I smell - unwashed, unshaven, the Meringo Nature Reserve and it smells very nice.

todays view from the Monaro - Richard Adam's Watership Down

2009-10-31T22:03:00.033+11:00

watership down

A little part of the book goes like this:

Blackberry: Men have always hated us.

Holly: No. They just destroyed the warren because we were in their way.

Fiver: They'll never rest until they've spoiled the earth.

Vague visions and recollections of Richard Adams's Watership Down blur with the landscape in front of me. I trek across the Monaro, a quest to find the Watership Down, a place of refuge, safety, community. Rabbits scatter, tails disappear, he is near. I see the story - rabbits, humans, dogs, sheep, old homesteads, farm machinery, struggles and bloody confrontations between their own and others: ancient trees, ancient tracks, ancient timelines, ancient song -ancient movements across the landscape and the search for a peaceful place, food and shelter - Watership Downs. New trees, new homes, new people, new humans. Tired still. Drought and limited employment. The landscape shimmers. I find myself asking, today, am I the human or the rabbit? Yongar and his mob become anxious, they eye me, scatter into the woodland, beyond distant fence. I move. Today I must be human.

Return to the warren, traipse back home, I think back to last nights meal, and the afternoon before: the poor, frightened, little creature, the look in his eye. Cars!!! Fiver caught by the car, my car, maimed, back legs broken. Cuddle it, soothe it, soft, warm, speak gently, quietly, forever clasped, I say goodbye.

Sleep, try to sleep, but no sleep comes. I toss. I turn. It must be done. Barely able, I work in the dull night light.

The skin comes away cleanly. I clean him out. Lay him bare. Poor little creature, legs broken beyond repair.

Tomorrow I'll cook him, respect him, little creature, a little life.

Today I'm human.

Blackberry: Men have always hated us.
Holly: No. They just destroyed the warren because we were in their way.
Fiver: They'll never rest until they've spoiled the earth.

We search for Watership Down.

Alone Looking at the Mountain

2009-10-27T14:44:00.023+11:00

Alone Looking at a Mountain, I Wonder Why?

Recently I moved to southern NSW, to a district known as the Cooma Monaro Region. It is an elevated plateau, a landscape approximately 700m to 1200m above sea level. Cold in winter, dry and moderately hot in summer. Frosts are common. It is in the rainshadow of the mountains to the west, where cold winter weather systems are drained of their moisture and snow often falls. To the east, moisture, coming in off the coast, falls, as the air rises over the eastern escarpment, feeding the tall eucalypt forests of the southeast. Occassionally the moisture from these different directions makes it onto the plateau, sometimes as snow in winter and sometimes as decent rain. But generally it has been dry, the Monaro has been in drought, severe drought for quite a long time. Dry winds sweep across this landscape and have sapped the moisture, raised the dust out of the ground. Clear, blue, sky air sits above. Rounded, undulating hills. Gentle valleys, long frost hollows, rocky outcrops, short, steep-sided ravines, interpersed open woodland, tussock grasslands, dry intermittent creeklines, eroded.

The Monaro is an evocative landscape. It has a long pastoral history associated with European settlement. Gold, timber getting and sheep raising are its history and have largely shaped what we see today. But prior to European settlement this land had a long history of indigenous occupation.

It is no coincidence that I came here. It is all part of a plan.

I arrived here at the end of winter. I have come here for a number of reasons. It has warmed up which makes it better for the renovation work I am doing and I am closer to the mountains I love, the Australian Alps, where snow is still plentiful but in thaw and the weather is good. Spring is also a good time to commence a year long mission to understand this landscape, its history, its seasons, its plants and its people. But still there are other reasons, more important, more significant, more purposeful. There is more as to why I have come. Intuition, an urge, a desire, a dream. It is all part of the plan and dream, a plan and dream that will be lived out as the seasons pass. But for now, today, the view from the Monaro is looking pretty damn good. Li Po, chinese poet, traveller, sage of another age, I think would have liked it.

Alone Looking at the Mountain

All the birds have flown up and gone;
A lonely cloud floats leisurely by.
We never tire of looking at each other -
Only the mountain and I.

Li Po (701-762)

Going to Nepal - Here's an invitation to stay with Chandra and Rudra at the HASERA Research and Training Centre

2009-08-16T09:09:00.046+10:00

I received an email last night....nothing unusual in that.....me and millions of others received emails last night. The email I received was from my friends, Chandra and Rudra Sharma, (sons of Govinda and Mitu Sharma), a couple of great, hard working young guys I had the pleasure of staying and working with during my time in Nepal in October 2008. Organic farming and sharing their knowledge, produce, farm, family, beautiful cooking and community is their thing. They love meeting people from overseas and have opened their house up to foreign guests for short stays and longer. When I was there, work was just about to commence on some new extensions, with new kitchen and rooms planned. Located in the village of Patalekhet, in Kavre District, the HASERA Research and Training Centre is approximately 3 hours by local bus into the hills southeast Kathmandu. The farm is at a height of 1800m with beautiful views out over terraced hills and valleys to the Himalaya beyond. You can relax amidst the productive terraces of the farm taking in the sun and views or you can enjoy some time getting your hands dirty helping on the farm. You can also help in the kitchen where you can practice your Nepali cooking and language skills. Hillside soccer practice at 6.30 am with the local lads is another option as well as joining in in festivities. They are great singers and dancers. I stayed with them for a couple of weeks in October 2008. It was a busy time being rice harvesting time and a period of much festive activity. School holidays meant soccer practice was in full swing.

The email I received from the small village of Patalekhet, Kavre District, in Nepal, from my friends Rudra and Chandra at the HASERA Research and Training Centre is as follows:

This is their email:

Please send some foreigners From your side

Now we are able to keep 5 foreigners in general

And HASERA, it has been more intresting,muh better & many more

Please send and please do come

we are missing you all

With love & best regards,

HASERA family and Rudra

So if you are going to Nepal and want to get out of the Kathmandu valley and away from tourists for a little while, this is a great place to stay. Facilities cover basic needs. It is clean, comfortable, warm and friendly. You will be made to feel most welcome and at home. Contact details for Hasera are: Govinda Sharma Tel: 9841 332443 E-mail: haserartc at wlink.com.np

The address below is a description by another visitor of their stay at HASERA
http://wheretherebedragons.com/yakyak.php?action=display&blogID=202

Donkey, Echidna, Camels and Horses

2009-08-14T22:55:00.015+10:00

A Glass of boiled water, A Teaspoonful of Turmeric and a dash of Salt, mixed and drunken slowly

2009-08-13T06:27:00.017+10:00

You know when you're dead. You know...when you're in deep shit. When you feel like you're staring down the end of the barrel, when you've pushed it a little too far, one too many times and you can see no way out. Fear and excitement pulses through you and keeps you alive. Also inside, dwells the fact that you may have to resign yourself to it, you're up to your neck in it, the game is up. It is time to submit to the greater force, prepare to meet your destiny, maker and the earth from which you have come. It's happened to me a few times....at school, at uni, at work. Whilst surfing, whilst climbing rock face, on a frozen waterfall....a few times in my life I have thought the game was up. I'd played well, I'd played hard. It was fun despite my impending demise. Fortunately, on those occasions, I didn't have to submit and resign from the game we call life, fully. As you can see I survived them all. On another occasion however, I was sure my game was up and it didn't feel good at all. This is the tale of how a glass of boiled water, a teaspoonful of turmeric and a dash of salt got me out of the deep shit I was in and saved my life.

Unable to move, unable to do anything for myself I had resigned myself to the possibility that I would be dead in the morning, the game was up. The bed upon which I lay was to be my deathbed. I would be buried in layers of quilts and blankets. I shivered and sweated through yet another day, feverish and delirious. There was no excitement this time and my fear had long since been drained. Stuff just oozed out of me including any sense of self-respect. The end was neigh and I felt alone in a way that I wasn't really enjoying. I was a long way from home. I was a long way from good medical care. I wished for my end to come and save me.

I can't remember when I first got sick, so I don't know how long it was that I had been lying on “the bed”, but it had been a number of days. I vaguely remember people came in and went out. There was some concern. I just lay there on my side, half asleep, being none too polite and very undignified. I was reduced to a pile of rattling bones and rubble. None of my body seemed connected, just pieces mixed in with a whole heap of garbage, tipped out from the truck, unwashed, unshaven, unsorted, disassembled. And that's the way I stayed for another seven days, unaware of anything, until, waking on the seventh day, I became aware of sunshine filling my room with light and warmth instead of the grey, cold, smelly fog that had lingered for so long. I had been saved. My game was not up. I had been saved by the careful care of my friend Duran, a glass of boiled water, turmeric and a dash of salt, mixed and poured into me slowly, glass after glass over the course of a week.

The country I was in was Nepal. Turmeric was my medicine. A warming spice, beautifully golden yellow, it comes from the root of the plant Curcuma longa and has been used in traditional Indian and Chinese medicine and cuisine for a very long time. Medicinally, turmerics amazing healing properties are reportedly helpful in restoring ones health or acting as a preventative for a large number of illnesses. A list I saw recently included flatulence, jaundice, menstrual difficulties, bloody urine, hemorrhage, toothache, bruises, chest pain, and colic. It is also said that Turmeric may also be effective in preventing or curing Alzheimer's disease, high cholesterol and associated heart disease, poor liver function, childhood leukemia, prostate cancer, colon cancer, cystic fibrosis, rheumatoid arthritis, and inflammatory bowel disease. I'm not sure which one of those or if any of those ailments ailed me. Right now I really don't care. I'm just glad to be here. Hot water and turmeric sits here with me and my dinner, just eaten was laced with turmeric spice. Tonight millions worldwide are probably sitting down to eat a meal laced with turmeric spice.

A transaction is done. Wearing a mans face, the young teenage boy measures the quantity of dazzling, golden yellow powder, turmeric, as requested. He bags it, and with the deft exchange of a magician and face of a poker player the transaction is completed. The next customer places their order and raises it some more. They must know the wonderful properties of the spice. Turmeric, boiling water and salt saved my life once.

Help for Wildlife

2009-08-12T20:34:00.002+10:00

A Big One Falls

2009-08-09T08:30:00.018+10:00

A big one falls on the road tonight.
A battle-scarred ancient,
caught mid-flight,
whilst tracking right,
on route to meet his ancestor mob.

Ancestor mob,
caught mid-flight.

Stop.

Smell the air.
Listen -
for the old ones presence.

Silence.

The ancient has fallen.

Wait,
not drawing air.

Ancestor mob,
The ancient has fallen.
He does not come.
He is at rest, he has departed.

Ancestor mob,
It's time to continue.
It's time to move on.

Over landscape, beyond the road,
Over landscape, beyond the far distant fence,
Over landscape, beyond the sight blinding lights,
Over landscape, beyond the beyond.

Ancestor mob,
Yonggar, the ancient, has fallen,
It’s time to cross country,
It's time to move on.

The Moon is Almost Full

2009-08-07T11:23:00.011+10:00

The magpie warbles through the night,
the moon is almost full -
a cold, clear, white light.

A cast of a thousand eucalypts play shadows,
black against silver screen canvas.

Undisturbed by city lights,
undisturbed by city noise,
the magpie warbles through the night.
Leaves chink, leaves dance.

The moon is almost full.

I wrote this whilst the kids and I were camping down south near Bega. The light of the almost full moon was so bright through the tent that we were all awake. Somewhere nearby a magpie was also awake, warbling to the moon. It was nowhere near morning.

In the Dark I remembered why

2009-07-08T21:23:00.000+10:00

I volunteered for a Habitat for Humanity Global

Village build.

The lights went out without warning. We were
left to eat the last of our meal in darkness,
finalizing payment as the generator groaned to
life and the lights flickered back into sporadic
action; a dull, orange glow - on again, off again.
Sometimes brightly, strongly, warmly. Sometimes
weakly, barely at all, a candle would have been
stronger. At other times there was no glow and
we stood in the restaurant, again in total
darkness. An interesting relationship between
light and dark continued for some time as
Sandeep engaged in conversation with the man
in the small booth at the front of the restaurant
taking our money . In the recesses of my mind a
memory surfaced. I had been in a situation like
this before, a relationship like this before.

Sandeep and I stepped out into the darkness of
the street and we made our way down the maze
of backstreets and laneways back to the flat.
Sandeep moved as if in broad daylight. I followed
closely, blindly, stumbling and staggering,
unsure of footstep, unsure of direction, but well
aware of the hazards on the track. In daylight
these hazards are clearly visible and easily
avoided. At night, in the dark, it is a minefield for
the night vision impaired tourist, Andrew. We
make it back to the flat arriving unscathed but
with the flat still in darkness. In the absence of
any light we talk briefly, sharing life stories,
stirring memories of the last few weeks then go
to bed. It is only 8.35pm. The town we are in is
Birtamod. I had just arrived back to this town. I
had been staying at the small bazaar of
Chandradagi with Neeru and her family.

As Sandeep sleeps I lie awake on the bed we
share. His sleeping breath, barely audible,
whispers into the night. In my mind the images
and thoughts of my last days in Chandradagi
rewind on a loop.
Faces, places, landscapes. Words, smells and
tastes. Faces, places, landscapes. Words, smells
and tastes. They come and go with the in and out
of his breath and I wonder at the experience I
have just had.

A transaction is done. Wearing a man's face, the
young teenage boy measures the quantity of
dazzling, golden yellow powder, turmeric, as
requested. He bags it, and with the deft
exchange of a magician and face of a poker
player the transaction is completed. The next
customer places their order and raises it some
more. They must know the wonderful properties
of the spice. Turmeric, boiling water and salt
saved my life once.

In a blink of the eye an image of the morning
fills my mind. In the early light of dawn, people
spill out of the houses and drift in off the
footpaths into the bazaar to collect provisions,
drink a chai and await the freshly steaming
ground rice morsels cooked kerbside over small
wood fired cooker. They come and go in a
constant stream. Colour and life excites my
senses. I smell coffee. I eat a rice morsel and
drink chai. Where is the coffee now?. I shut my
eyes hoping to sleep.

Chandradagi is busy. Chandradagi is sleepy.
Chandradagi is a little bazaar at the confluence
of four dusty roads and several footpaths. These
footpaths link to surrounding fields and nearby
village housing, bringing locals to this lively
bazaar constantly. There are the occasional lulls
when not a lot stirs the air. In the afternoon
however, Chandradagi swells with people,
produce and a buzz of social commercial activity
spread out on tarpaulins in the open space
beneath the shade of large ancient fig trees. This
is the dry season.

Sandeep continues to sleep deeply. Through the
window beside the bed a light shines. Kitchen
noises from the building next door clang into the
night. The power has come back on and people
are once again busy. The clanging of pots and
pans continues for some time and the light
shines without flicker. A bell rings. This is my
last night in Birtamod. Tomorrow I head back to
Kathmandu.

A dream interrupts my insomnia and settles the
dust. I am standing, waving goodbye to my
Habitat for Humanity companions, “the greatest
team ever”, for the last time.

For the last time they walk down the patchy
grassed pathway of Shivgunj to the waiting bus.
For the last time they climb the steps and pack
themselves inside. For the last time I hear the
familiar laughter and chatter as it issues out the
open windows, this time mixed with some
silence. For the last time the bus moves out, dust
rising, faces in the back window, heads and arms
out the side waving. Gobbled up in the dust for
the last time, they are gone. Neeru and Binod are
by my side, transfixed by what had just occurred.
What do I do now?.

I turn onto my side still unable to sleep.

A goat bleats beside me. Women make their way
back from the fields carrying large bundles of
straw. The last of the field is ploughed. Animals
are taken home. Young children take flight upon
calls and bound homeward after a hard days
play. Fires are lit and smoke drifts into the
airwaves above the fields, settling as a soft haze.
I had a goat once. His name was Scout. As the
goat beside me bleats I am reminded of
Scout's smell; his cute, mischievous ways and of
the walks he took me on across the fields and up
the hills at home. I love goats.

I turn again, cover my head with the blanket and
shut my eyes in the dark.

A silver eel quietly slinks away. Mahendra packs
the mud and levels the earthen floor as I dump
another load of flooring material. We stop for
chai, admire the building, then wander off down
to the river, the silver eel quietly slinking away
southward. This silvery eel is the Mia Khola. We
watch its passing as people wade across from
the distant shore. We stand beside the steady
flow. Mahendra talks of the river during
monsoon; how it swells, how it rages, how high it
gets, how it changes course, how no one can
cross it, how land is swept away and how homes, lives
and livelihoods are lost. When at its highest it is
catastrophic.

My mind wanders to the neighboring districts of
Saptari and Sunsari where, just prior to the build,
in the last weeks of the monsoon, the Koshi
River, the “River of Sorrow”, burst out of the
Himalaya and inundated the plains of the Terai.
In Nepal some 70,000 people were affected. The
river then roared on into India and Bangladesh,
rendering some 3 million people homeless and
assigning more than a million people to live in
relief camps indefinitely. This has occurred
throughout history. The river takes life, the river
sustains life. I lived by a river once, the
Bellenger, in NSW. It flooded regularly and on
occasion we were stuck for several days which
meant no school and an exciting ride in the
canoe. Once supplies had to be airlifted in. After
a few days life was pretty much back to normal.

I toss again and uncover my head. I don't like
sleeping with my head covered. It must be nearly
morning.

Why did I volunteer to take part in this
Habitat for Humanity Global village build?.

A million more images and memories of friends,
faces, sights, places, landscapes, and experiences
fill my head. The light outside the window goes out
and darkness once again fills the window. I lie
awake. Instead of sleep I say goodbye. Into the
fading light we ride the potholed road from
Chandradagi to the main highway. Over the last
few days my stomach had been a bit delicate.
Clutching the rack on the back of Sandeeps
motorbike, my pack straining my grip, we meet
the highway and darkness overtakes us. My stomach
groans. Am I going to be sick?. People everywhere
appear out of the darkness, traveling roadside. Cycles,
goats, cows, buffalo being led. Buses scream by,
horns blaring and in the headlights, a bright sari,
elegantly worn, adorns the night briefly. Fires are
lit and dance amongst the trees and houses.
Pungent smoke fills the air. At a distance from
the road, amongst a bamboo grove, lights shine
and fires burn. People in makeshift shelters cook
their evening meal. The air has a coolness. We
come to the bridge that spans the Mia Khola. A
small fire burns on the banks below the bridge
and on the river, a lighted lamp, floats
southward, swirling gently. Away down to the
south, in the direction of Shivgunj, a lone fire
just pierces the smoky dark and I am drawn to it
through wetted eyes. My thoughts drift between
the moving scene, the build, and the people I
have grown to know over these last few weeks,
and to my home and my family. I see a myriad
happy faces in the darkness. I see great new
friends. I see a wonderful hospitality and I see a
generosity of spirit shared. It was an experience
beyond my expectations.

In the darkness, in that instant, I knew why I
really volunteered.

I Once Knew a Cheerful Sage

2009-07-08T16:06:00.000+10:00

2009-07-08T15:46:00.000+10:00