This is something of a reunion and there is the air of the familiar as I transit through here. We landed at 5.30 am but time of arrival or departure seems to make little difference here since it is always crowded with transients. This is definitely a utilitarian hub, focused squarely on shifting people through. But in so doing we are all forced to walk though a quite remarkable duty free shopping centre. In actual fact shopping is probably the main reason for the existence of this hall. If you are ever looking for the definition of a melting pot, use this place as your template. Africans, many in their national dress, come in from the south. Those tall and elegant ones from the Horn of Africa seem to float through the shambles, regal in their bearing and not being reduced by the confusion. Groups of Russian men heading who knows where but all smoking their heads off (outside the smoking refuges) and slapping each other’s back in uproarious good humour. Arabs in all the variety of their dress, some completely covered, while others in Western hip hop fashion. A group of ten year old girls from Malaysia all asleep in a circle on the floor, their yellow T-shirts advertising their school. A very high number of workers from South Asia who are the most stoic of the lot, in small groups squatting with arms resting on their knees, watching through the forest of legs that drill past them. A squatting clutch of Korean men compare their visa applications. They look like construction or shipyard workers as well. And here too are the numerous Filipinos in transit to more prosperous times for their families, but via the hard graft of being exploited for their labour in this part of the world. Holidaying Brits and other Europeans make up a large part of the population, pasty skinned or fried and the duty free shops do a roaring trade with them. But it is the poorly dressed single men who clutch their papers, even (especially) as they sleep across the carpet and clutter up the walkways. Some of them snowy haired and aged. Many in simple attire, some in nothing more than rags. With sandals on their feet, rarely shoes. Some look lost, most have a resigned air about them. Where are they going? Where are their families? Are they leaving loved ones or heading home? How long are they away? (A porter in a hotel in Saudi once told me he gets home to see his wife and children in Sri Lanka once every six years!) What on earth do they make of the obscene wealth on display on the duty free floor below? What are their dreams? Do they have any dreams? Can you dream for something better when you have nothing? Or is that all you do? And that, after all, is what Dubai is about – dreams. Dreams of fabulous wealth for those who have nothing, and dreams of fabulous entertainment for those who have. And dreams of freehold real estate and more sunny days than rainy days per year for those who crave those things but who fall somewhere in the middle. This airport of course is only a mirror of what is being lived outside in the dusty 38 degree heat.

Some unexpected travel came out of the trip to London last month so here I am on the road again. Heading this time into the Middle East, a part of the world that has grown on me.

Departures, especially those on long trips are now to be dreaded, regardless of how glossy the brochure extolling the destination, or the claims an airline makes via is model stewards about how much you are going to enjoy the trip. The maxim that the journey is more important than the destination might be good for your chicken soup guide for life but has zero relevance to long haul flights. Emirates seem to have slipped in a couple of extra rows since I flew with them last and I am unable to stretch out, testing my claims that I can sleep anywhere. We bore out of Sydney and head for Dubai via Bangkok where I now sit after a brief walk around Thailand’s new airport. When I came through here for a couple of days last October we missed this new building by one day. Nearly a year on and it already shows wear and tear. Sadly it is another modern airport with nothing startling about the shiny chrome and glass and new concrete. The holding pens for all the seething, crying, bored, irritable stock are no different to any other holding pens in any other airport trying to attract then quickly churn as many passengers as possible. Here we all sit at 2 o’clock in the morning, badly wanting to nod off and not really able to in the plastic seats they have for us. This flight seems to have a lot of kids on it so our gritty eyed fatigue is accompanied by a symphony of sniffles, grumps and outright dissenting wails. I feel sorry for these parents who are stoic in the face of the assault. If I find the place drear, they must hate what it doesn’t offer for small kids trying to work out what is going on. But the diminutive Thai staff are good humoured and see us though and reboarded all with a semblance of good humour. For which we are all thankful.

I decided a while ago that this forum is really aimed at well, me. It’s useful mix of journal and writing and other creativity though there are many more hours I could spend in here! But that decision meant I have stayed away from trying to place Google ads and all of that sort of stuff. I have not really focused on getting a lot of online attention although there is now a regular round of readers and visitors - repeat visitors are flattering, let’s be honest. However many of those visitors first picked up on Pickled Eel when Bobby at Bestest Blog got me some pretty broad spectrum coverage through his site. After something of a hiatus he is back with a new promotion tool which is worth having a look at. Linked here is Fechr.com (pronounced Feature) which gives you 24 hours of intense exposure for no cost (at the moment) - a double fechr whichever way you look at it.

I was only looking for a straightforward haircut, much like this young bloke is getting from his Dad. (Didn’t we all hate haircuts from our Dad?! Dad to kid with hacked hair “Hey, what’s the difference between a good and a bad haircut?” Silent pause. “Two weeks! Ha, hah. Now put the clippers away for me will you?” Would have gladly thrown them down an offal pit). (I reckon this kid is glaring at his siblings who are laughing behind Dad - who also has a grin which was never a good sign). Anyway, best get off the couch. Had a meeting in Tokyo with some senior executives of Matsushita (who own Panasonic among other things). Decided I was looking a bit woolly and needed a tidy up. So I walked into the first hairdresser I could find next to the hotel. My Japanese was limited to Toyota, Hiroshima, Sony, Suzuki – you get the idea. Their English was limited to nervous giggles. I signed with scissoring fingers that I needed a haircut. The very cute receptionist nodded and bowed vigorously then showed me into a very sharp waiting room. Glass and leather, mirrors and chrome. She then gave me a bottle of water. That should have been my cue that I was going to be there a long time. From that point on I was treated like a cross between an invalid and a rock star. I was wheeled in my chair from station to station. Shampoo here, lather there, rinse over there, more goop there, massage somewhere else, pause and read Japanese fashion magazines for fifteen minutes in the middle of the shop (with no glasses – they had been taken off me, carefully folded in a cloth and locked away in their own little safety deposit box). Giggling ride somewhere else (dark this time, with strobes), another massage and rinse. After an hour and half someone tentatively approaches me with scissors. They clip away for moment or two before their role is complete and someone else steps in with golden scissors and clips up the back. A girl in a revealing bib and brace set of overalls swans in and clips the hair off the top before someone has a go at the sides. Then a wash and rinse again. More goop. Another massage. A vigorous toweling. A long and studied examination by three or four as my hair is brushed into shape (basic short back and sides!!) before being wheeled, after two hours, to the reception where I am looked at expectantly by a small crowd of workers. It took a few moments for me to realise I was finally free. That I was allowed out of the chair. I opened my wallet dreading what this was going to cost. Twenty dollars!! I could scarce believe it. I fled up the street to the hotel laughing at the experience but after seven bottles of water I was desperate for a bathroom. I was not game to ask where theirs was – it might have invited another couple of hours of, well, washing and rinsing!!
Tokyo, Japan 2002

Moss leaks down the stone in green shadows, crowning the heads of stone characters in a very hip luminescence which would earn high praise in the night club across the High Street. From outside, the stained windows are slate black and their colour is lost to us. The sun pokes through occasionally and with the help of the stirring maple trees dapples the stone and windows in blotches of moving light, drawing soft oranges and blues from the windows and lightening the stone, giving it life.

Kensington rushes past Francis Hepburn , buried here in February 1788, the year the First Fleet arrived in Australia. As I rub the dirt and leaves from the engraved letters of her name there is a surreal moment of compressed time and a strange connection made with this place, based on those dates. While Kensington bustled about its ordinary business and Francis was but a month from her grave Sydney cove watched in silence and wonder at the apparition of the fleet - soon proven to be real enough. What was happening in this parish while the fleet was settling into Sydney Cove? The connection seems all the more real for the current existence of this church building, linking time, place and visitor in a surreal way, with the help of Francis’ passing. I wonder what she would make of my musing on her helping make a connection with this place.

Canberra, pronounced “Canbra” by locals and properly by everyone outside the country, is a large country town which we otherwise defer to as our capital city. It is home to an outstanding war memorial - the Australian War Memorial no less. It does an excellent job of being a memorial to our fallen and to visit is a moving experience. When I first went to live in Canbra in 1981 every spare day (I was a shiftworker in those days) was spent wandering the halls and absorbing the history. And burning off numerous rolls of 35mm film in bad light. In pride of place was G for George, an iconic aircraft which flew 88 missions from 1942 as part of 460 SQN RAAF. More than 200 crew flew in her and her survival made her famous - as did her return to Australia as part of a war bond drive. Now she is “airborne” in the War memorial in a new, spectacular, world class hall dedicated to some amazing aircraft and all set up in a very “live” environment. The hall alone is worth the visit. It is one excellent reason to visit Canberra. There are a few others but I need a few days to remember what they are. I’ll get back to you on that.

The boys are setting up the wide screen. A dodgy connector is slowing us down. So I take my lime and cold water up onto the roof and step around the water containers and sat dishes and make my way to the edge. The sun has just gone down and a heavy haze of dust and fumes hangs on the horizon, speckled orange by the faded sun. It is just a little over 48 degrees and nothing moves. There is no sound, for we are deep in the burbs and there is no traffic that I can discern. The flip flop scuff of someones sandals alerts me to someone heading to the mosque. Its the only movement and sound. No birds. No dogs barking. Its too hot for any of that. As the night comes on and the sky softens the lads come upstairs and join me. Our glasses rain a small shower over our hands and onto the roof. We are stupefied by the heat and dominated by the silence. And captivated by the serenity of it all. Then the pizza arrives on a clattering push bike which dispels the magic and I am told the big screen is up and running after all. So we carefully make our way down the ladder and settle in to watch something so memorable I can’t recall it the next day!!