Congenital Heart Disease

My heart is swollen with the
Pulmonary joy of friendship
Threatening to
Rupture and disarm me.

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South Australia Road Trip

It is way past departure time (0600 was the plan) but everyone needs to be not only upright and breathing but actually awake. So walk in circles, wait for Nick to have his Macca’s delivered then get in cars and drive a kilometre down the road to buy petrol. Then get geographically challenged in the suburbs of Sydney before actually hitting the highway and pointing the car at 1500km of highway. More from here later in the trip – where we are going there is no such thing as www or 3G or anything except Don 10 telephone cable. And there is a blessing in that I am sure. The main crew headed out this morning but two of us are delayed as final exams are sat. Then we are hitting the road and catching everyone tomorrow. Couple more photos below. Read more

Vale Betty

Sorry, a more creative title is not being released by the muse tonight. But that is okay since I might otherwise risk a corny heading to a sober note. Not too sober though, since Betty had a roguish sense of humour and would accuse me of a put on sobriety if I got too serious. We farewelled her in a packed church service yesterday. It was nice to have people who knew her for 30, or 40 or even sixty years talk about the “old times.”  But it was a shame no one mentioned the “new times”  – Betty, in her eighties though you would not guess it if observing her zest and energy, had a genuine interest in and love for our young folk. Each year we cart 30 or 40 of them off for a weekend camp and Betty and her husband loved to mix it up with them. There was no intergenerational condescension. Just a love of sharing life with all of us, even teenagers she did not really know. We saw pictures of lots of amazing things she did over the years, especially her work on behalf of the world’s poor. But this photo captures for me the heart of Betty – away on a weekend and dressed up for kitchen duty with Peter, one of our very fine teens.  Everyone who had anything to do with Betty,even in the new times, are all the richer for the experience.

A Friend Assaulted – and Bouncing Back

Remember Miss Betty? That remarkable woman in her seventies who runs a remote sheep station in South Australia. We met her in this blog a few weeks ago when I was in Quorn. Well, she has been at the centre of a siege which has been making the news here (to which I should have been paying more attention). Frank called through and alerted me to the fact that the elderly victim being referred to was none other than “Miss Betty, the magnificent, feisty and independent station owner who some say is in her seventies – though you would never guess it.  Fortunately she got the best of her attacker, escaped, called the police and the attacker, well, … you can read about it here. She is, as you would expect, being very matter of fact about it all. Can’t understand what all the police fuss is about concerning the mess left in her house.  She may not thank me for letting this slip but this is such a beautiful insight – she insisted that the police not remove her socks from the scene for forensic examination. It’s darn cold out here you know! You go a long way to find people of her calibre. When you do, hang onto them.

Suicide Attempts at Freshwater Beach

Reflections written on winters day, overlooking Freshwater Beach, Sydney. The character’s name is Ahmed. He was deported and found himself imprisoned, then exiled for his faith when he returned home from Australia. He was seeking political asylum. Written Winter 2004.

The wind whips around here without any savagery. But it thrubs and beats at everything in its way. The ting ting ting of a rope against a flagpole is percussion to the softer swishing of the wind in the saltbrush, flax and beaten up tea tree which line the cliff top. In visual sympathy the sea throws itself on the broken sandstone below but the beat of the wind drowns out the sound of the water. Waves suicide in great gushes of foam and exclamation but do so silently. Across a blue green ocean, sprinkled with points of white the occasional sail tacks without progress into the breeze while others appear so quickly and vanish in moments as they travel with it. It seems there is no possibility of a speed in between. Above it all, smiling and kissing all it surveys drops the sun, lending to the scene light and life and vibrancies not found in an overcast winters day. Today is clearly God’s day and he is jolly well pleased with what he has laid out for us.

He used to come here when thinking about his family. Or about his immigration application and the many years the government had found apparent good reason to ignore his pleas. He told me the place offered him some solitude, away from all those who promised, and even delivered help but who clearly were not able to advance his cause. Here the wind was his friend and he would stand here and scream into the gales, shouting obscenities in more than one language at his creator, demanding more clarity in his life than the elements or his funds could offer. Pushing his body into the breeze he would hang a foot out into space and tempt God to switch off the updraft and drop him to the rocks below. The wind would continue to blow and eventually he would carefully withdraw his foot, quiet his voice, creep back to a park bench where he would weep the tears of the grief-stricken. And then the tears of the penitent for he firmly believed his God was his friend. And then the tears of a child, uncomprehending tears and those that flowed in the full knowledge that, regardless of the shouting and yelling the world would keep turning and nothing was about to change to his advantage in any time soon.

After the tears came the most difficult part of the communication ritual – returning to his lodgings where he faced the quiet serenity of his landlord and the quite obvious lack of empathy. Worse, his lodgings were temporary and reminded him of the boot camp existence of his previous life, twenty years earlier. Single bed, no decorations which hinted at a family or friends. Back then the dormitory existence had a reason. He was there to fulfill a national calling. And he was among friends who suffered, enduring and exhilarated with him. But here, in a foreign country he had a single bed in a single room, a single faded photograph of a distant brother and none of his wife or sons and daughters.

He told me once that even though his yelling and shouting at God was, after the event, something he was ashamed of, it was at the very least a form of communion, a time when he felt that someone out there was listening and saying “I know how you feel.” In so many ways the most difficult part of the communion in God’s windy temple was not the rage and despair but the leaving of the place, to return to an abode symbolic of his seeming empty lot in life and in which he was not able to vent any of his despair. Back he would trudge, pause at the front door, square up his posture, fix on a smile, then ease himself in, hoping not to encounter any other tenant or his kindly landlord. They were all beyond words in these moments. This was not home. Home was on the other side of the world in a regime that professed constitutional freedom to a person like him who wanted to believe in God but which separated him from his wife and children the moment he confessed to holding to that belief. The repeated tests on the cliff tops above the beaches of north Sydney were to determine if the God he worshipped was going to claim him. He never did, in that suicidal sense, but claimed him in the end in a more comprehensive way. Ahmed does not live the life he expected but lives it now more fully, by his own admission, than he ever expected.

When I pass it, or on occasions that I stop here, like today, this cliff top is a reminder of his life and friendship in Sydney. Especially on a windy, winters day.

The Smartest Dog in the World

One of the truly nice things about all the travel I have done over the years is the range of friendships I have struck up in all sorts of unlikely places. Those friendships have special meaning if they have derived from business – you are not in business to make friends (its all about the bottom line at the end of the day) so when genuine friendships arise they are worth seizing and nurturing. In Martinez, California I am fortunate to have Greg and Libby as fine and true friends. A remarkable couple who treat me like part of the family – Thanksgiving a few years ago was a specially memorable and moving event, sitting as I was around a table of family who had never met me before. Hospitality at its very best.

This time around I was able to visit when the California weather was crisp and cool in the morning, warming to a hot day. On those mornings we walked around a disused road that overlooks the San Pablo Bay – opposite Benicia. (The start point of the walk is at Google Earth 38° 1’29.17″N 122° 9’58.12″W) And on that walk we took with us the world’s smartest dog. Named Homer no less. With a name like that he has to have an IQ of at least…..5. He is a pretty special animal for Greg but Greg indulges me some ribbing at Homer’s expense. Here they are – one of them stepping it out on one of our walks, the other just having to check the droppings of another dog. And there have been a lot of them along this trail. C’mon, what do you expect with 5 IQ points?It is good to do business. But I count it a bonus to catch up with good friends too.

A Gunner in Vietnam – Killed By His Own Hand

Funny how random things can spark random thoughts. The picture of Spud standing in the rain in Martin Place sparked thoughts over the last couple of days about a good friend I used to serve with. He was an Airfield Defence Guard. For those of us serving in relative comfort in the Air Force he was one of those strange few who elected to live rough, cold and wet. A kind of Air Force infantry who were trained to do what their job title says – defend airfields. During the Vietnam War they did just that but also served as the door gunners in 9 Squadron helicopters. They also mixed it with the regular infantry and in the case of my friend he spent some time with a US Marine unit patrolling the jungles.He was one of those guys you share a barracks with who was always boisterous, loud, happy and on the go. A larrikin. Prankster. Knew all the perks. Knew all the senior officers and who to see if you needed half a sheep for a bar-b-que, your car fixed, or a free ride to Darwin for a few days in the sun at the tax-payers expense. He was nearly ten years older than the rest of us so we all tended to defer to him. Trusted with the keys to the troop’s bar, he would always be the one who closed it, long after the duty barman had gone home. Many a time I woke to hear him singing his drunken ditties as he ambled back to the barracks by himself.

It is an evening that seems to get clearer in my mind as the years go on. I came into the barracks one evening and he was on the floor in tears. When he saw it was me he got up and locked the door and swore me to silence. Then he dragged a military issue trunk out from under the bed, wrestled with the padlock for a while and then pulled out dozens of photo albums. He went immediately to one in particular and spread it and its loose photos out over the floor. It contained a series of fading colour shots of him standing on a jungle clearing with the head of a Vietnamese soldier in each hand. He was grasping them by their hair and holding them out from his body like a pair of gym weights. At his feet there were other severed heads. They had successfully out-ambushed an ambush and his grinning face betrayed the relief they felt. So too the US Marines standing around and watching.

He put those photos away (there were others as macabre) and through his tears told me he could not reconcile, even these nine or so years after the war, how it was that he had been able to “play God”. And he proceeded to recount how, from the door of the helicopters he was able to tap a few rounds behind a running target moving across a rice paddy, make him stop by tapping a few rounds in front him, steer him left or right with rounds on either side, and then cut him down with a long burst just as the runner got to the safety of the tree line. Over and over again. With no feeling, except that it was somehow a game and he had complete power. Now he raged against the abuse of that power and I gained some insight into why this friendly, outgoing, very loveable guy was the way he was: it was all a front. A cover-up. A first class act to deceive himself and those of us around him.

Nowadays we like to think we catch these men before they self destruct with these dreams and images rotting their minds. That we get through all that male, macho bullshit that we put up and expect our buddies to put up. That we catch them and encourage them to talk these things out. We didn’t catch Ian. Ten years later he shot himself dead, still plagued by his “I played God” demon. I hope his Mum, who he loved to bits and who was always rescuing his adult boy, never found those photos.

Thanks Spud for reminding me to remember one of your Vietnam Vet colleagues who didn’t make it. Even though he pretended to.

Neanderthals are Your Neighbours

They might even be you!! If you think that is going too far think about this. In an upmarket suburb of Sydney, in which the residents no doubt view themselves as having arrived – at least in society, wealth, education and status terms – she sat down to have lunch. After a little while the cafe owners sidled up to her and asked her to remove her scarf from off her head, there were some other patrons who felt the headwear inappropriate in their polite cafe. After complying to this odd request (count me strange, but these days I thought a scarf on ones head would be fair and reasonable basis for assuming an illness) she revealed her hairless scalp, the symptom of various cancer therapies. That was too much and shortly thereafter those same patrons asked her to cover up her head, her baldness was too affronting. She left without combating them, but also without telling the patrons she was grabbing a bite to eat after coming from the funeral of a friend who had succumbed to cancer.

Ecoli noted injustices to the handicapped make him wild. I have the patience of Job (a “flat liner”) but this sort of unenlightened small mindedness and sheer, unadulterated selfishness makes me wild. The same response is evoked when I hear someone in the street tell me my daughter should be locked up. Enough to have me secretly wish a retarded kid on their own families. The behaviour in the cafe recounted above would be enough to have me wish the same illness on those smug apes who found her baldness too confronting. And the cafe owners should not get off blameless either. Just as well I am not God or there would be some smoking patches of cinder around Sydney right now – blasted to oblivion with not a scrap of remorse.

Death Before Dishonour, Nothing Before Coffee

So inscribed in Latin on your casket by your brother Tom, and a touch that everyone enjoyed. Everyone – maybe 400 or so. I did a quick headcount in the service. Sorry. But I know you would understand. We all loved the fact that we were all here for you today. What a great testimony to the impact you have had on our lives. What a diverse collection of people you touched. Plumbers mixed with AMs. The former DG of the Secret Service stood in the same crowd as the law clerk you recently helped with accommodation when she was getting settled into a new town. Smart suits mixed with the bohemian – mainly a little grizzled nowadays. You would have enjoyed the fact that all your Army mates and ex Army mates stood out like, well Army types, only underscoring how atypical a military type you once were.

Friends and Planes Do Not Mix

JD perished in the crash of his friend’s aircraft only two weeks ago. At the point when we expected JD’s details to be published in the papers Garuda Flight GA200, a 737-400 crashes in Indonesia. One of the survivors is Mick Hatton, close colleague and friend with whom I served while in the Air Force. I read his name in the papers but in the initial reports his name was not associated with the Air Force. So I figured it really could have been anyone. But the following day the press revealed his rank so I guessed it may well be my friend. That evening I saw TV images of him on a stretcher on a Yogyakarta hospital floor. The following day TV footage captured him hobbling off his flight home to Darwin with his arm in plaster and looking a bit worse for wear. It’s a thin joke around some at the moment - If you know me, stay away from planes!

There is a lighter side to all the press that I know Mick will appreciate, as will anyone who has served in the military. Mick is a military policeman. And a Senior NCO at that. Over the last few days Mick has been reported in the press as an officer, and as a pilot. He is neither and the standard retort of a “I am not an officer, I work for a living” comes to mind. He is a gentleman though! And even though he looks pretty beat up here (in bed) with fellow air force crash survivor, he is a fit fellow and will bounce back. Even though he can’t catch me on Castle Hill!!

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