How one tiny $3-classified advert changed my life

 

 

After my 'compulsory' two years in Australia from 1965 to 1967 as an 'assisted migrant', I was free to leave again - and leave I did as it seemed impossible to live on what was initially a youth wage and later became the salary of a junior bank officer with the ANZ Bank.

I had booked a passage back to Europe aboard the Greek ship 'PATRIS' operated by Chandris Line which had been scheduled to leave Sydney and call at Port Moresby on its way through the Suez Canal. But history and the Eqypt-Israeli war of 1967 [the "6-Day War" which began on June 5, 1967] intervened and the Suez Canal was closed to all shipping.

So the 'PATRIS' never got to Port Moresby but sailed through the Great Australian Bight and around the Cape of Good Hope (Cape Town) instead. However, a good number of 'Territorians' from the then Territory of Papua & New Guinea had already booked a passage and the shipping line at great expense flew them down to Sydney to join the ship. And so it came that I spent some four weeks aboard the 'PATRIS' in the company of a whole bunch of hard-drinking and boisterous 'Territorians'.

Having barely scraped together the fare, I had no money to spend on drinks but I did mix with the 'Territorians' night after night in the ship's Midnight Club to listen to Graham Bell and his Allstars. I was spellbound by the tall stories those 'larger-than-life' 'Territorians' told about the Territory which seemed to provide them with everything they wanted from life. My mind was made up that one day I would go there myself.

I spent the next few miserable winter months in Hamburg and then in Frankfurt before finding a way out again: I got a job in southern Africa which, as I saw it, was almost halfway to New Guinea. That is not to say that my career was a planned one. Lemmings have better plans than I've had for most of my life, but that's perhaps true of many people's lives.

After six months' work in South-West Africa (now called Namibia) I had saved enough money for the fare back, and in April 1969 I boarded the 'Ellinis' in Cape Town and sailed for Sydney, from where I took the train back to Canberra to resume my earlier work with the ANZ Bank.

But the die was cast and I knew I'd find a way to get to the Territory. I had heard about PIM, the Pacific Island Monthly which was read by one and all in the Territory. I bought a copy and decided to place in next month's issue a tiny classified ad which from memory ran something like this: "Young Accountant (24), still studying, seeks position in the Islands." It cost me $3 and got me two offers, one of which I accepted and which was the start of my life in the islands and all that followed.

Ever since then I have been trying to find a copy of that life-changing advertisement again. Some ten years ago, I even took a trip up to Canberra where I spent a couple of hours in the cavernous reading room of the National Library paging through all the twelve issues of the 1969 Pacific Islands Magazine, from January to December 1969, but no luck!

 

Each monthly issue carried one page full of classified ads. This one is the June 1969 issue. My classified advert would've been published sometime between June and December 1969

 

Since then, the National Library has digitised the entire run of the Pacific Islands Monthly magazine, from the first issue in 1930 to the last in 2000 - click here, and I've been able to search the same issues on the computer from the comfort of home. NOTHING! And yet it could've only been in PIM! Where is that tiny $3-classified that so changed my life?

 

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Dem Hasen abgejagt

 

 

Vielleicht liegt es am Altwerden, aber man erinnert sich immer mehr noch an vieles aus der Vergangenheit. Diese Erinnerungen kamen zurück als ich gerade etwas über das Buch Hasenbrot las.

Bei uns zuhause war ein Hasenbrot ein belegtes Brot gewesen, in Pergamentpapier eingewickelt, das mein Vater zur Arbeit genommen hatte und wieder mit nachhause brachte. Es wurde normalerweise zum Abendessen serviert und wir Kinder stritten uns darum denn jeder wollte etwas davon haben.

Anscheined kommt der Ausdruck aus der Feldarbeit wenn die Hasen Gelegenheit hatten, daran zu schnuppern, während die Leute arbeiteten und der Essenskorb unbewacht am Feldrand stand.

Dahingegen wird es im Hoffmann von Fallerslebens "Die Kinderwelt in Liedern" so erklärt:

 

32. Hasenbrot.

Und wenn mein Vater geht zur Stadt,
So bringt er mir was mit,
Bald Mandeln und Rosinen,
Bald Obst und Kuchenschnitt.

Und geht er auch nur über Feld,
So denkt er dann auch mein:
Er bringt mir immer Etwas,
Sollt's trocken Brot auch sein.

Das trockne Brot das schmeckt gar gut,
Denn wie mein Vater sagt,
So hat er's auf dem Felde
Den Hasen abgejagt.

 

Gibt es daß heute noch? Dann lasst es Euch schmecken!

 

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Winter am "Riverbend"

 

 

Unser Winter ist kein deutscher Winter: kein Schnee, kein Eis, kein Frost. Aber dennoch fühle ich mich unwohl. Ich denke an die vielen tropischen Länder in denen ich wohnte und arbeitete und frage mich "Wie war es möglich daß ich mich hier im kalten Süden von Australien festsetzte?"

Wie alles andere in meinem Leben war auch dies nicht geplant. Eins kam zum anderen und plötzlich hatte ich hier in 1993 dieses Grundstück gekauft. Dann kamen die Jahre des Aus- und Einrichtens. Dreißig Jahre später kommt dann die Frage "Bin ich eigentlich am richtigen Platz?"

Jetzt ist es schwierig wieder wegzugehen auch wenn ich bereit wäre diese dreißig Jahre des Einrichtens zu vergessen. Das Grundstück selbst ist zu groß und zu teuer um dafür schnell einen Käufer zu finden. Das deutsche Wort 'Immobilien' besagt es: solch ein Besitztum macht einen 'immobile' und man ist an den Platz gebunden ob man will oder nicht.

Ich tröste mich mit dem Gedanken daß ich nur einen Käufer brauche um dann endlich in die Tropen zurückzukehren, entweder im Norden von Australien oder in Übersee. Oder es könnte auch sein daß ich mich besser fühle sobald der Sommer und die Sonne wieder da sind.

"Über den Himmel Wolken ziehen, über die Felder geht der Wind, ... Irgendwo über den Bergen muss meine ferne Heimat sein."
Hermann Hesse

 

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Time to dust off an old book

 

Preview

 

I first heard of David Glasheen in April 2005 when, aboard SEASWIFT's "Trinity Bay", I sailed past "his" island, Restoration Island, and wrote,

"As we passed along the coastline of mainland Australia, I remembered that less than two months earlier, cyclone Ingrid had threatened to strike. While most people were evacuated, some remained, including a bare-chested old hermit with a long grey beard, David Glasheen (although his name could be Robinson Crusoe for all we know), of Restoration Island, looking as if he had been marooned since Captain William Bligh beached his boat here after the 1789 HMS Bounty mutiny.

It is said that this nouveau beachcomber from Sydney has plans to develop Restoration Island as an eco-resort. He's been living alone on Bligh's island for years ever since his long-suffering Woman Friday had escaped on a passing boat. But David is looking for another Girl Friday. His quest took him as far as the "TODAY SHOW" on Channel 9 and even the Sunday Telegraph published this article:

"He may look like Robinson Crusoe but, after 12 years of living alone on a tropical island, David Glasheen now wants to play Romeo. The former Sydney high-flyer who left the rat race and bought himself a tropical island near Australia's Top End is looking for a "Girl Friday". He is now advertising online for love, offering the ultimate sea change for the right woman who doesn't like shopping or neighbours.

Mr Glasheen and his dog Quasi are the only residents on tiny Restoration Island, off Cape York. While he has the occasional visit from tourists or passing yacht, he admits it gets a little lonely in paradise. "There has to be someone out there for me," Mr Glasheen told The Sunday Telegraph. "I've got an eye for the ladies, so I guess I would do anything to meet the right partner."

The divorced father of three is hoping he will meet the "mermaid" of his dreams using the Internet dating site RSVP. His advertisement reads like the perfect scenario for a Mills and Boon novel, but so far he has received only a few responses. "The beautiful coral island I live on is a castaway's dream," he writes. "A tiny green oasis floating in the desert of the sea, surrounded by the corals of the Great Barrier Reef."

Mr Glasheen, 65, a former businessman, traded in his suit for a lap-lap almost two decades ago after losing $10 million in the stock market crash of 1987. His first marriage, from which he has two daughters, ended around the same time. The one-time company executive says losing almost his entire fortune was one of the best things that ever happened in his life. "I just realised it all didn't mean anything," he said.

He paid seven figures for a 50-year lease on one-third of Restoration Island - the remaining land is a national park. Mr Glasheen moved there in 1993 with his girlfriend, but with no hot water or even a bath, she found it tough and left with their young son. He has added a few mod cons to his island hideaway but says it is still pretty basic.

Its simplicity and remoteness has attracted the likes of Russell Crowe and Danielle Spencer, who stopped off there on their honeymoon. "But we have style in the wild here. We don't live like yahoos or hillbillies - we have plenty of champagne when we need it," Mr Glasheen said.

Restoration Island, 2000km north of Brisbane, was named by Captain William Bligh. It was there his supporters "restored" their spirits following the infamous mutiny on the Bounty. Mr Glasheen said he was looking for a warm-hearted woman who could put up with the peculiarities of life on a remote island and would be willing to travel to the mainland for a dinner date or two."

 

For more, click here

 

Dave got his two minutes of fame when, following the release of his ghost-written book "The Millionaire Castaway", the publishers invited him to Sydney in 2019, after which he returned to his castaway life on Restoration Island - or "Resto" for short - with occasional visits to the mainland for shopping or medical treatment. Earlier this year, David, now 81, suffered a heart attack - click here - and left the island for Cairns Hospital, from which he was discharged to a Red Cross place.

 

 

Well, David never made it back to Restoration Island, because another old friend in Cooktown has just sent me this facebook tribute posted by his son Kye and compiled by Katie and Jason of The Temple Cape York.

 

David, mate written by his son Kye You built something massive with your own two hands, lost it all in a stock market crash, and still had the guts to walk away from it all. You chose the island. You chose peace. You did what most people couldn’t, lived off the land, trusted yourself, and found freedom in your own way. You showed me that being rich isn’t about money. It’s about mindset, truth, and living by your own rules. You were a builder, a fighter, a deep thinker, and a teacher. You weren’t perfect, but you were real. And I’ll never forget that. Your dreams and plans are now in my hands, and I’ll carry them forward with purpose and action, working to understand what it all truly means. You wanted to build a healing retreat, but didnt realise you already did. To my beautiful sister Samantha, thank you. You were my rock through all of this. The way you stood by Dad with love and grace, and held space for me when I couldn’t do it on my own… I’ll never be able to put into words what that meant. You were there in his final moments, and more than that, you were there for me.. and I’ll never forget it. Dad, you held me close during a cyclone once in a small metal shack, the wind roaring outside. I was just a kid, scared, but you stayed calm. You told me everything would be alright, and in your arms, I believed it. In your final weeks, as life gently slowed and the fog began to lift, I held you, just like you once held me. The roles had changed, but the love hadn’t. And in that quiet exchange, the circle of life revealed itself. Not in sadness, but in something quietly beautiful. In loving memory of David Glasheen 1943 – 2025

Today we lost a very special man.. Dave you were one in a billion. Words can’t describe how much we will miss you. We love you Dave.. May your soul rock on in heaven xxxx

 

This is another one of those 'Ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee' moments but, as they say, life goes on, and I'm trying to digest my lunch of Chicken in Oyster Sauce and this latest piece of sad news.

 

 

It was good having known you, Dave, and I hope you rest in peace. It'll be even more peaceful than Restoration Island where you've gone now.

 

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Bonegilla is still on my bucket list

 

 

Like a dog that returns to its vomit, I want to go back one more time to where it all began almost sixty years ago: the Bonegilla Migrant Centre where I spent my first two nights on Australian soil -and almost soiled myself when I first saw it.

 

'Abandon all hope ye who enter here' would've been a fitting entrance sign but we hadn't travelled 10,000 miles to be deterred by no heating and only a threadbare ex-Army blanket

 

I've written elsewhere about the many serendipitous encounters in my life - click here - but there was perhaps none more serendipitous than when another young German who had come off the ship with me, told me about a "German Lady", a Mrs Haermeyer, at the camp's reception centre who was offering to take three or four recently arrived German migrants back to Melbourne to board at her house.

 

Yours truly shortly after arrival and still looking very 'Kraut-ish'

 

I had already been "processed" by the camp's administration on the first day and knew that in all likelihood I was destined to be sent to Sydney to work as labourer for the Sydney Water Board. So what did I have to lose? In record time I had myself signed out by the "Camp Commandant", my few things packed, and was sitting, with three other former ship-mates, in a VW Beetle enroute back to Melbourne where only forty-eight hours earlier I had arrived aboard the good ship FLAVIA.

 

Setting a new record for Bonegilla: IN on 8 August; OUT on 10 August 1965

 

I don't know when, but I still hope to make the pilgrimage back to were I had my inauspicious start in what would become my new home and country, if only to inspect the plaque on their memorial wall with my name on it:    Manfred-Peter Goermann - FLAVIA - August 1965

 

 

Bonegilla is still on my bucket list.

 

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Silvester gab es immer Karpfen Blau

 

 

Religiös waren wir zuhause nicht, aber dennoch gab es jede Woche am Freitag Fisch. Und jedes Jahr zu Silvester gab es Karpfen Blau. Wir kauften zwei lebende Karpfen, die dann für die nächsten paar Wochen in underer Badewanne lebten.

Was wir an Gasgeld sparten weil das wöchentliche Bad ausfiel, wurde dann an mehr Brot ausgegeben um diese zwei extra Karpfenmäuler zu füttern. Das war die Aufgabe von uns Kindern, und wir spielten mit ihnen und gaben ihnen Namen und sie wurden zu unseren Freunden.

Und dann kam der Tag des Essens, und unsere zwei Freunde lagen blau und dampfend auf dem Teller. Keiner von uns Kindern hatte sie damals angerührt und wir gingen hungrig und mit Tränen in den Augen ins Bett.

Mehr als siebzig Jahre später lernte ich jetzt erst warum er "Karpfen Blau" heißt nachdem ich mir diesen netten YouTube-Film " Bilderbuch Deutschland - Braunschweig" angeschaut hatte - geh' zum [22:00].

In Australien gilt der Karpfen als Schädling und wird nicht gegessen - außer von den Chinesen die ja alles essen was Beine und Flügel hat (obwohl sie bei Tischen und Flugzeugen Ausnahmen machen ☺ )

 

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The nearest I ever got to Borobudur is this t-shirt

 

 

Borobudur is the largest Buddhist temple in the world, and ranks with Bagan in Myanmar and Angkor Wat in Cambodia as one of the great archeological sites of Southeast Asia. Borobudur remains popular with pilgrims, with many Buddhists in Indonesia celebrating Vesak Day at the monument.

 

 

While the nearest I ever got to Borobudur is a blue t-shirt, Padma is at this very moment engaged in some sort of 'religious tourism' which involves a lot of chanting and meditating and an evening climb to the top of the Borobudur temple in bare feet while carrying a candle.

 

 

She emailed this photo of herself in which she wears some sort of medal. She already wears a black belt in wild emotions, so I wonder what this medal is for. I'll find out when she gets back to "Riverbend".

 

 

Seeing the next photo, I'm surprised she hasn't shaved her head yet.

 

Padma with her Aunty Lelly

 

I guess I had better practise my 'Om Mani Padme Hum' and get that old Borobudur t-shirt ready to wear again, so that she feels at home when - or should that be 'if'? - she arrives back here on the last day of July.

 

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Die Soße ist immer noch umsonst!

 

 

Als Junge in the 50er Nachkriegsjahren wohnte ich am Altewiekring 23. Ich erinnere mich noch an die schöne Schulzeit an der Volksschule in der Heinrichstraße, das winterliche Rodeln auf dem Frankschen Feld, das sommerliche Radeln zum Entenfüttern in Riddagshausen, und die vielen Wochenende im Landheim der "Fahrenden Gesellen" zwischen den Wäldern und Spargelfeldern außerhalb der Stadt. Wir waren arm aber wir wußten es nicht!

Zumindest waren wir reich genug um jeden Freitag mit einer alten verbeulten Blechkanne vom Fischladen in der Husarenstraße sechs eingelegte Heringe abzuholen. Als Kinder liefen wir in den Fischladen und riefen "Wieviel kosten die eingelegten Heringe" und hörten uns den Preis an. "Und wieviel kostet die Soße?" Die heftigen Damen in ihren weissen Gummischürzen und Gummistiefeln kannten schon das Spiel und antworteten "Die Soße ist umsonst." Wir riefen zurück "Dann nehmen wir bloß die Soße", und liefen wieder raus.

Siebzig Jahre später ist der Fischladen immer noch da, obwohl er jetzt Fischfeinkost Groß heißt. Vor einiger Zeit schrieb ich dem wohl jetzt neuen Besitzer und ein Ulrich Rickmann versicherte mir daß "mit der Soße sind wir immer noch großzügig und das Rezept ist auch noch das gleiche."

Also, geht da 'mal hin, denn die Soße ist immer noch umsonst!

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I have a major sleep disorder; it's called "reading"

 

 

And I'm making the most of it while Padma is away in Indonesia. No, it wasn't "JAWS" I was reading last night, but Tim Marshall's "Prisoners of Geography", an essential primer on geopolitics, helping readers around the globe understand what’s happening in our fast-changing world.

 

Book Preview and Audiobook Preview

 

In this amazing book, Tim Marshall unveils the hidden forces that shape our world, revealing how geography is the silent architect of history and international relations. With a keen eye for detail and a wealth of first-hand experience in conflict zones, Marshall argues that the physical landscape — mountains, rivers, and borders — plays a decisive role in determining the fate of nations.

 

 

As you follow this book, from the expansive plains of Russia to the strategic waterways of the Middle East, you discover how geography influences everything from military strategy to economic development. Marshall deftly illustrates how the decisions made by world leaders are often dictated by their geographical realities, whether it’s China’s quest for resources or America’s oceanic buffers against invasion.

 

After having read his book all night, I could listen to him all day

 

Another sleepless night well spent!

 

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There's a horse loose in a hospital

 

 

Now, I don’t know if you’ve been following the news, but I’ve been keeping my ears open and it seems like everyone everywhere is super-mad about everything all the time. I try to stay a little optimistic, even though I will admit, things are getting pretty sticky.

Here’s how I try to look at it, and this is just me, this guy being the president, it’s like there’s a horse loose in a hospital. It’s like there’s a horse loose in a hospital. I think eventually everything’s going to be okay, but I have no idea what’s going to happen next. And neither do any of you, and neither do your parents, because there’s a horse loose in the hospital. It’s never happened before, no one knows what the horse is going to do next, least of all the horse. He’s never been in a hospital before, he’s as confused as you are.

There’s no experts. They try to find experts on the news. They’re like, “We’re joined now by a man that once saw a bird in the airport.” Get out of here with that shit! We’ve all seen a bird in the airport. This is a horse loose in a hospital.

When a horse is loose in a hospital, you got to stay updated. So all day long you walk around, “What’d the horse do?” The updates, they’re not always bad. Sometimes they’re just odd. It’ll be like, “The horse used the elevator?” I didn’t know he knew how to do that. The creepiest days are when you don’t hear from the horse at all. You’re down in the operating room like, “Hey, has anyone ... Has anyone heard -” [imitates clopping hooves] Those are those quiet days when people are like, “It looks like the horse has finally calmed down.” And then ten seconds later the horse is like, “I’m gonna run towards the baby incubators and smash ’em with my hooves. I’ve got nice hooves and a long tail, I’m a horse!” That’s what I thought you’d say, you dumb fucking horse.

And then ... then ... then you go to brunch with people and they’re like, “There shouldn’t be a horse in the hospital.” And it’s like, “We’re well past that.” Then, other people are like, “If there’s gonna be a horse in the hospital, I’m going to say the N-word on TV.” And those don’t match up at all.

And then, for a second, it seemed like maybe we could survive the horse, and then, 5,000 miles away, a hippo was like, “I have a nuclear bomb and I’m going to blow up the hospital!” And before we could say anything, the horse was like, “If you even fucking look at the hospital, I will stomp you to death with my hooves. I dare you to do it. I want you to do it. I want you to do it so I can stomp you with my hooves, I’m so fucking crazy.” “You think you’re fucking crazy, I’m a fucking hippopotamus. I live in a fucking lake of mud. I’m fucking crazy.” And all of us are like, “Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.” Like poor Andy Cohen at those goddamn reunions. “Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.”

And then, for a second, we were like, “Maybe the horse-catcher will catch the horse.” And then the horse is like, “I have fired the horse-catcher.” He can do that? That shouldn’t be allowed no matter who the horse is. I don’t remember that in Hamilton.

("Hamilton" is a hit broadway show about Alexander Hamilton, one of the United States' founding fathers. So he basically says "I don't remember that being in the constitutional powers of a president, but all my knowledge about is comes from a broadway show.)"

 

---

 

They were relieved when they finally got the horse out of the hospital, but then, four years later, someone said, "You know, the sandwiches in the hospital cafeteria have got a bit expensive", so they decided to fix the problem by letting the horse back into the hospital, only by this time the horse had been there so long, it thought it was the doctor.

History teachers will be using this clip twenty years from now. And John Mulaney somehow did it without using the word “Trump” even once.

 

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A walk down memory lane

 

 

I left my home and my hometown of Braunschweig at the tender age of seventeen, first to work "auf Montage" as book-keeper for a large construction company that built autobahns all over Germany, and then, only twenty-one months later, to emigrate to Australia.

Two years later, I was back in Germany and hoping for a new career in South America with the German-South American Bank headquartered in Hamburg. Things didn't go to plan and so, like a bad penny and slightly tail-between-my-legs-like, I turned up on my parents' doorstep again.

They had never heard of Robert Frost's "Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in". Instead, they must've remembered the equivalent German saying of "you have to be cruel to be kind", because they refused to take me in long enough to again get used to homecooked meals and having my bed made and laundry done.

Three months later, I was back on the road, but it took me a lot longer to realise that they had actually done me a favour by not taking me in again, because in hindsight I doubt that, without their "encouragement", I would have mustered the courage to once again set out on my own.

I've been "home" twice since then, both times on an Australian passport, which pretty well sums up where my home is now, and while I have no particular attachment to the (c)old country, I still occasionally visit it from the comfort of my Australian home via the internet and YouTube.

 

 

So much has changed, and yet, so much has stayed the same, such as the giant red MONTBLANC "Füllfederhalter" on the facade of the old Störig-Haus at the "Kohlmarkt". As a young boy, I used to look at it and dream of one day owning such an expensive - although more 'handy'-sized - MONTBLANC fountain pen. By the time I could afford one, it had already been replaced by the ubiquitous ballpoint pen, but while the stationery shop below it has since made way for a furniture store, the giant red fountain pen has been heritage-listed and will always be there to remind me of the time when, as an articled clerk, I was sent there by my boss to buy a "Buchhalternase" - but that's a story for another day.

 

I left Braunschweig in 1963. This photo is probably from the late 70s/early 80s but still shows the giant red MONTBLANC fountain pen as I remember it.

 

In addition to several YouTube clips of my hometown, there is this amazingly detailed www.braunschweig-bilder.de website, on which an Erik Kugland uploaded hundreds and hundreds of photographs of streets where I used to walk and work and live more than sixty years ago.

 

The office building at Münzstraße 2 where I served my articled years.
Click here for a full GOOGLE Map view; then move cursor to the top floor.
For more in German, click here.

 

There is the Cyriaksring where we used to live across from the "Arbeitsamt", and the "Volksschule" I attended in the Sophienstraße, before moving to the Altewiekring and the "Volksschule" in the Heinrichstraße, after which I served my articled years in in the Münzstraße. Of course, I sent Erik an email thanking him for the great job he's done and for this wonderful walk down memory lane.

 

Und zum Schluß ist hier noch was zum Abgewöhnen vom Karpfenessen:

 

Mehr als sechzig Jahre seitdem ich meinen letzten Karpfen gegessen habe, lernte ich jetzt warum er "Karpfen Blau" heißt - click at [22:00]. In Australien gilt der Karpfen als Schädling und wird nicht gegessen - außer von den Chinesen die ja alles essen was Beine und Flügel hat (allerdings machen auch sie eine Ausnahme bei Tischen und Flugzeugen ☺ )

 

 

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P.S. See also Elf Quadratmeter pro Person and Der neue Altewiekring 23 and Autres temps, autres moeurs