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Today's quote:

Saturday, September 12, 2026

2,883 days to go!

 

At age 0, they give you 79.3 years, but when you get to age 81, they give you another 7.9 years. Noticed something? The longer you live, the longer you live! And studies have shown that those who have more birthdays also live longer! I'll drink to that in four days' time.

 

In a few days I'll turn 81. It feels like a transposition error, except when I look in the mirror and see more hair growing out of my nose and ears than on my head. Think of the money I save on haircuts!

Having swapped the life of an actuary for the life of an accountant because I couldn't handle the excitement that went with the former, I am a strong believer in statistics, and they tell me that I have another two thousand eight hundred and eighty-three days to go! Actually, it's 7.9 x 365 days = 2,883.5 days, but being the lifelong pessimist that I am, I rounded it down to 2,833 days. (Of course, I could have a sex change to gain those extra 1.5 years but who wants to be that greedy?)

I mean, although it wasn't always cricket, I have had some pretty good innings. Yes, there was some underarm bowling and ball tampering going on and I got caught out a few times but, although I dropped quite a few, I also had some brilliant catches, and it's catches that win matches.

Still, it's a bit of an untidy number, isn't it? Maybe I cut back on coffee and Coke and marshmellows and retsina to round it out to an even 3000.

 

 

Medieval philosophers kept a human skull on their desk as a memento mori to remind them that they too would one day die. I think that if we have an awareness of our own mortality it can help us to focus on what really matters. When we begin each day knowing that it is a unique opportunity, that this day has never happened before and will never happen again, then we will be more deliberate in how we spend it.

Skulls are a bit hard to come by and even harder to carry around with us. Why not print out a life expectancy table to carry in your wallet?

Memento mori ! Remember you must die!

 


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Friday, September 11, 2026

How I long for those innocent 60s!

 

 

 

I absolutely enjoyed watching "The Efficiency Expert", set in the Australia of the 1960s, the one I fell in love with when I arrived here in 1965. It all came back in a sudden rush: the way people dressed and spoke back then; the way people worked (or not!); and all those walnut-coloured furnishings that surrounded them.

But what really got my attention was the noticeboard on the wall that had diagonally-placed straps across to hold in place whatever was on it.

 

Front of BARTON HOUSE facing Brisbane Avenue in Canberra

 

One such now old-fashioned noticeboard was in the entrance hall of Barton House (I nearly wrote 'foyer' but it wasn't that kind of place). The manager would place all incoming letters on that board, roughly in alphabetical order, with the A's in the top left-hand corner and the Z's at the bottom right, and each evening on coming "home" from work, we would check the noticeboard for mail before heading to our rooms.

 

Since it is too late to sack me now, I might as well admit that I used the bank's stationery for my personal correspondence. I had used this particular aerogramme to impress my first-ever girlfriend I had left behind in Germany. She returned it to me, together with a whole box full of other letters I had written to her, before her untimely death in 2022. You know you're old when your first-ever girlfriend dies before you. "That's just half of them; if you want the rest, tell me and I courier them as well", she had written - in German, of course. I never had a chance to reply.

 

For some of us, including 'yours truly', "mail" was often nothing more than a plain-looking envelope containing a note from the manager that we had (once again!) fallen behind paying our boarding-house fees.

I never forget the day a fat envelope was waiting for me which, like an hour-glass, leaked a slow trickle of sand from a damaged corner. I had just returned to Australia after six months in the Namib Desert in South-West Africa, and my former colleagues had sent me a "souvenir" from "Sandhausen"; "in case you're missing all that sand", they'd written.

That's how it was in those days: there were no postal secrets and yet an unspoken "untouchability" of one's mail, even if it stayed on the board for days and weeks on end, even months if the recipient was on holiday. I knew of boarders who had cash money sent to them through the mail!

It's unthinkable in today's Australia, just as unthinkable as those same boarding-houses which have all disappeared. As for the slowly-leaking envelope, it would today be confiscated by Customs on suspicion of containing a prohibited substance. How I long for those innocent 60s!

 


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Thursday, September 10, 2026

I guess I got my just deserts

 

 

Thursday wouldn't be Thursday without a drive to Moruya and lunch at the Moruya Bowling Club. The menu was still the same, but the prices had gone up by one dollar. Has the cost-of-living crisis finally come as far as the Far South Coast?

Anyway, I ignored it when I heard that they also offered mulligatawny soup. I absolutely love mulligatawny soup! It used to be on every supermarket shelf until some twenty years ago, when it mysteriously disappeared. And there it was again, for the first time in two decades, as hot and spicy and delicious as ever. What an absolute treat!

 

 

I went back for another treat, a lime cheesecake with ice cream, but I almost screamed when I looked at the cash register display. I told the girl behind it that I knew all about deserts, as I had lived in the Namib Desert and the Saudi Arabian desert, but I had never eaten one before.

 

 

I wasn't sure if she had got the message, but realising that she had given me the smallest of the slices on display, I guess I got my just deserts.

 


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Wednesday, September 9, 2026

Ninety years old and still going strong!

 

My friend in Cooktown, Hubert Hofer, who is an old acquaintance from my days on Thursday Island, sent me the link to this video. He gets a mention at 54:42

 

When I want to find friends' birthdays, I go to naa.gov.au, click 'RecordSearch' and 'Passenger arrivals', and type in their names to find their airport arrival cards, provided they'd travelled overseas (they all have) and they are old enough to have done so before 1972 (they all are).

I must've forgotten about Ben Cropp, Australia's famous documentary filmmaker, now living in Port Douglas, because a friend in Cooktown just sent me the link to the above YouTube clip in celebration of his 90th birthday. A quick check with naa.gov.au where I found this airport arrival card from 1969, and, yes, Ben had turned 90 on the 19th of January!

 

 

I have all the DVDs of his underwater exploits, but you may not. Luckily, Ben has very generously shared many of them on YouTube, and you can watch them here. Wish him "Happy Birthday, Ben!" in the Comments.

 


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The trap of needing a purpose

 

 

When someone seeks," said Siddhartha, "then it easily happens that his eyes see only the thing that he seeks, and he is able to find nothing, to take in nothing because he always thinks only about the thing he is seeking, because he has one goal, because he is obsessed with his goal. Seeking means: having a goal. But finding means: being free, being open, having no goal."

The main protagonist of Hermann Hesse’s novel "Siddhartha", the wise man, shared these thoughts with a friend. They may sound more like a feeble excuse of a weak-willed loser rather than a pearl of wisdom.

However, it may be worth to pause and think about it. Why? Because we need to keep our mind as free and open as we possibly can. Otherwise, how will we be able to notice when something wonderfully precious enters our life and offers us an opportunity to learn from it?

I only came to Herman Hesse's "Siddhartha" in my retirement. I wish I had read it much earlier and learned from it. Still, it's not too late.

 

Read the book online at www.archive.org

 

While I am fixated on the written word and prefer to read Hermann Hesse's book, you may prefer to watch the Indo-American movie.

 

Or click here

 

Keep an open mind. You might learn something wonderfully precious.

 


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The happy man

 

Read along here

 

It is a dangerous thing to order the lives of others and I have often wondered at the self-confidence of politicians, reformers and suchlike who are prepared to force upon their fellows measures that must alter their manners, habits, and points of view. I have always hesitated to give advice, for how can one advise another how to act unless one knows that other as well as one knows oneself? Heaven knows, I know little enough of myself."

"The Happy Man" is a short story about giving advice. The narrator starts off with his general thoughts on giving advice, and then tells us about the time when a complete stranger walked into his house and asked for advice. W. Somerset Maugham never imposes his views on the reader. He puts a question and then leaves it to the reader to answer it.

I agree with Maugham that "life, unfortunately, is something that you can lead but once; mistakes are often irreparable, and who am I that I should tell this one and that how he should lead it? Life is a difficult business and I have found it hard enough to make my own a complete and rounded thing."

"The Happy Man" has a happy ending as seems to have had my own life - although I haven't yet come to the final reckoning - as I sit close by the fireplace, beanie on my head and rug over my knees, and contemplate my own roller-coaster life full of downs as much as exhilarating ups.

 


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Tuesday, September 8, 2026

"Say, Tom, let me whitewash a little."

 

"The Adventures of Tom Sawyer" by Mark Twain

 

Tom considered, was about to consent; but he altered his mind: 'No - no - I reckon it wouldn't hardly do, Ben. You see, Aunt Polly's awful particular about this fence - right here on the street, you know - but if it was the back fence I wouldn't mind and she wouldn't. Yes, she's awful particular about this fence; it's got to be done very careful; I reckon there ain't one boy in a thousand, maybe two thousand, that can do it the way it's got to be done.'"

And if you haven't figured out by now the source of this quote, yours must've been a misspent youth. It is, of course, that moment when Tom Sawyer discovers a great law of human action, without knowing it - namely, that in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary to make the thing difficult to attain (which the female of the species knows instinctively as every married man can attest to).

And what a great business model it turned out to be in the age of the internet: facebook, wikipedia, ebay, and many, many other websites "allow" us - if done very careful - to "whitewash" their websites while they reap the profits without doing anything. Think about it next time.

 


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Monday, September 7, 2026

The House of Saud

 

Yours truly in his apartment in Jeddah in Saudi Arabia, reading "The House of Saud"

 

The last time I read "The House of Saud" was in my apartment in Jeddah in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. That was in 1983 and so, having long forgotten what I read then, I pulled the book back off the shelf today and started reading it again.

It's a brilliant, well researched, and valuable historical record about the founding of the Kingdom of Saud, [Saudi Arabia], with detailed accounts of its early dealings with the USA, Britain, what now is Turkey, and other Arab nations, and how it grew from a small desert tribe, into a powerful and obscenely wealthy Islamic state. The authors also give readers insight into the Shiite disturbances that began in the 1970s culminating in the seizure of the Grand Mosque, and the bloodshed that followed.

As it says in the book's blurb, "At Riyadh, in 1902 the Desert Raider Ibn Saud [Abdul Aziz] tossed the head of the town governor from a parapet down to his followers below ... thus was the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia founded. Two-thirds of the size of India, it holds a quarter of the world’s oil and has six times more overseas assets than the USA. A land of desert unchanged for centuries, with wealth and power to make the world tremble ... the domain of the House of Saud."

 

Read it online at www.archive.org

 

Originally born of isolated Bedouin tribes of the desert, the House of Saud attaches great importance to the purity of the bloodline. Marriages between first cousins, or equivalent relations, are preferred, or else carefully selected partners of equal status and purity in another tribe ... To quote from the book:

"As Islam permits each man to keep four wives at any one time, and as divorce is made easy for males under Koranic law, so that the magic number of four can be multiplied many times over in one man’s life, this custom begot not only large numbers of children by a single father, but also an immense ramification of family and tribal inter-relationships through several generations. Nephews married aunts, uncles were wedded to nieces and their children married each other to form a close-knit and, to the outsider, impenetrable mesh."

At the time of writing, the authors estimate that with about 500 princes descending from Abdul Aziz, together with wives, daughters and collateral branches of the family, 'the House of Saud cannot number less than 20,000 people.' The number of Abdul Aziz' wives has never been officially computed but official records show that he fathered 45 sons from 22 different women. In addition there were at least as many daughters from an even wider range of women, including no doubt some unacknowledged mothers among the various concubines and slave girls, not to forget 'wives of the night' whom it was customary [and still is] for Arabian men to enjoy whenever the opportunity arose. All they had to do was to 'marry' the woman or girl for as many hours as they desired, then divorce her by saying 'I divorce you'. Today, many women and girls are kidnapped from Yemen, and other surrounding Arab nations, for the purposes of this euphemism for a 'one night stand'.

In Islamic countries, the Koran and its inherent sharia law, or path to follow, supplies a total and explicit moral code but in Saudi Arabia it is even more than that. It remains there, the only recognised and enforceable code of law, so that the country is held in a '1300-year-old corset of town and desert morality that is deemed to be universally and eternally applicable.' This desert morality is upheld and brutally enforced by Wahhabism:

"In the middle of the eighteenth century, in what now must be regarded as the most fateful meeting of minds in Arabia since the time of Muhammad, Sheikh Muhammad bin Saud, ruler of Diriya, and great, great grandson of Mani, the first identifiable Saudi ancestor, gave shelter to an itinerant preacher of Nejd, named Sheikh Muhammad bin Abdul Wahhab. The preacher was a Muslim 'revivalist' and the world of Islam by then was much in need of rejuvenation and reform ... Abdul Wahhab was a true zealot, come to cleanse the 'stinking stables of Arabia' once more with the Word of God. But the Word of God proved insufficient for the task. Like the Prophet, Abdul Wahhab needed a sword as well – and to his eternal joy, he found one in Muhammad bin Saud and his family ... Although Muhammad bin Saud was only one of the numerous quarrelling Nejdi sheikhs at the time, little more important than the rest, he evidently grasped that a man who had a message would give him an edge over all his rivals, enabling him to unite Bedouin and townsfolk in a new jihad to extend his personal dominion ...

... Accordingly, in 1744 Muhammad bin Saud married off his son, Abdul Aziz, to a daughter of the preacher and thus sealed a compact between the two families that has been continued unbroken by their descendants ever since ... Contemporary Saudi Arabia, for all its money and the new corruption and idolatry that wealth has encouraged, remains in theory and to a surprising extent in practice, a Wahhabist state, officially dedicated to the preservation of pure Islam as propounded by Muhammad bin Abdul Wahhab."

The book takes the story of the House of Saud and of Saudi Arabia only up to 1979 and Juhaiman bin Muhammed Utaibi's crazed attempt to seize the shrine at Mecca but it remains relevant.

The authors - one of whom, David Holden, was murdered execution-style in Cairo, Egypt, in 1977, click here - seemed to think that the 'regime' had little chance of long-term survival, yet here we are, almost fifty years later, with the House of Saud still an arbiter, if not the arbiter, of much of Middle Eastern politics.

And here I am, forty years later, still amazed at how I survived those lonely years in the world's largest sandbox, and still reading about it.

 


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Unsere neuen Nachbarn haben neue Nachbarn

 

 

Morgens schalte ich immer gleich zwei Dinge an: das heiße Wasser für eine Tasse Tee und den Komputer. Und dann wandere ich mit meinem Tee für eine Weile durchs taufrische Gras und überlege mir wieviel vom gestrigen Nichtstun noch unerledigt ist um es heute noch fortzusetzen.

Ansonsten gibt es nichts Neues hier unten am Ende der Straße am Ende der Welt aber heute morgen sah ich diesen 'slip-on camper' vor dem Tor unserer neuen Nachbarn (naja, nicht ganz neu aber in den paar Jahren in dem sie schon hier sind, haben wir uns nur ein paar Male gegrüßt).

Seit ihrer Ankunft betreiben sie dort ein kleines 'Bed & Breakfast' und schreiben begeistert auf ihrem Blog: "... we love this part of Australia so much. It has taken us a lifetime to get here. Our search is over." Das war aber bevor sie die anderen Nachbarn kennenlernten ☺

Dieser 'slip-on camper' brachte gleich Erinnerungen zurück denn solch eine 'Brotbüchse' hatte ich mir in 1979 auch gekauft.

 

noch mehr Bilder

 

Damals war ich von meiner letzten Arbeit in Malaysien nach Australien zurückgekommen und hatte einen Posten in Canberra angenommen. Dann kam der Winter und die Wanderlust packte mich und ich fuhr los um dieses große Land zu entdecken. Allerdings fehlte mir das nötige Geld und so zog ich von Stadt zu Stadt um dort meine Dienste als Steuerberater und Rechnungsprüfer kurzfristig anzubieten.

Zuerst ging es nach Sydney, dann Mt. Isa, danach Mackay und Brisbane. Dann Melbourne und schließlich Townsville wo ich mich für länger festsetzte (fast ein Jahr; daß war damals eine Ewigkeit für mich!)

Alles gute Erinnerungen aber jetzt ist es Zeit für eine zweite Tasse Tee.

 


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A true story except for the parts that are not

 

"Declared open on 19th April 1987 by Mr Jack Myers
an employee engine driver & fireman of the Co.
from January 1937 to December 1973."

 

I discovered this little gem during another drive to Ulladulla when we strolled along the picturesque harbour to walk off some of the lunch we had overindulged in at the bowling club: pumpkin soup followed by a large Fisherman's Basket followed by a big slice of cheesecake with ice-cream.

Who was Jack Myers? Did he have any dreams and ambitions beyond being an engine-driver and fireman at Mitchell's Mill for thirty-seven years from January 1937 until December 1973?

Perhaps the point of this cumulative tale is Jack Myers' pointless life? Perhaps Jack Myers would've been engine-driver and fireman at that Mill much longer had it not been for the Mill's closure in 1974? Perhaps the highlight of Jack Myers' life is this plaque to his extraordinary ordinariness?

I don't know! And please, don't get me wrong: I am not knocking Jack! Jack and millions like him are the red blood cells that hold our society together. All I know is that nobody is going to put my name on a plaque for having lived the same year thirty-seven times over.

Which reminds me of a couple I used to know in Townsville - let's call them John and Elizabeth, because those were their names.

John had come here in 1957 as a young man, leaving his small country Austria to see the world. He took a job in Sydney and, on his first holiday, bought an old motorbike and rode north to explore Australia.

He got as far as Home Hill which, just a hundred kilometres south of Townsville and with a population of no more than a thousand at the time, was a backwater of a backwater.

John put up at the local pub where he met a young buxom barmaid who fell for his Viennese charm and accent, and they eventually settled in Townsville where John became the papercutter at the local newspaper.

He was still the papercutter at the local newspaper when I met them almost three decades later. By then, they had swapped their dreams of seeing the world for six kids and a small house in the suburbs. As Elizabeth wistfully remarked, "I married John in the hope of leaving Home Hill to see the world and I got as far as Townsville."

 

 

That was in 1985. Today the only plaque with John's name on it is in Townsville's cemetery. "Für immer in unseren Herzen." And in mine.

 


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Sunday, September 6, 2026

Red House

 

There is so much more in Hermann Hesse's "Wandering" - click here

 

Red House, out of your small garden and vineyard all the southern Alps breathe to me. I have walked past you several times, and even the first time my wanderlust was sharply reminded of its opposite pole; and once again I toy with the old refrain: to have a home, a little house in a green garden, stillness everywhere, a village below me. In a little room facing east my bed would stand, my own bed; in another little room facing south, my table; and there I would hang up a small, ancient Madonna which I bought on an earlier journey, in Brescia.

Like the day between morning and evening, my life falls between my urge to travel and 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. Maybe I will also find that secret home within me where there will be no more flirting with gardens and little red houses. To be at home with myself!

How different life would be! There would be a centre, and out of that centre all forces would reach.

But there is no centre in my life; my life hovers between many poles and counterpoles. A longing for home here, a longing for wandering there. A longing for loneliness and cloister here, and an urge for love and community there. I have collected books and paintings and given them away. I have cultivated voluptuousness and vice, and renounced them for asceticism and penance. I have faithfully revered life as substance, and then realised that I could recognise and love life only as a function.

But it is not my concern to change myself. Only a miracle could do that. And whoever seeks a miracle, whoever grasps at it, whoever tries to assist it, sees it fleeing away. My concern is to hover between many extreme opposites and to be ready when a miracle overtakes me. My concern is to be unsatisfied and to endure restlessness.

Red house in the green! I have already lived through you, I can't go on living through you. I have already had a home, I have built a house, measured walls and roof, laid out paths in the garden, and hung my own walls with my own pictures. Every person is driven to do the same - I am happy that I have once lived this way. Many of my desires in life have been fulfilled. I wanted to be a poet, and became a poet. I wanted to have a house, and built one. I wanted to have a wife and children, and had them. I wanted to speak to people and impress them, and I did so. And every fulfillment quickly became satiety. But to be satisfied was the very thing I could not bear. Poetry became suspect to me. The house became narrow to me. 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."

These are Hermann Hesse's words (translated; they read even better in their original German) but they had such a personal resonance with me that I simply had to put them into this blog. Many detours I will still follow, many fulfillments will still disillusion me.

And isn't today Father's Day? I was reminded of it when I saw Father's Day cards on sale at K-Mart, six cards to a pack. A sign of our times?

 


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Saturday, September 5, 2026

Amusing ourselves to death

 

Every catastrophe needs its Jeremiah, and for the catastrophe of the rapid decline in reading we now have Times columnist James Marriott with his book "The New Dark Ages".

There was a time when literature was our religion. We explained and interpreted our lives by it. There was a time in Sweden even when the Lutheran Church banned the illiterate from marrying! We had a quote for everything and we could cross-reference our experiences against the novels of our nation's writers. You had William Shakespeare and I had Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

Now classical allusions are gone and metaphors are treated literally by the dim-witted. We have TikTok and Twitter, which is limited to 140 characters. Imagine how Leo Tolstoy's "Anna Karenina" would end: "Alright, twenty rubbles says that I can toss my bag in the air, run across the tracks, and catch it before the train arriv... [This user's account has been deactivated.]"

I have ordered but not yet received James Marriott's book, but I did read Neil Postman's "Amusing Ourselves to Death", which anticipated the collapse of literacy with the coming of television. When the idiot box began to take off, life seemed to be reorganising itself around television’s centrifugal attraction. In living rooms across the world, armchairs and sofas were shifted around so that they no longer faced each other (as they had in most houses for most of history) and were directed instead towards the corner that contained the screen.

 

 

If you haven't read it yet, I recommend it to you. Unfortunately, there is no free online copy, except the German translation "Wir amüsieren uns zu Tode", which you could read if you were prepared to spend another lifetime learning German. Or you could listen to the audiobooks below:

 

Publisher's Introduction

Foreword

Chapter 1: The Medium Is the Metaphor

Argues that a culture's media (like the printing press or television) act as metaphors that implicitly dictate what kind of content and ideas can be expressed within that society.

Chapter 2: Media as Epistemology

Explores how different media define truth and knowledge (epistemology), asserting that a culture's concept of intelligence shifts depending on its dominant communication tools

Chapter 3: Typographic America

Examines early American history as a print-dominated society that prized deep literacy, complex arguments, and public intellectualism

Chapter 4: The Typographic Mind

Discusses how the printed word fostered a rational, orderly, and serious public discourse (exemplified by historical events like the Lincoln-Douglas debates)

Chapter 5: The Peek-a-Boo World

Explains how the telegraph and photography disrupted context by flooding public consciousness with fragmented, disconnected, and geographically irrelevant facts

Chapter 6: The Age of Show Business

Asserts that television has made entertainment the overarching format for all public communication, making reason and imagery incompatible.

Chapter 7: "Now . . . This"

Critiques the news and broadcast media, showing how rapid transitions and soundbites strip events of significance by teaching viewers to jump from tragedy to commercial without reflection.

Chapter 8: Shuffle Off to Bethlehem

Analyzes televised religion, arguing that when faith becomes a product designed for ratings, it is stripped of theology and transformed into hollow, comforting entertainment.

Chapter 9: Reach Out and Elect Someone

Explamines modern politics and political advertising, warning that candidates are packaged like consumer goods and political debates are reduced to superficial soundbites.

Chapter 10: Teaching as an Amusing Activity

Critiques educational television (like Sesame Street), arguing that it teaches children that learning requires no sequence, hard work, or exposition—only amusement.

Chapter 11: The Huxleyan Warning

Concludes by contrasting George Orwell's vision of a state-controlled society (Nineteen Eighty-Four) with Aldous Huxley's vision (Brave New World), warning that modern society is willingly surrendering its freedom through an addiction to amusement.

 

I hope you amuse yourself to death!

 


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No need for you to get jealous

 

Unfortunately, not all imagines are from Bonegilla

 

No one ever emigrates because of the success they've enjoyed at home. No one ever says, "Well, I have a happy home life, I'm rich and I have many friends - so I'm off." The only reason anyone has for going to live in another country is because they've cocked everything up in their own.

Being just nineteen years old, my opportunities for cocking things up had been rather limited by the time I left; in fact, my only - and certainly biggest - cock-up until then had been that I allowed myself to be born to parents who were so poor that they packed me off to work as soon as I had reached the minimum school-leaving age of fourteen.

But even those tough beginnings weren't enough preparation for what awaited me at the Bonegilla Migrant Centre, which might explain why I endured it for only two nights. In on 8 August 1965; out on 10 August.

 

My Bonegilla registration card
Find your own registration card at idcards.bonegilla.org.au

 

Between 1947 and 1971, more than 300,000 migrants — Greeks, Italians, Germans, Dutch, Ukrainians, Yugoslavs — stepped off ships from a ruined Europe and into an old army camp of tin huts near Albury-Wodonga. They learned English there, ate food they didn't recognise, waited for jobs that sometimes never came — and in 1952 and 1961, when the waiting broke them, they rioted. The country that invited them barely knew what to do with them. Then Australia moved on. The camp closed in 1971, the huts were bulldozed, and the place where a multicultural nation was born became a paddock again — except one block, saved at the last minute, which has become a memorial site.

 

The Memorial Arc at the old Bonegilla Migrant Centre

 

Bonegilla has remained a powerful connection for me even though I may never see it again. Instead, several years ago I lashed out two hundred and fifteen dollars to have my name added to their Memorial Arc. A small price to pay for my own twenty square inches of immortality.

 

 

No need for you to get jealous though: you already drew the winning ticket in the lottery of life when you were born in this lucky country.

 


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P.S. For more, go to My once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage is still going ahead or If only those walls could talk ... or Wo ist Gerhard David?

 

Life in the subjunctive

 

 

The subjunctive is a verb mood that expresses hypothetical (but unfulfilled) conditions/situations : “If I WERE (fill in the blank), I would/could ... ”

Is it old age or boredom that makes me start many of my thoughts in the subjunctive? "If I were back in Burma, I would stick it out for at least another year instead of chucking in a job that others would have killed for" or "If I were still in Greece, I would spend more time in the Greek islands rather than giving my all, seven days a week, to a job that eventually got the better of me".

My problem has always been that I thrived on stress and stressed out without it. As long as the job was challenging and exciting, I was at it seven days a week. Once the routine set in, I would go crazy from time to time and become obsessed with something, and my obsession would sent me on a trip to a place from which the journey's origin could no longer be seen. As a result I made a lot of stupid decisions without an obvious motive.

I now wish I hadn't ...

 


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