How accountants see the world

 

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In response to my article "The Die Was Cast", a kind soul who remembered me from my short residency at the PWD Mess in Rabaul in New Guinea emailed and gave me the contact details of two former accounting colleagues.

What a blast from the past! I wasted no time in telephoning them but, as it turned out, I should have wasted no time: the first one answered the phone by saying, "Can you phone back? I'm on an important call with the Tax Office." Only on my second call did I realise that this is accountant-speak for 'Eff off". The other one was even less responsive.

It dawned on me then that, unlike the life-changing impact it had on me, New Guinea for them had been little more than a brief diversion from their deeply trodden path. While an accounting qualification has been my passport to the world, they had merely done time in New Guinea before they returned to their well-ordered suburban lives to never dream another dream.

 

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Das gibts heute nicht mehr

 

 

Nach acht Jahren Schule konfirmirt Stand ich da mit meinem Zeugnis Zeichnen, Singen, Religion gut Mutter wollte gern das ich Schriftsetzer Würde wie mein Großvater War aber nichts zu machen Zu viele Bewerber mit Abitur Vater war mehr für Maurer oder Tischler Aber ich, klein und mager, Blass vom Lesen jede Nacht Heimlich bei Kerzenlicht Gedanken immer woanders Und dann auf dem Bau Das ging eben nicht Doch ich bekam eine Lehrstelle In einem Schuhgeschäft Als Schaufenstergestalter

 

Für mich: Stiefvater war mehr für Insolierer so wie er ... aber ich, klein und mager, blass vom Lesen jede Nacht ... bekam eine Lehrstelle in
einer Feuer-Versicherungs-Gesellschaft als Versicherungskaufmann

 

Das ist doch ewig lange her Ist vergessen, das war mal Das gibts heute nicht mehr So sollte man meinen und doch so was gibt es noch so was gibt es noch

 

Für mich: Zeichnen ausreichend; Musik befriedigend; Religion gut

 

Erstes Lehrjahr 40 Mark im Monat Tagesablauf wie folgt: Morgens um Sieben zum Bus Brot und Henkelmann in der Aktentasche Und Ermahnungen, Ernst des Lebens, Lehrjahre sind keine und so weiter, Dann in der Firma Pampelmusen, Teebeutel, Jokurt einkaufen Für die Kollegen zum Frühstück Dann Ware auspacken ins Lager einräumen Etiketten kleben dann Glühbirnen auswechseln Mittagspause Dann in den Schaufenstern Schuhe Glasplatten abstauben Dann in den Keller Arbeitsstiefel fetten Neunzehn Uhr Feierabend Das ist doch ewig lange her...

 

Für mich: 86 Mark im Monat

Zweites Lehrjahr 60 Mark im Monat Tagesablauf genau wie im ersten Nur alle vierzehn Tage Nachtarbeit Dafür durften wir abends warm essen auf Geschäftskosten Ich bekam das erst Steak meines Lebens mit vierzehn Einmal setzte sich der Chef zu uns Und bestellte sich ein Mettbrötchen Und erzählte wie er angefangen hat Mit einem Bauchladen, Schnürsenkel Durch Fleiss und Sparsamkeit Heute Besitzer einer Ladenkette Präsident des deutschen Schuheinzelhandels Mein erstes Steak ich habe es wieder ausgekotzt Das ist doch ewig lange her...

 

Für mich: 105 Mark in Monat

 

Drittes Lehrjahr 80 Mark im Monat Tagesablauf wie gehabt Hinzu kam das Bedienen der Kunden in Stoßzeiten Dann die Verwaltung des Gummistiefellagers Aufblasen von Reklameluftballons Und wachsender Unmut unter uns Lehrlingen Gewerkschaften kannten wir nicht Aber trotzdem wurde ein Sprecher gewählt Und das ist in so einem Fall Immer der naivste oder der mutigste Ich war beides also sprach ich Ergebnis: ich bekam das Filzpantoffellager noch dazu Durfte am Betriebsausflug nicht teilnehmen Und die Kollegen schnitten mich Das ist doch ewig lange her...

 

Für mich: 142 Mark im Monat

 

Ende der Lehrzeit Was hatte ich eigentlich gelernt So gut wie gar nichts Dann die Prüfung Alle wussten ich würde durchfallen Aber ich bestand Freisprechung mit allem Drum und Dran Streichquartett, Reden, Kaufmannsgehilfenbrief, Glückwünsche Nur die Geschäftsleitung war sauer Und warum? Sie hätte mich gern durchfallen sehen Um mich als billige Arbeitskraft Noch ein Jahr länger behalten zu können Nun drei weitere Jahre habe ich das noch mitgemacht Bevor ich mich traute zu sagen Das ist nicht mein Leben Das ist doch ewig lange her... Laalalala

 

Für mich: zwei Jahre habe ich das noch mitgemacht bevor ich mich traute zu sagen "Das ist nicht mein Leben", und wanderte nach Australian aus.

 

 

 

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Literary Delights

 

Hermann Hesse in his library

 

The most fundamental delight which literature can offer has something to do with the perception or discovery of truth, not necessarily a profound or complex or earthshaking truth, but a particular truth of some order. This "epiphany" comes at the moment of recognition when the reader's experience is reflected back at him.

This is what happened to me when idly, and to pass the time on a grey morning, I picked up "Wandering: Notes and Sketches" (German title: "Wanderung: Aufzeichnungen") by Hermann Hesse and suddenly found myself totally absorbed in what the backcover had described as 'a fine antidote to the anxiety-provoking pressures of today.' Let the following excerpts speak for themselves:

 

Like the day between morning and evening, my life falls between my urge to travel and my homesickness. Maybe some day I will have come far enough for travel and distances to become part of my soul, so that I will have their images within me, without having to make them literally real any more. ["Red House"] Many of my desires in life have been fulfilled. And every fulfillment quickly became satiety. But to be satisfied was the very thing I could not bear. No goal that I reached was a goal, every path was a detour, every rest gave birth to new longing. Many detours I will still follow, many fulfillments will still disillusion me. One day, everything will reveal its meaning. ["Red House"] When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all. ["Trees"] From time to time there rises in my soul, without external cause, the dark wave. A shadow runs over the world, like the shadow of a cloud. Joy sounds false, and music stale. Depression pervades everything, dying is better than living. Like an attack this melancholy comes from time to time, I don't know at what intervals, and slowly covers my sky with clouds. It begins with an unrest in the heart, with a premonition of anxiety, probably with my dreams at night. People, houses, colours, sounds that otherwise please me become dubious and seem false. Music gives me a headache. All my mail becomes upsetting and contains hidden arrows. At such times, having to converse with people is torture, and immediately leads to scenes. Because of times like this, one does not own guns; for the same reason, one misses them. Anger, suffering, and complaints are directed at everything, at people, at animals, at the weather, at God, at the paper in the book one is reading, at the material of the very clothing one has on. But anger, impatience, complaints, and hatred have no effect on things, and are deflected from everything, back to myself. I am the one who deserves hatred. I am the one who brings discord and hatred into the world. I am resting after such a day. I know that for a while now rest is to be expected. I know how beautiful the world is; for the time being, it is more beautiful for me than for any other person; colours fuse more delicately, the air flows more blisfully, the light hovers more tenderly. And I know that I must pay for this with the days when life is unbearable. There are good remedies against depression: song, piety, the drinking of wine, making music, writing poems, wandering. By these remedies I live, as the hermit lives by his prayers. Sometimes it seems to me that the scales have tipped, and that my good hours are too seldom and too few to make up for the bad ones. Then sometimes I find that, on the contrary, I have made progress, that the good hours have increased and evil ones decreased. What I never wish, not even in the worst hours, is a middling ground between good and bad, a lukewarm, bearable centre. No, rather an exaggeration of the curve - a worse torment and, because of it, the blessed moments even richer in their brilliance. ["Clouded Sky"]   (Read it online at www.archive.org)

There is so much more in this serene little book. "A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us" wrote Kafka. This book fits this description. And, being a book, no matter how complex or difficult to understand it may seem to be, when you have finished it, you can, if you wish, go back to the beginning, read it again, and thus understand that which is difficult and, with it, understand life that little bit better. Here's to the joy of reading! And to more of Hermann Hesse's writing!

 

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This will make a fitting obituary

 

 

 

Another great 'tusitala' of the twentieth century

 

 

There was Robert L. Stevenson and there was Australia's equivalent, Louis Becke, not forgetting New Zealand's Robert Julian Dashwood, writing under the name Julian Hillas, as well as America's Robert Dean Frisbie. They all wrote evocatively about the South Pacific and they have all been dead for a long time.

Compared to them, James A. Michener was with us until October 1997, and he wrote not just about the South Pacific, although his three books "Tales of the South Pacific", "Rascals in Paradise", and "Return to Paradise" make him a latter-day "tusitala" as good as any of the others. They are all out of print now but are in the public domain, so indulge yourself by dipping in and out of those many wonderful short stories.

Having lived and worked in the islands for many years and having left it too late to return, they make wonderful reading for armchair-travelling in my old age. There's his beautiful description of Rabaul which was the first port-of-call in my own odyssey through the islands - click here - and nothing could describe my feelings about New Guinea better than his story simply called New Guinea.

After New Guinea I moved to Honiara on Guadalcanal, and finally to the 'Cradle of Polynesia', Samoa. Only many years later, in retirement, did I have the time and money to travel to the quintessential South Pacific island, the atoll, by wandering through the countless islands in the Ha'apai group in the Kingdom of Tonga.

Anyway, it's all there, beautifully captured by this great 'tusitala' of the twentieth century. So sit back in your armchair and travel the wonderful world of the South Pacific with James A. Michener!

 

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We are all the product of our circumstances

 

Being part of the gang outside the Croya Railway Station & Guesthouse in the early 1950s

 

Sometime in the early 50s my father tried his hand at leasing the "Bahnhof-Gaststätte" in Croya, a no-horse-town deep in Lower Saxony's deepest hinterland. While the trains were still running, the post-war German 'Wirtschaftswunder' hadn't reached Croya yet and the place was slowly dying.

The locals weren't spending enough to keep the lights on and we soon left again, and I have often wondered what might have become of me had we stayed, because we are all the product of our circumstances.

 

 

What were the circumstances facing us in Croya? This old picture postcard sums up the four noteworthy things about Croya: an old hostelry from 1758, an elementary school, a starch factory from 1884, and a lime-sand brickworks from 1911, all four destined for closure.

What limited education would I have received had I attended Croya's elementary school, and what limited employment prospects would I have had after leaving it? We are all the product of our circumstances, and I am lucky that our circumstances were so bad that soon after our arrival we were forced to leave again, this time to a much larger town which offered better schooling and later better employment prospects.

We never know what worse luck our bad luck may have saved us from, but in the case of Croya in deepest Lower Saxony, I am sure I know!

 

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Sometimes I lie awake at night

 

 

I used to lie awake at night and ask "Where have I gone wrong?", and then the next night, too, and the night after that. Some nights I had so many anxities, my anxities had anxities. So I developed a new philosophy: I only dreaded one day at a time.

I think I was even afraid to be happy, because whenever I got too happy, something bad always happened. In the old days, you could join the Foreign Legion to run away from yourself; I did the next-best thing and went on overseas jobs which kept me so busy they gave me a good night's sleep as I was too tired to worry about the rest of the world. And if I was still worried about the world coming to an end, I could console myself with the thought that it was already tomorrow in Australia.

Of course, I could have bought one of those nice white-noise machines to give me a good night's sleep; instead I got married and discovered ABC Radio National which, between the two of them, make so much white noise that I now lie awake at night and think "I don't have a single thing to worry about" --- and that really, really, REALLY worries me!

 

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Hotel zum Letzten Kliff

 

 

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

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

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

 

 

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

 

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"You have a new friend suggestion: Tex Battle"

 

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Another wintry morning at "Riverbend" despite this being the first day of spring, and as I'm huddled here, shivering in the cold in front of my computer, facebook comes up with this notification: "You have a new friend suggestion: Tex Battle".

I usually flick right through these notifications, but Sweers Island Resort caught my eyes. Where's Sweers Island? Oh, in the Gulf of Carpentaria, where right now it's nice and warm and where back in the late 1970s I almost took a job on Mornington Island after having already served my "apprenticeship" in remote-island-living on Thursday Island in the Torres Strait several years before. And this is where Tex Battle lives and works!

A quick scroll down his facebook page suggested many other similarities:

 

 

And so I clicked on the "Add Friend" button on his facebook page.

 

 

Something may come of it or nothing may come of it, but at least I can now answer the question should anyone ask me where Sweers Island is.

 

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Daw Khin San Myint

 

My PEUGEOT 504 in the foreground; the Karaweik Palace in the background
I named our first home at Cape Pallarenda in Australia after it: KARAWEIK

 

Would you rather have loved the more, and suffered the more; or loved the less, and suffered the less? That is, I think, the only real question in life. Of course, it isn't a real question because we didn't have the choice then.

If we had had the choice, then there would have been a question. But we didn't have the choice, so there isn't a question. Who can control how much they love? If you could control it, then it wouldn't be love. I don't know what you would call it instead, but it wouldn't be love.

Most of us have only one story to tell. I don't mean that only one thing happens to us in our lives: there are countless events, which we turn into countless stories. But there's only one that matters, only one finally worth telling in old age.

But here's the problem: if this is your only story, then it's the one you have most often told and retold, even if - as in my case - mainly to yourself. The question then is: do all these retellings bring you closer to the truth of what happened, or move you further away? I don't know. All I know is that I have learned to become careful over the years. I am as careful now as I was careless then.

 

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Taim Bilong Masta

 

This book is freely accessible from the ANU Open Research Library - click here

---

In 1979, the idea of an oral history based project on the administration of Papua New Guinea germinated at the ABC, driven by Tim Bowden and Daniel Connell. This massive undertaking involved the recording of 350 hours of tape recorded interviews with Australians and Papua New Guineans who had been involved with Australia's colonial administration which ended with self government and independence in 1975. The result is a superb 24 program social history, so evocative of a time and place, revealed through a tapestry of voices from those who lived through it. These are first-hand accounts of the pre-war history in the early 1900s, the masta-boi relationships, the gold rush and the exploration of the highlands. In Taim Bilong Masta, Australian men and women who spent so many years living and working in Papua New Guinea before independence in 1975 can be heard again, telling their own stories.

 

Long after I had left New Guinea and on one of my frequent business trips from Saudi Arabia back to Australia, I was killing a bit of time in the ABC Shop in Adelaide's Rundle Mall when I found a set of twenty-four audio cassettes labelled "TAIM BILONG MASTA - Australia's Involvement with Papua New Guinea".

Of course, I bought them right away and for years I listened to them over and over again as, in the absence of any proper television or radio reception in the world's biggest sandbox, they had become my daily nightcap to drown out the howling desert winds.

Like the creator of those tapes, ABC presenter Tim Bowden, those twenty-four precious cassettes are no longer around, as they became warped and worn. In later years, I did buy the book by the same name but there's nothing quite like listening to those old familiar voices and I had been searching high and low for those recordings but without success - until a few years ago!

A kindly soul, Kieran Nelson, who grew up in New Guinea, worked for the Papua New Guinea Banking Corporation (PNGBC) and now lives in Brisbane, undertook the enormous labour of love of converting all 24 cassettes into mp3 files. Thank you, Kieran, and here they are:

 

Episode 1 Never a Colony

Episode 2 The Good Time Before

Episode 3 God's Shadow on Earth

Episode 4 The Loneliness and the Glory

Episode 5 On Patrol

Episode 6 Sailo

Episode 7 The Boat Came Every Six Weeks

Episode 8 Masta Me Like Work

Episode 9 The Violent Land

Episode 10 Moneymakers and Misfits

Episode 11 Wife and Missus

Episode 12 Growing Up

Episode 13 Into The Highlands

Episode 14 The Promised Land

Episode 15 First Contact

Episode 16 Gold

Episode 17 The Good News

Episode 18 The Mission Rush

Episode 19 You Had To Be Firm

Episode 20 Across the Barriers

Episode 21 Courts and Calaboose

Episode 22 War

Episode 23 A Reason For Being There

Episode 24 Going Finish

 

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