Of Christmases past

 

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

 

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

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

 

Yours truly in the chequered shirt in the middle

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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Santa never made it into Darwin

 

Christmases past were Christmases ignored because they came with too much emotional baggage. They reminded us of families and homes which we were far away from or didn't even have. By the time my best friend Noel had come to stay with me over Christmas 1974, there was just enough time left for a drink at the club and a game of chess on the beach before I flew out to my next job in Burma.

 

My best friend Noel and I hunched over a chessboard on the beach
near Vovo Point in Lae in New Guinea on Christmas Day 1974

 

That was fifty years ago when I lived in Lae on the north coast of New Guinea, and Noel had flown across from Wewak in the Sepik District, a backwater of a backwater which meant that neither of us heard about Cyclone Tracy wiping out Darwin at about the same time that Noel was wiping me out on the chessboard. Within days, Noel returned up the mighty Sepik River where communication was only by jungle drums, and I was on my way to Burma which was under a curfew by its military dictatorship and a total news blackout behind their "Teak Curtain".

 

Immediately after the tragic events in Darwin in the early hours of Christmas Day 1974, where 65 people were killed, hundreds injured and thousands made homeless by Cyclone Tracy, film crews from Film Australia were sent by the government to document the aftermath and, later, to record the rebuilding of Darwin. Film Australia made four films covering this event: Cyclone Tracy, When Will The Birds Return?, Home Sweet Home and Tracy's Birthday. These films document not only the incredible level of destruction wrought by the cyclone but also the enormous humanitarian effort by the authorities and the courageous spirit of the residents in the face of such a large scale natural disaster and their determination to rebuild the city and their futures in it.

 

Thanks to technology which didn't exist then, we can still relive those tumultous events fifty years ago when Santa never made it into Darwin.

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Unvergessene Weihnachten?

 

Glücklicherweise bin ich nicht zu vorbelastet mit Erinnerungen und Träumen an die Weihnachtszeit. Ich habe wenig Sehnsucht nach dem Duft der Plätzchen die frisch gebacken aus dem Ofen kommen, nach den Lichtern beim Bummel über den Weihnachtsmarkt, nach den alten Geschichten der Kinderzeit, denn viel davon gab es bei uns nicht.

Wir hatten zuhause sehr bescheidene Weihnachten und ich vermisste nichts davon als ich in 1963 mit 18 Jahren meine erste Weihnacht allein verbrachte. Und für die nächsten zwanzig-und-mehr Jahren hatte ich nie einen festen Wohnsitz und somit auch keine richtige Weihnacht denn ich verbrachte jedes Jahr an einem neuen Wohnort (und manchmal drei oder vier) und meistens auch in einem neuen Land (und manchmal zwei oder drei).

Weihnachten 1963 Baufirma Sager & Woerner, Lagerplatz Walsrode
Auf Montage als Baubuchhalter beim Bau der Autobahn nach Bremen.

Weihnachten 1964 Baufirma Sager & Woerner, Lagerplatz Verden an der Aller
Ich folgte dem Autobahnbau und wohnte auf Untermiete in den Kleinstädten in der Umgebung.

Weihnachten 1965 Canberra, Australien
Meine erste Weihnacht in einem neuen Land. Viel zu feiern gab es da nicht denn aller Anfang ist schwer zumal wenn man noch nicht einmal die Sprache spricht.

Weihnachten 1966 Canberra, Australien
Meine neue Bankkarriere hatte gut angefangen und ich war sogar ein bisschen seßhaft geworden und fühlte mich in der Regierungshauptstadt Canberra fast zuhause.

Weihnachten 1967 Braunschweig
Irgendwie spukte da immer noch der Gedanke an die "deutsche Heimat" in mir herum und nach den zwei Pflichtjahren in Australien war ich wieder im eiskalten Deutschland. Der Empfang war nicht nur wetterlich eiskalt und schon bald dachte ich wieder ans Ausreisen.

Weihnachten 1968 Lüderitz, Südwest-Afrika
Südafrika war nur eine Zwischenstation auf meiner Rückreise nach Australien.

Weihnachten 1969 Canberra, Australien
Die gute alte Bank stellte mich gleich wieder ein als ich in meinem alten "Zuhause" Canberra wieder ankam. Ich hatte jedoch auf der Schiffsreise nach Europa mehrere Australier befreundet die im australischen Treuhandgebiet Neu Guinea wohnten. Die hatten mich neugierig gemacht und das Ende des Jahres war auch das Ende meines Aufenthalts in Australien und ich flog nach Neu Guinea.

Weihnachten 1970 Loloho, Neu Guinea
Das neue Land war alles was ich mir erhofft hatte und die Berufschancen waren auch einmalig. Am Ende des Jahres war ich schon Buchprüfer auf der damals größten Baustelle der Welt, der neuen Kupfermine "Bougainville Copper".

Weihnachten 1971 Panguna, Neu Guinea
Meine zweite Weihnacht auf der Insel und zwei Wochen vor Weihnachten wurde ich australischer Staatsbürger im Dschungel von Neu Guinea!

Weihnachten 1972 Sydney, Australien
Zurück in die Zivilisation aber die Großstadt Sydney gefiel mir gar nicht.

Weihnachten 1973 Arawa, Neu Guinea
Also zurück in die Tropen! Mein Freund Noel kam Weihnachten zu Besuch aber das wurde ein Besuch im Krankenhaus denn gerade einen Tag vor Weihnachten hatte ich eine Blinddarmentzündung und wurde Weihnachten operiert. Der weisse Chirurge war schon zu betrunken und überlies mich seinem schwarzen Kollegen der einen schönen großen Schnitt machte um sicher zu gehen daß er das Ding fand.

Weihnachten 1974 Lae, Neu Guinea
Alles war schon gepackt und ich wartete nur noch auf meinen Abflug nach Birma als ich dieses Weihnachten am Strand von Lae verbrachte. Mein Freund Noel aus Wewak war mit dabei als wir auf dem Radio von der Orkanzerstörung von Darwin hörten.

Weihnachten 1975 Wewak, Neu Guinea
Ich hatte meinen Jahresvertrag in Birma absolviert und war wieder in meinem zweiten "Zuhause" Neu Guinea wo wir zu dritt, meine Freunde Brian und Noel, unsere "flüssige" Art von Weihnachten am Sepik-Fluss verbrachten.

Weihnachten 1976 Port Moresby, Papua-Neu Guinea
Mein kurzer Abstecher nach Iran war nichts gewesen und ich war bald wieder in Neu Guinea und danach auf der Donnerstag-Insel in der Torres Strait.

Weihnachten 1977 Honiara, Solomonen Inseln
Die nächste tropische Weihnacht verbrachte ich auf den Solomonen Inseln ehe ich zu meinem nächsten Arbeitsvertrag in Samoa flog und von dort nach Malaysien.

Weihnachten 1978 Penang, Malaysien
Mein Jahresvertrag in Malaysien war auch bald wieder vorbei und für die nächsten zwei Jahre ging es mit dem Wohnwagen an der australischen Küste rauf und wieder runter.

Weihnachten 1979 Mt. Isa, Australien
Eine Anstellung bei der großen Kupfermine in Mt. Isa war auch dabei. und danach wieder in die Tropen!

Weihnachten 1980 Arawa, Neu Guinea
Neu Guinea war schon mein zweites Zuhause geworden und Weihnachten 1980 war ich wieder da!

Weihnachten 1981 Townsville, Australien
Endlich machte ich mich seßhaft im tropischen Norden von Australien - oder so dachte ich aber die Versuchung kam nach weniger als acht Monaten als man mir wieder eine Arbeit in Neu Guinea anbot und dann einen langjährigen Vertrag in Saudi-Arabien.

Weihnachten 1982 und 1983 Singapur
Während meiner Zeit in Saudi-Arabien verbrachte ich meine Weihnacht und Sylvester immer im Raffles Hotel in Singapur. Natürlich auf Firmenkosten denn zwei Wochen im Raffles Hotel kann man sich persönlich kaum erlauben.

Weihnachten 1984 Athen, Griechenland
Nach fast zwei Jahren in der "Sandkiste" von Saudi-Arabien konnte die Versetzung nach Griechenland gar nicht früh genug kommen.

Weihnachten 1985 Canberra, Australien
Und dann kam ich wieder nachhause nach Australien! Die nächsten fünfzehn Weihnachten feierte ich unter meinem eigenen Dach in Canberra und seit dem Jahre 2000 im Ruhestand auf dem Grundstück "Riverbend" an der Küste.

Die Jahre von 1963 bis 1985 gaben mir viele unvergessene Weihnachten und viele andere die ich lieber vergessen möchte.

Und die Weihnachten seit 1985 sind so 'ordinaire' und gutbürgerlich gewesen daß ich sie schon alle wieder vergessen habe.

 

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Auggie Wren's Christmas Story

 

Paul Auster's Christmas story has no Santa Claus, no Christmas tree, and no brightly wrapped packages. And yet there's plenty of giving. Here it is: listen to it or read along if you wish.

 

 

I heard this story from Auggie Wren. Since Auggie doesn't come off too well in it, at least not as well as he'd like to, he's asked me not to use his real name. Other than that, the whole business about the lost wallet and the blind woman and the Christmas dinner is just as he told it to me.

Auggie and I have known each other for close to eleven years now. He works behind the counter of a cigar store on Court Street in downtown Brooklyn, and since it's the only store that carries the little Dutch cigars I like to smoke, I go in there fairly often. For a long time, I didn't give much thought to Auggie Wren. He was the strange little man who wore a hooded blue sweatshirt and sold me cigars and magazines, the impish, wisecracking character who always had something funny to say about the weather, the Mets or the politicians in Washington, and that was the extent of it.

But then one day several years ago he happened to be looking through a magazine in the store, and he stumbled across a review of one of my books. He knew it was me because a photograph accompanied the review, and after that things changed between us. I was no longer just another customer to Auggie, I had become a distinguished person. Most people couldn't care less about books and writers, but it turned out that Auggie considered himself an artist. Now that he had cracked the secret of who I was, he embraced me as an ally, a confidant, a brother-in-arms. To tell the truth, I found it rather embarrassing. Then, almost inevitably, a moment came when he asked if I would be willing to look at his photographs. Given his enthusiasm and goodwill, there didn't seem any way I could turn him down.

God knows what I was expecting. At the very least, it wasn't what Auggie showed me the next day. In a small, windowless room at the back of the store, he opened a cardboard box and pulled out twelve identical photo albums. This was his life's work, he said, and it didn't take him more than five minutes a day to do it. Every morning for the past twelve years, he had stood on the corner of Atlantic Avenue and Clinton Street at precisely seven o'clock and had taken a single color photograph of precisely the same view. The project now ran to more than four thousand photographs. Each album represented a different year, and all the pictures were laid out in sequence, from January 1 to December 31, with the dates carefully recorded under each one.

As I flipped through the albums and began to study Auggie's work, I didn't know what to think. My first impression was that it was the oddest, most bewildering thing I had ever seen. All the pictures were the same. The whole project was a numbing onslaught of repetition, the same street and the same buildings over and over again, an unrelenting delirium of redundant images. I couldn't think of anything to say to Auggie, so I continued turning pages, nodding my head in feigned appreciation. Auggie himself seemed unperturbed, watching me with a broad smile on his face, but after he'd seen that I'd been at it for several minutes, he suddenly interrupted and said, "You're going too fast. You'll never get it if you don't slow down."

He was right, of course. If you don't take the time to look, you'll never manage to see anything. I picked up another album and forced myself to go more deliberately. I paid closer attention to the details, took note of the shifts in weather, watched for the changing angles of light as the seasons advanced. Eventually I was able to detect subtle differences in the traffic flow, to anticipate the rhythm of the different days (the commotion of workday mornings, the relative stillness of weekends, the contrast between Saturdays and Sundays). And then, little by little, I began to recognize the faces of the people in the background, the passers-by on their way to work, the same people in the same spot every morning, living an instant of their lives in the field of Auggie's camera.

Once I got to know them, I began to stud their postures, the way they carried themselves from one morning to the next, trying to discover their moods from these surface indications, as if I could imagine stories for them, as if I could penetrate the invisible dramas locked inside their bodies. I picked up another album. I was no longer bored, no longer puzzled as I had been at first. Auggie was photographing time, I realized, both natural time and human time, and he was doing it by planting himself in one tiny corner of the world and willing it to be his own, by standing guard in the space he had chosen for himself. As he watched me pore over his work, Auggie continued to smile with pleasure. Then, almost as if he'd been reading my thoughts, he began to recite a line from Shakespeare. "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow," he muttered under his breath, "time creeps on its petty pace." I understood then that he knew exactly what he was doing.

That was more than two thousand pictures ago. Since that day, Auggie and I have discussed his work many times, but it was only last week that I learned how he acquired his camera and started taking pictures in the first place. That was the subject of the story he told me, and I'm still struggling to make sense of it.

Earlier that same week, a man from the New York Times called me and asked if I would be willing to write a short story that would appear in the paper on Christmas morning. My first impulse was to say no, but the man was very charming and persistent, and by the end of the conversation I told him I would give it a try. The moment I hung up the phone, however, I fell into a deep panic. What did I know about Christmas? I asked myself. What did I know about writing short stories on commission?

I spent the next several days in despair, warring with the ghosts of Dickens, O.Henry and other masters of the Yuletide spirit. The very phrase "Christmas story" had unpleasant associations for me, evoking dreadful outpourings of hypocritical mush and treacle. Even at their best, Christmas stories were no more than wish-fulfillment dreams, fairy tales for adults, and I'd be damned if I'd ever allowed myself to write something like that. And yet, how could anyone propose to write an unsentimental Christmas story? It was a contradiction in terms, an impossibility, an out-and-out conundrum. One might just as well imagine a racehorse without legs, or a sparrow without wings.

I got nowhere. On Thursday I went out for a long walk, hoping the air would clear my head. Just past noon, I stopped in at the cigar store to replenish my supply, and there was Auggie, standing behind the counter as always. He asked me how I was. Without really meaning to, I found myself unburdening my troubles to him. "A Christmas story?" he said after I had finished. "Is that all? If you buy me lunch, my friend, I'll tell you the best Christmas story you ever heard. And I guarantee that every word of it is true."

We walked down the block to Jack's, a cramped d and boisterous delicatessen with good pastrami sandwiches and photographs of old Dodgers teams hanging on the walls. We found a table in the back, ordered our food, and then Auggie launched into his story.

"It was the summer of seventy-two," he said. "A kid came in one morning and started stealing things from the store. He must have been about nineteen or twenty, and I don't think I've ever seen a more pathetic shoplifter in my life. He's standing by the rack of paperbacks along the far wall and stuffing books into the pockets of his raincoat. It was crowded around the counter just then, so I didn't see him at first. But once I noticed what he was up to, I started to shout. He took off like a jackrabbit, and by the time I managed to get out from behind the counter, he was already tearing down Atlantic Avenue. I chased after him for about half a block, and then I gave up. He'd dropped something along the way, and since I didn't feel like running any more, I bent down to see what it was.

"It turned out to be his wallet. There wasn't any money inside, but his driver's license was there along with three or four snapshots. I suppose I could have called the cops and had him arrested. I had his name and address from the license, but I felt kind of sorry for him. He was just a measly little punk, and once I looked at those pictures in his wallet, I couldn't bring myself to feel very angry at him. Robert Goodwin. That was his name. In one of the pictures, I remember, he was standing with his arm around his mother or grandmother. In another one he was sitting there at age nine or ten dressed in a baseball uniform with a big smile on his face. I just didn't have the heart. He was probably on dope now, I figured. A poor kid from Brooklyn without much going for him, and who cared about a couple of trashy paperbacks anyway?

"So I held on to the wallet. Every once in a while I'd get a little urge to send it back to him, but I kept delaying and never did anything about it. Then Christmas rolls around and I'm stuck with nothing to do. The boss usually invites me over to his house to spend the day, but that year he and his family were down in Florida visiting relatives. So I'm sitting in my apartment that morning feeling a little sorry for myself, and then I see Robert Goodwin's wallet lying on a shelf in the kitchen. I figure what the hell, why not do something nice for once, and I put on my coat and go out to return the wallet in person.

"The address was over in Boerum Hill, somewhere in the projects. It was freezing out that day, and I remember getting lost a few times trying to find the right building. Everything looks the same in that place, and you keep going over the same ground thinking you're somewhere else. Anyway, I finally get to the apartment I'm looking for and ring the bell. Nothing happens. I assume no one's there, but I try again just to make sure. I wait a little longer, and just when I'm about to give up, I hear someone shuffling to the door. An old woman's voice asks who's there, and I say I'm looking for Robert Goodwin. 'Is that you, Robert?' the old woman says, and then she undoes about fifteen locks and opens the door.

"She has to be at least eighty, maybe ninety years old, and the first thing I notice about her is that she's blind. 'I knew you'd come, Robert,' she says. 'I knew you wouldn't forget your Granny Ethel on Christmas.' And then she opens her arms as if she's about to hug me.

"I didn't have much time to think, you understand. I had to say something real fast, and before I knew what was happening, I could hear the words coming out of my mouth. 'That's right, Granny Ethel,' I said. 'I came back to see you on Christmas.' Don't ask me why I did it. I don't have any idea. Maybe I didn't want to disappoint her or something, I don't know. It just came out that way, and then this old woman was suddenly hugging me there in front of the door, and I was hugging her back.

"I didn't exactly say I was her grandson. Not in so many words, at least, but that was the implication. I wasn't trying to trick her, though. It was like a game we'd both decided to play - without having to discuss the rules. I mean, that woman knew I wasn't her grandson Robert. She was old and dotty, but she wasn't so far gone that she couldn't tell the difference between a stranger and her own flesh and blood. But it made her happy to pretend, and since I had nothing better to do anyway, I was happy to go along with her.

"So we went into the apartment and spent the day together. The place was a real dump, I might add, but what can you expect from a blind woman who does her own housekeeping? Every time she asked me a question about how I was, I would lie to her. I told her I found a good job working in a cigar store, I told her I was about to get married, I told her a hundred pretty stories, and she made like she believed every one of them. 'That's fine, Robert,' she would say, nodding her head and smiling. 'I always knew things would work out for you.'

"After a while, I started getting pretty hungry. There didn't seem to be much food in the house, so I went out to a store in the neighborhood and brought back a mess of stuff. A precooked chicken, vegetable soup, a bucket of potato salad, a chocolate cake, all kinds of things. Ethel had a couple of bottles of wine stashed in her bedroom, and so between us we managed to put together a fairly decent Christmas dinner. We both got a little tipsy from the wine, I remember, and after the meal was over we went out to sit in the living room, where the chairs were more comfortable. I had to take a pee, so I excused myself and went to the bathroom down the hall. That's where things took yet another turn. It was ditsy enough doing my little jig as Ethel's grandson, but what I did next was positively crazy, and I've never forgiven myself for it.

"I go into the bathroom, and stacked up against the wall next to the shower, I see a pile of six or seven cameras. Brand-new thirty-five-millimeter cameras, still in their boxes, top-quality merchandise. I figure this is the work of the real Robert, a storage place for one of his recent hauls. I've never taken a picture in my life, and I've certainly never stolen anything, but the moment I see those cameras sitting in the bathroom, I decide I want one of them for myself. Just like that. And without even stopping to think about it, I tuck one of those boxes under my arm and go back to the living room.

"I couldn't have been gone for more than three minutes, but in that time Granny Ethel had fallen asleep in her chair. Too much Chianti, I suppose. I went into the kitchen to wash the dishes, and she slept through the whole racket, snoring like a baby. There didn't seem any point in disturbing her, so I decided to leave. I couldn't even write a note to say goodbye, seeing that she was blind and all, so I just left. I put her grandson's wallet on the table, picked up the camera again, and walked out of the apartment. And that's the end of the story."

"Did you ever go back to see her?" I asked.

"Once," he said. "About three or four months later. I felt so bad about stealing the camera, I hadn't even used it yet. I finally made up my mind to return it, but Ethel wasn't there any more. I don't know what happened to her, but someone else had moved into the apartment, and he couldn't tell me where she was."

"She probably died."

"Yeah, probably."

"Which means that she spent her last Christmas with you."

"I guess so. I never thought of it that way."

"It was a good deed, Auggie. It was a nice thing you did for her."

"I lied to her, and then I stole from her. I don't see how you can call that a good deed."

"You made her happy. And the camera was stolen anyway. It's not as if the person you took it from really owned it."

"Anything for art, eh, Paul?"

"I wouldn't say that. But at least you put the camera to good use."

"And now you've got your Christmas story, don't you?"

"Yes," I said. "I suppose I do."

I paused for a moment, studying Auggie as a wicked grin spread across his face. I couldn't be sure, but the look in his eyes at that moment was so mysterious, so fraught with the glow of some inner delight, that it suddenly occurred to me that he had made the whole thing up. I was about to ask him if he'd been putting me on, but then I realized he'd never tell. I had been tricked into believing him, and that was the only thing that mattered. As long as there's one person to believe it, there's no story that can't be true."

"You're an ace, Auggie," I said. "Thanks for being so helpful."

"Any time," he answered, still looking at me with that maniacal light in his eyes. "After all, if you can't share your secrets with your friends, what kind of a friend are you?"

"I guess I owe you one."

"No you don't. Just put it down the way I told it to you, and you don't owe me a thing."

"Except the lunch."

"That's right. Except the lunch."

I returned Auggie's smile with a smile of my own, and then I called out to the waiter and asked for the check.

 

 

And a Merry Christmas to you all from "Riverbend".

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This YouTube movie is five days old

 

The movie "Sunstruck", starring Harry Secombe, is part of Australia's "kulcha". Harry plays the Welsh schoolteacher and choirmaster Stanley Evans who emigrates to Australia to 'teach in the sun' -- but finds reality falls somewhat short of the blissful image on the recruiting poster.

 

The poster which inspired the movie

 

Anticipating a Bondi Beach lifestyle, Stanley arrives in Kookaburra Springs to find a town with two buildings: an old pub and a ramshackle schoolhouse. Despite the fact that the kids do everything in their power to get rid of him – no schoolmaster means no school! – Stanley stays, and eventually finds a way to win them over.

 

 

This 1972 movie is as rare as hen's teeth and only ever makes it onto YouTube as a trailer but, lo' and behold, here it is as full-length movie, uploaded by Throwback TV Australia a mere five days ago.

Watch it while you can!

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Shingle Bells, Shingle Bells, all around my waist ...

 

Nelligen Community Christmas Carols will have to do without my stentorian voice this year because I HAVE SHINGLES! I'm in a lot of pain and feeling pretty damn sorry for myself, and the only party I'll be attending is a pity party for one.

Speaking of which, I've been going to more funerals than parties this year, and one of my New Year's Resolutions will be not to attend any funerals in the future - unless I get a surprise invitation to my own!

Other than attending all those funerals, it has been a remarkably unremarkable year which is fine by me. I still find each day too short for all the thoughts I want to think and all the books I want to read, so let there be many more unremarkable years, but, please, no more shingles!

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A Christmas Eve in the Far South Seas

 

Listen to the story here

 

Iin the islands, by some unspoken agreement, we never talked about Christmases or birthdays. As my best friend Noel once confided, "Talking about them makes them more real", and so we never celebrated them either. It was our way of coping with loneliness and being far away from home. Not so in this story by Louis Becke, "A Christmas Eve in the Far South Seas":

"Donald MacBride and myself were the only Britishers living on one of the North Pacific Island lagoons when Christmas of 1880 drew near, and we determined to celebrate in a manner that would fill our German and American trading rivals throughout the group with envy. MacBride was a bony, red-headed Scotchman, with a large heart and a small, jealous, half-caste wife. The latter acquisition ruled him with a rod of iron, much to his financial and moral benefit, but nevertheless agreed with me that we - Donald, she and myself - ought to show the Americans and the 'Dutchmen' how an English Christmas should be celebrated. But as Sera was a half-caste native of the Pelews, and had never been to a civilised country, she also concurred with me that Donald and myself should run the show, which, although I was not a married man, was to take place in my house on account of the greater space available. Donald, she said, wanted to have a 'hakkise'; so we bought a nanny-goat from Ludwig Wolfen, the German trader at Molok, and one evening - the 23rd of December - I helped Sera to drive and drag the unsuspecting creature home to her husband's place to the slaughter. (I may as well say at once that MacBride's nanny-goat haggis was a hideous failure, and my boat's crew, to whom it was handed over, with many strong expressions about MacBride's beastly provincial taste, said that it smelt good, like shark's liver, but was not at all so juicy.)    Continue reading here ...

Louis Becke ends his story thus, "... we raised our glasses and drank to the memory of those who had gone before". I shall do likewise, raising my glass of Pino More to dear and absent friends who, however briefly and whether still alive or not, shared those lazy island days with me: [in no particular order] Noel Butler, Des Hudson, Roy Goldsworthy, Peter Logan, Graham Ward, Ian Paterson, Frank Joslin, Chris Jeffries, Dave Richardson, Hubert Hofer, Brian Herde, Neil "Jacko" Jackson, Bob Green, "Bulldog" Malcolm Baker, Urs Christen, Merv Nightingale, Ian Paterson, Colin Cowell, Werner Seifert, Volker Leidner, Urs Christen, Bill Brown, Brian Darcey ... and the list goes on

We've made it home safely, so it's safe to wish us all a Merry Christmas!

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Look what the scanner dragged in!

 

Peter Goerman's audit office at Loloho

 

R

emember those pre-glued photo albums of yesteryears? You pulled back that transparent coversheet, placed your photos on the sticky stuff, and rolled the coversheet back over it again. After more than fifty years, the photos are still in almost-mint condition but there's no way of prising them off that glue again.

Having just bought one of those new print-and-scan CANON gadgets, I scanned a few of those glued-down photos to share with you. They all date back to 1970 and 1971 when we were young and full of ourselves.

 

Next to my head was my newly-acquired Tax Agent's Licence and farther to the right the nucleus of a reference library that kept growing until, twenty years later in Canberra, it covered an entire wall - click here

The project marched on our stomachs, and our stomachs were full of ARNOTT'S biscuits. The biscuit-eating chap in the background was timekeeper Tony Bailey; I tracked him down years later - click here

Des Hudson, living proof of what a lifetime of drinking COKE can do

Fifty years later, those blue socks are still somewhere in my drawers

Dialling up the petty cash

With Bob Green (left) on one of the islands offshore from Loloho

Peter Goerman doing what he liked best:
cutting contractors' progress claims down to size

Ditto

Des Hudson stress-testing one of the girders for the new Loloho Powerhouse

Beach party at Loloho

On one of the offshore islands. From left to right John Gaskill, next one unknown, Peter Goerman having a laughing fit behind Jacko's back, Neil "Jacko" Jackson, and an Indian guy who's name I forgot

More of the beach party

And more. From left to right: Peter Goerman, Neil "Jacko" Jackson, Frank Joslin, the rest unknown

On the left Frank Joslin; "Jacko" Jackson with his back to the camera

More party-goers; the waving guy was Maurice Sullivan ...

... before he got caught.

Party, party, party ...

... and more of the same ...

... and then some more ...

... and more ...

... and more.

 

And here are a few more shots after I'd come back to Bougainville in mid-1972 as Office Manager for Camp Catering Services - see here:

 

'Beau' Player on the left; Roy 'Goldfinger' Goldsworthy on the right

No idea what the argument was about;
he was probably too drunk to remember himself

The guy with the cravat is Lloyd McChesney

The chap on the right was from Saskatchewan in Canada although considering the state he was in I doubt he was able to spell it;
in 1985 I bumped into him at the Blues Point Hotel in McMahons Point in Sydney and he was still (or again?) pissed

With his back to the camera is Les Feeney, always hard-drinking and always trying but hardly ever succeeding to light his pipe

Des Hudson in Bechtel's Loloho office

Des Hudson driving without a licence

Camp 6 at Loloho

 

And if you think photos aren't important, wait 'til they are all that's left.

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