The radio never worked after alone, one Sunday, I took it apart. I reassembled it, before they returned, but the crackle got worse. “Good evening, this is the ABC News. Darwin has been hit by …”. Dad banged it, giggling and threatening dire retribution, and got “… evacuation will be continuing …” He continued to bang it with his fist. We got a new, flash HMV combo radio/record player.
I honed my skills, even built my own generator. I was hooked and at Uni, a Telecom scholarship came my way. The three years I spent refining the development of a new remote, microwave telephone system improved telecommunications between Adelaide and Darwin dramatically, and I went on to gain cyber security clearance at the Australian Signals Directorate. Still can’t say too much about that period, suffice to say, I saw and learnt a lot of ‘spooky’ stuff. Asia became my ‘beat’, loving its foods, pace, and peoples, learning Indonesian; Timor often on my itinerary.
Spicy, hot food, my cheeks glistening, a Bintang used to bring things back under control. It took me a few years, stolen moments, but I eventually graduated from Ma Jong’s wok-cookery school. It was the rainy season and we were preparing Singgang Bebek Bali – grilled duck. Ma dipped, then licked her long, spidery finger into my marinade. A considered moment: “Mmm, maybe add a splash of vodka” was her assessment of my dark soy, seaweed mix. “It’ll lift the duck dramatically.”
But that crispy creation needed a palate-cleanser. I experimented. Balinese, pistachio ‘gelatissimo’, drizzled with melted chocolate, topped with a generous splash of Appleton’s White Rum, left everyone – ah, well, let’s say – contemplative!
I married Ni Luh. Her father’s military career dictated they moved often, mostly within Indonesia, but there had been overseas placements. We met over cocktails, in KL at an Armaments Expo. We found a shared geekiness: telemetry.
We never discussed assignments or absences. “Mum’s home tomorrow…” often as good as it got. Three wonderful children. We had a strictly demarcated life. Ni Luh worked in a shady section of NATO; me, still with the Directorate. We made it work!
But, my God, we came together in the kitchen! It was our shared rendezvous – forgotten, the secretive, tiny, creaking hinges as chilli crabs, barramundi, with tamarind chestnut stuffing, or a myriad other sensationally spicy, sizzling offerings were plated and served. Oh, how we loved those times!
We retired to a beachside house in Dili. She choked on a fish bone. My world fell apart. I haven’t cooked since.
I welcomed the dark muffled curtain of senility, lifting only as we secretly re-enter the kitchen, awakening joie de vivre, sunlight, warmth, love, and laughter.