What are the Churches Not Doing?

I am no social commentator, not do I have aspirations to be one. But as a “member” occasionally things just leap out and slap you when they point at our society and highlight our shortcomings. In the Sydney Morning Herald this weekend there was an interesting article about a small company which has built its business around the cleanup required after a death (accidental or otherwise) or where a site is so filthy no regular cleaner will go near it. Council contracts for abandoned apartments and that sort of thing. They do a good job I am sure. But their observation about cleaning up the apartment of a derelict struck home. One of the cleaners said “…no one should live like that(in a “pigsty”) It is great to be able to help make his life a little better. Rightly or wrongly the reporter went on to say “This sort of work used to be done by charities or nuns or concerned people in the community. It is now done by cleaning contractors such as Gabby Simpson.”

Well I am not sure about you but it strikes me as a pretty sad state of affairs that our social safety net, our network of care, is reduced to not only contractors but to cleaning contractors!! Come on! Good on Gabby and her cleaning contractors for having the attitude they do. But shame on the rest of us for letting things get to a point where a reporter observes that in our community one of the key groups we expect to be best tuned into the needs of the poor and needy – the church – is not so tuned in. OK, there is a reasonable argument that plenty of churches are pulling their weight (here is one I know). But church or no church, our community is confronted by the fact that too many in our community live and die alone and none of us are aware until their lonely deaths hit the press – usually salaciously since some have rotted in situ for months and in one case for more than a year. Too many of these in Sydney these last couple of years. I sincerely hope we can do better than leaving these people up to our forensic cleaning contractors. Who incidentally, are usually on site when it is far too late!

Sydney Turns it On

It must be Sunday – time to get back into the Blog! There is always a temptation to go searching for inspiration outside this town but the fact of the matter is there is enough material in this town to inspire and convict – you don’t always see what is right under your nose. A small thing that always captures my imagination happens every year and is a case of the “bleedin’ obvious” in terms of things that make you slow down and put things in perspective a little – the suburb grow a purple mantle and a slow rain of purple litter covers the footpaths, the garden shed and our backyards as the bare branches of the Jacaranda announce the end of the winter months (we don’t really have a winter of course). The Jacaranda does that with a vengeance. And if that does not catch our eye the Bougainvillea is at its blushing and fiery, flamboyant best. On the odd occasion a mix of Jacaranda and Bougainvillea happens in the same space and the blend of colours is enough to have you want to stop the drive to work and simply soak it all up. To top it all off the harbingers of these spring explosions are the amazing magnolias, some which remain in bloom if it has been cool enough – though not this year. Nothing profound in any of this, simply an acknowledgment that we are blessed to live where we do for a whole range of reasons. One reason is our environment.

Tale of Two Beaches

He was wearing a small trenchcoat and looked a bit like a pint sized Robert Redford, with a clichéd shock of blond hair and an open and engaging impish face.But his shoes! His shoes were black, patent-leather-shiny treads with sharply pointed toes and impossibly long. At least a half size again and rising slightly at the bow like those pixie shoes we all imagine those creatures wear. He was with two friends and they flagged down the Drug Arm bus. We stopped and chatted for a while. They were sober and were simply walking around this beach village because they had nothing to do. They were smartly dressed, fashionably so. His impish grin and self confidence was engaging and we found ourselves talking about school plans (for exclusive private schools), parents and politics. He was in Year 9 and his two friends in Year 12. Articulate. Informed. Aware. Opinionated. Self assured and self contained. Headed home with friends to watch DVDs.

He had a number one haircut and a blue-yellow bruised cheek. Two beaches south. Hailed us as well but for another reason. Curt. Aggressive but not offensive. Lived with his mum in a one room flat. Dad in a one room flat on the other side of the city. Down from the country, thin, hunched against the cold – he was made of high tensile fencing wire. Sharp. Glittering eyes. In our faces, f**king this and f**king that. Mainly cursing “f**king gronks” who had gotten two 14 year olds drunk, stolen their handbags and phones and left them on the beach at midnight when it was snowing in the mountains (i.e. it was cold out).He did not know the girls but had stumbled over them when he came down to the beach with his friend for a smoke. He called an ambulance which arrived, handed out a couple of blankets and left telling him they were in no danger. He was furious at that. All of fifteen or sixteen this firebrand Samaritan, and his moral outrage, with nothing to offer except his compassion, had no intention of leaving the girls on their own least some arrive and molest them. Stomping about in his tight T-shirt angry at the world, at the girls, gronks, his mum, ambulance wankers, himself. And us – we had to leave as well

That BioLuminescence

In a previous blog I referred to the bioluminescence which was lighting up the waves at Manly. By the time I got back there a couple of nights later with a camera the show had subsided and while the electric shocks were still flashing through the water they were not as frequent. And a camcorder is not the best device for grabbing those sorts of views. But the attached few seconds give you an idea about how spectacular it was – there are some initial glimmers across the tops of the breaking waves and then throughout the wave as it breaks. The dinoflagellate which cause this are marine plankton and in this case are apparently associated with the red algae we have floating off the coast at the moment.

Sydney or Melbourne?

Getting more attention in the Sydney Morning Herald today than the collapse in the share market is the news that Robert de Niro has snubbed Sydney and elected Melbourne as the site of his Tribeca restaurant, Nobu. de Niro may well settle his refined nosh shop in Melbourne for all the right reasons and I am not one to argue with him. But having lived in both places, and being a son of neither, it seemed like an opportune time to list those things that make this town (Sydney) a whole lot more appealing than our southern sister. OK, so it’s a perennial debate that everyone gets sick of hearing and we all like to think we are mature enough to ignore. But there is a secret part of Sydney-siders that truly believes the best view of Melbourne is in the rearview mirror (I do have a photo of same!) and we just can’t help ourselves.

That harbour – you just can’t go past Sydney Harbour for sheer beauty. Its a crown jewel to be sure and we all bask in its glory.

Its a working harbour. Not as much as it was but cargo vessels still push in and out and warships, including visiting US aircraft carriers, are regular sights. That hustle and bustle on the water is a pulse that is part of the city.

The pulse. Period. This is one place that lets you know it has a heart. An intangible thing but the zest of this town is part of its appeal. If you want quiet (and that is OK by me) then Melbourne is a better choice.

The icons. Walking into town across the coathanger (Sydney Harbour Bridge) is a perpetual delight. That working harbour beneath your feet is some of the appeal of that walk. And drinks last Wednesday evening in the Opera House as the sun set into the far reaches of the harbour has nothing comparable. Anywhere.

Real beaches. With real waves. Right on our doorstep. None of this driving three or four hours to find the surf. The smell of the salt air and the roaring southerlies that whip us around in late winter, early spring all add to the zest.

We have our seasons when we are supposed to have them. The “four seasons in one day” cliche about Melbourne is, sadly, true. Regardless of the time of the year. Not their fault I guess but I do enjoy the temperate climes and humid summers we have in this town.

Have I mentioned the Harbour? A ferry ride up to Manly. The occasional whale or two in it. Drinks at Manly. Or Bondi. Thai octopus salad by the water. Visiting the zoo which sits on the water line. The bush fringe that circles a large portion of the harbour and gives a garden feel to the place.

That bush pushes its way into many parts of the city – and I live in an area that is blessed by plenty of bush and all its attendant critters – parrots, possums, bandicoots, – and spiders and snakes. Best of all, I don’t have to drive out of town to enjoy any of that.

Japanese Kill Sailors – Then Shake Hands

I understand those of my grandfathers generation who never wanted to speak about the Japanese (or Germans) or only spoke about them with hatred. But I am always moved by those who experienced those times and who have been able to get past the wrongs, and if unable to forgive, are at least able to make up. There are numerous stories about former adversaries who have not only made up but who have been active in social programs in each others countries building something positive and of use to the citizens. A story of a group of Australian soldiers going to Japan after the war and building an orphanage comes to mind – at a time when everyone else was screaming for revenge.

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.

Do Security and Duty Free Have anything In Common?

I am never sure which is worse - the security routine or the duty free rigmarole. Departing Sydney now requires anything that might be a cream or gel or liquid to be packaged in a small plastic bag – if you wish to take it on board that is. Even your toothpaste. And the quantity allowed is minuscule. Not too much of a problem for most male passengers I suspect, but I stood in line watching two women trying to decide which perfumes they were going to have to discard. It was actually a choice between perfumes, hand gels and moisturisers and other bathroom bits and pieces they had with them. Used to years of travelling with that sort of support no doubt. Now constrained. Reluctantly they made their choices, discarded the rest and then moved to the scanner portals and X-rays.

No matter as it turns out since the body scanner portal is followed very closely by the entrance to the duty free gauntlet. When departing Sydney you have no choice but to walk a linoleum road through a forest of air brushed celebrity faces (OK, so that is not so bad) and endure a blizzard of conflicting scents and perfumes, all swirling around you in an attempt to induce a headache before you board your plane. And a billion litres of liquid, and all the gels and moisturisers your little heart desires. I think it is worth checking out - I bet the security company confiscating potions and gels is a sister company of the duty free company. Come on, it happens in India, why can’t it happen here?

Departing Sydney

I have a real soft spot for the city of Sydney. All the things we say about it in our promotional material is very clichéd but, in most cases very true and in which lies its appeal. Brash. Loud, Flamboyant. International recognition. That unique harbour. All true and part of the formula. On an autumn day when the temperature is in the low twenties it is especially appealing (although I prefer the humid heat of summer). The sugar maples are not too sure if it is really heading to winter so their leaves are still hanging on, some a dirty green, others a burnt umber. But bare branched? Not at all. As if hanging in there with the rest of us, denying the notion that winter ever happens in this place. A clear blue sky but with a hint of yellow haze as the sun drops early, long shadows tricking the mind into thinking that it is later than it really is. Throwing the city in relief, highlighting the off-white building surfaces and showing off a city that is never in any doubt that it is up there with the best of them. This view from the international terminal and on day one of the long haul to London. Which is a 22 hour marathon from here. And a world away from this brilliant place.

Sydney View

Sometimes you are just in the right place at the right time with the camera (most times you are not) and in this case I was also in the right seat. We had just taken off from Sydney and then turned right with an angle of bank that allowed a couple of nice shots up Sydney Harbour. The background to the Harvey World Travel banner inserted above is taken from this image. A lot of my travel (and hence many of the anecdotes in this blog) is organised by the team there so to acknowledge the fact I thought some (unsponsored) recognition was in order. It is supposed to be a travel blog – in part – after all. They are one of those travel agencies that most aspire to be and have done a sterling job getting us around the globe with no fuss – even fixing up seating and accommodation in the wee hours of the morning.

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