Author: Chris Burchett

The North

Flying emergency

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in The North

One moment Steve and I are discussing the Maningrida meeting, cruising at 5,000’ on our way back to Darwin. Below, are the green watery floodplains bordering the Arafura Sea. Next thing, a thin watery stream of vomit traces down Steve’s shirtfront, he is clutching his chest and slumping sideways across his seat. It all happens in the microsecond it took for the Cessna 150 to lurch; I think the official term is to ‘yaw’ steeply to the left, as his left foot heavily nudges the rudder pedal.

This is just great! Steve and I, alone! I briefly note how quickly I have developed a sweat across my brow. Steve grunts at me. He is semi-conscious, trying to tell me something. I reach over and take his headphones, hoping someone in a control tower, somewhere, anywhere can hear my panicked ‘Mayday’ calls.

A crackle in my ears. I concentrate and hear a voice asking me to identify myself. “It’s George – oh, ah, Victor Hotel, Mike Alpha Zulu. The pilot looks like he’s had a heart attack. What should I do?” I am gripping the control column as if my life depended upon it. I realise, with a brittle chuckle, it did!

The Cessna continues to yaw, losing a little more altitude and continuing to drift to the left. I grab Steve’s foot and push it off the pedal.

How many times have I sat in this right-hand seat, watching the pilot, observing the dials, the altimeter, the horizon dial, noting the craft’s response to setting the throttle at peak revs, as we took off, adjustments to achieve a cruise or reductions to get us back onto the ground. I had often had fantasies of controlling the plane myself. Shit, why hadn’t I asked more questions, paid more attention to the realities of guiding this machine through its take-off, cruise and landing?

Somebody was in the headphones again. A steady voice “Mike Alpha Zulu. Can you hear me? “Yep!” “Can you tell me your name?” “George.” “OK George, my name is Phoebe. What is your altitude? Look at the dial with the two hands.” “4,500 feet.” “That’s good George. Now I want you to take the control column and gently bring it back towards your stomach. Can you feel the plane rising?”

The little plane responds slightly. I see the horizon starting to drop away, fluffy, patchy clouds up ahead. “OK George, now just try gently pushing the column away from your stomach.” I see the greenery below starting to fill the windscreen. “OK George, I now want you to ease the column gently back towards you, take the plane up to 5,000’ and hold it there.” My grip hasn’t loosened but my concentration has been diverted away from my immanent death, now hanging on to Phoebe’s every word.

Steve gurgles and vomits again. “George, you are about ten minutes away from the Darwin strip. I will work with you to bring the plane down safely. OK?” “Yes, please. Thank you, Phoebe.”

The Adelaide River passes below, snaking its way across the flood plains. Darwin’s hinterland, a grid of gravel roads, cleared blocks, and houses poking out from the bushland. “George, OK I can see you. Can you see the throttle lever on the dash? I want you to unwind the encircling nut a quarter turn to the left, just a bit. The throttle lever can now be pulled back towards you about half an inch. You will feel the motor slowing slightly. You are starting to descend nicely, that’s it. Nice and slow. Now turn the encircling nut on the throttle to the right and lock it off.

“Excellent, George! Can you see the runway in front of you? OK, so George, the plane is just descending nicely. Keep your feet balanced on the rudder pedals. Yep that’s great.

The plane continues to lose height, but it is drifting off my line of approach. Phoebe directs my footwork; I straighten and the runway is below me.   I am still 300’ above it. “George, release the nut and ease the throttle back another half inch. Yep, that’s it. Almost down. Easy. Yep!”

We bump and shoot up into the air again but we shortly bump again and taxi. “George, you’ve done it. Wonderful job. Pull the throttle all the way back and put your feet on the brakes. We have an ambulance on the runway behind you.

They find me in the cockpit, a gibbering ball of sweat, as they manoeuvre Steve into the waiting ambulance. I never do meet my saviour but we name our firstborn Phoebe!

The North

Me? Eccentric!

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in The North

I stand on the chair, as Phyllis instructs. She again works the stapler around the drooping hem of my shorts. I wouldn’t have bothered but my PA insists I try and look respectable. I don’t think anybody else sees her flicking my testicles, as her remonstrance against my lack of common decency. Yep, they do dangle a bit, but since my years with the 2nd Punjab Regiment, and then this posting into the tropical heat of the Top End, I assess underwear as an unnecessary obstruction to natural forces.

Phyllis is in charge of my morning ‘elevenses, and my hems. Strong black, unsweetened tea, or if it’s a farewell or birthday, she discretely adds a dash.

Twenty years at work across remote northern Australia. On Fridays, charter flights to somewhere:  always a rationale; a Project Action Plan to refine, or staff to brief. My support staff know the drill – day trips mean an esky equipped with Victoria Bitter onboard the plane. If an overnight trip, I provision the old briefcase with a carton of B&H and a bottle of Johnny Red. If room, I might also snaffle a file or two from Registry!

Four kilos of sausages are boiled on Wednesdays, refrigerated and used, as needed. Three cartons of beer and two bottles of Johnny complete the weekly providore.

From my office, a short stroll, three cigarettes and the Green Room’s punka and cane lounges await. Five fifteen and the first beer is in my hand, those on my left, alert to the need to dodge my ash, and light my next fag.

I hear that my ash became a tell-tale marker of my reading habits. Apparently, archivists continue to follow my reading, using the amount of cigarette ash as a gauge to my interests.

In hushed tones, I occasionally overhear junior staff whisper “… the Brigadier said…or … he advises”. It was pleasing to note some influence on the comings and goings in the office.

My first-class, annual holidays start at the Burns Philp travel desk. Specific properties, rooms and outlooks. In Singapore it had to be Raffles, third floor, looking back over the city. In Manilla, the Peninsula and in Shanghai the top floor at the Fairmont. When on the briny, my preference is for top deck staterooms and valet service.

I’m off to Honkers. At the Captain’s Table, dickie suit, monocle, braggadocio in full flight – “haur, haur, haur, …” belly-sourced laughter sets the mood. I regale the ladies with tales from Afghanistan, the Hindu Kush and Indian Raj derry doo. I see a familiar face across the table. After a moment’s rumination, I recognise our companion as the local Darwin coastal barge operator. Didn’t he tell us about his Greek shipping empire, based out of Piraeus? I maintain discrete diplomacy.

Death approaches within months of retirement. I reflect on a useful, albeit spartan life, uncluttered by unnecessary trappings. There are a few beers in the fridge for my retrieval team. I depart on my own terms.

Childhood Memories

My Uncle Clive

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Childhood Memories

I used to love crossing the road from our place, my feet scrunching up the long gravel driveway, my focus, the sights and smells of Uncle Clive’s workshop. Shellac, or paint assaulted the nostrils, recently sawn lengths of timber were assembled, a lump of lard on the saw bench, a pile of old rags, furniture polish, all at the ready. I inhaled deeply as I entered his domain.

The bench was expectantly neat, albeit small piles of missed shavings. The handsaw, hammer, a plane and several screwdrivers on the bench suggested a new project.

A breathily whistled “The Surrey with the fringe on top” set the tempo for our friendly banter. “G’day Mister” he proffered, as I sauntered up to the bench, crunching a carrot, pulled, in passing from his extensive vegetable garden near the shed.

“Can I play with the screws, please” and in answer, he lifted me up onto the benchtop. I hummed in harmony, an octave above his tenor, as my gaze moved wondrously towards the jars hanging below the louvred, double window. The lid from each jar was secured, screwed into a length of timber that stretched back towards the wall. I just loved twisting and opening a jar, my nose crinkling as the residual smells wafted up.

Uncle Clive never threw old fixings away. “A good screw is a reward” he often remarked, years before such a double-entendre would raise eyebrows and a few knowledgeable chuckles. His storage jars held nails he’d straightened, bits of fuse wire, short coils of solder, brackets, small hinges. There were thin, inch-long nails, sometimes rusted into an amorphous blob. He showed me that you could rekindle their individuality with a gentle hammer-tap.

His storages included vegemite jars, with dozens of tiny screws, larger pickle jars, right through to round Christmas biscuit tins. They held the bigger sets of screws, flanges, nuts and bolts, hinges and whatnots, usually all wrapped into impregnated oilcloth.

Those glass jars never seemed to break, except when the one holding eight, 3” nails slipped through my fingers onto the concrete floor. We swept up the broken pieces and he found another big jar for the nails.

He showed me how to straighten the nails, holding them firmly by their tips, revolving and strategically tapping the metal back into straight shafts on his old heavy blacksmith’s anvil. There were a few bruises, but over the years my proficiency improved!

We sang together often, and my ‘ear’ enabled me to match his tenor in melodic duets comfortably. The Mikado, Pinafore, South Pacific, Robeson’s Motherless Child, Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, Ol’ Man River. We knew all the lyrics.

Clive was a happy worker, and his perfectly pitched tenor often won him an appreciative audience in the local eisteddfods. As a committed Communist, Paul Robeson’s songs were inspirational and he often played the 78s on the old HMV player in the corner. His tenor to Robeson’s bass, me holding the soprano melody. Our harmonies and descants filled the shed!

Tripping

Canoeing the Goulburn

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Tripping

“Hey look at that” Bill said, indicating a small, swirling spot in the water just ahead of our canoe. My mind’s eye had also registered a little flat-beaked head and beady eyes, momentarily looking at us, as we paddled. “It must have been a fish” Bill conjectured “I don’t think Platypus are active during the day.” Ten minutes later and we saw another little plump, flattish stick suddenly arch and glide slickly under the water. That was definitely a Platypus!

We had just 30 minutes before launched our four-metre-long Canadian open canoe from Thornton, 200 kilometres northeast of Melbourne into the fast-flowing Goulburn River. It was the start of a four-day adventure paddling 90-odd kilometres down to our planned ‘take-out’ at Trawool, near Seymour.

The river was flowing at about 5 kilometres an hour and was going to provide a lot of help with the down-river trip. In the last week of October, the Water Catchment Authority had released significant flows, for both the farmers and environmental well-being. A week later and the 300mm dark stain on the banks confirmed that levels were already falling, but there was plenty for our needs.

I was a canoeing novice, having years before hired canoes in the Northern Territory’s Katherine Gorge. But Bill had had the Canadian for 30-odd years and learned to understand her temperament and moods. It was reassuring, as were the floatation vests.

Captain Bill was at the stern, me in the bow and in between was an assortment of swags, tents, cameras and spare clothes all packed into waterproof bags, along with cooking gear and an esky. Everything had been tied and linked together to facilitate retrieval in the event of a mishap. Despite the heavy load we rode high out of the water and were ‘drawing’ 50mm –plenty of clearance to safely clear submerged nasties.

The first rapids arrived. Previous advice was that if we survived these, the rest of the journey should be trouble-free. Bill explained the circular patches of smooth water that appeared regularly. “They’re pressure waves,” he said, “the water coming up against rocks on the bottom and pushing the water up to the surface”. They were not an issue. “Our guiding principle is to keep her nose-first, always heading straight down the guts” he advised. “She’s not a kayak, doesn’t have the same manoeuvrability – built for comfort, not speed so our paddles are the trick. Use em.”

I was nervous as the rapids arrived. They probably only represented a drop of 150mm but the series of short whitecaps and bumps had my sphincter clenched! But we glided majestically through – nary a bump. I relaxed, a little and a few more had me gaining respect for both Bill’s canoe manship and the strengths of our craft.

That first day was an introduction to the delights of “…mucking about in boats”. While we both maintained wary eyes for snags, the chatter between for’ard and aft took on a more relaxed form. The platypi (I use the plural) continued their shy inspections, sometimes allowing the canoe to within a metre before their bum-up glide beneath the surface. We lost count – maybe a dozen in that first afternoon.

We found a pebbly beach and pulled in. We had been going about four hours and a G&T beckoned. The river bubbled in the background as camp was set, swags unrolled, the kitchen established, the esky broached. A Taramasalata dip, blue cheese, biscuits and an iced G&T confirmed that ‘knock-off’ had arrived.

A small comfort fire was built as the sun-bleached away. The portable gas burner had Chow Mein in the offing and a full moon appeared over the nearby hills. To top things off a mob of kangaroos were silhouetted on the ridgeline, coming out to graze as the daylight gently mellowed.

Two young males were magnificently silhouetted on the ridge, sparring with each other. Tails were being used as backstops, while arms sought purchase, freeing hind legs and their sabre-like toenails to practice what might one day deliver mortal wounds.

There was an orange wash across the sky, reddened streaked on the underside of the clouds and we settled for the evening, tossing around the highlights, a quaffable Merlot agreeably dulling slight aches and niggles!

It was an early start next morning. A bit chilly but I nudged the fire back with a few leaves and a couple of twigs. Priority was to get the coffee pot going and a clear blue sky suggested another beautiful day on the water. Bacon and eggs – protein overload to fuel the day!

We were on the water by 7.30. Our little aquatic friends were there from the start and continued to enquire our form throughout the day. The birds, their squarks and chirps of initial consternation as we rounded a bend – this long green intruder with the orange-bladed sticks coming rapidly into their domain until the tree-topped crows sounded the ‘all-clear’ with several lazy faarrks.

The wood ducks were forever distrustful of our intrusion and were the first to be off – a noisy commotion to left or right and a dozen flew off down the river, well before we approached. I never saw them returning up river and idly wondered if we would eventually come across a huge, down-river duck-convention?

We stopped for morning smoko and another for ham, castello and salad rolls. By G&T time we both did our separate calculations and reckoned 35 kilometres. We had stopped at the little town of Molesworth and treated ourselves to an ice cream and another bag of ice.

There had been more rapids, a few close shaves with submerged logs but Bill and I were working effectively as a team. There were discussions about channels to follow, when the river divided around a clump of willows. Mostly we made the right choices. On one occasion we didn’t, going into the left channel and ending up pinned against a tree that had fallen across the entire width. There was mild anxiety from me, a little consternation and instruction from the Captain to “keep her upright – don’t let water come over the upstream side, whatever yer do.” Bill was out into the knee-deep water and in a flash we had manoeuvred her around and through the dead branches and away we went.

A signpost would have been good at that last river junction! There were a couple of bridges connecting someplace to another. We saw a couple fly fishing and another family camping beside the river. Apart from that, we had the river to ourselves – and it was a Spring weekend!

Night two, in hindsight was a bad choice. With camp set up and the light fading I went for a wander. I surprised a wombat, recently emerged from its burrow and then saw the stagnant water of an oxbow lake, just behind our camp. The mosquitoes were friendly and the Pork and duck snags over Cous Cous was hurriedly eaten and we retreated into the tents.

Another early start – the hot, strong black coffee kicked us into gear and we were underway by the time the kookaburras had cleared their throats. There were several tortoise-sightings and trout were evident in the shallow backwaters – we had a license, a couple of lures and one reel borrowed from an old rod. We trolled unsuccessfully for a while. I was surprised that we didn’t snag the lure.

Another beautiful day on the river – another 30+ kilometres downstream. We had been passing through a bushland corridor that buffered the rich, river flats behind. Some areas were infested with the ubiquitous blackberry scourge, but there were long stretches of seemingly pristine, mixed eucalypt, acacia and callistemon bushland. Much of the river was lined with willows and despite knowledge of their impact on river health, I admit a delight in the fairly constant, lemony-green corridor.

In the lower reaches of our journey, huge granite boulders protruding from the adjacent hillsides extended into the river as rounded sentinels. Occasional gravelly spits narrowed our options, as the river changed its course. Remnant tree stumps and submerged logs were there but a cautious eye quickly learnt to identify the tell-tale signs – the increasing water speed, the sound of rushing water, bursting around tree trunks, or through the branches of the willows, the subtle change in water colour as shallow water is approached.

A third night out. This time we inspected thoroughly before a final site selection was made. A pebble beach; a small corps of young eucalypts – plenty of firewood; a low grassy flat leading to unfenced fields of cereal. Perfecto and G&T O’clock, here we come!

We considered having a bogey in the river but it was cold, cold, cold water. A quick flip up and under the pits, a face wash and pretence that the odour enveloping the canoe was a new bush scent! Bill cooked up his specialty pesto pasta, avec tinned salmon. A couple of Merlots’ and campfire reverie got well and truly underway. Reminiscences were back into the 70’s and 80s – times when we were both working in the NT. But that’s another story…

Childhood Memories, Family

Junior school at Corio

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Childhood Memories, Family

I was recently complaining to a friend about his freezing bathroom. He talked about the need to ‘toughen up’, and the influence of ‘character-building’ experiences he remembered from years of boarding school’s draughty, winter ablution facilities.

I had a rush of memories from the early ’60s about my own experiences as a young boarder at Corio. The summer morning shower routine, entailing three jumps under the cold shower, only beaten by the winter regime that added two jumps under a hot shower, after the cold jumps! I could not remember the addition of any soap, or shampoo, so am left wondering on the overall issue of hygiene!

But the memory got me thinking about those times. A big question continues to be why on earth my parents, both confirmed socialists, sent their two boys to one of the most prestigious Australian schools, the epicentre of elitist conservatism? Over the years, my brother and I have both thought long on this issue.

I remember being trundled into the car, with my brother because Dad wanted to talk with us. I was 11, my brother about to turn 13 and we drove down the road somewhere. Dad said that Mum’s migraine headaches were becoming worse and that our behaviour was exacerbating the attacks! Sitting in the back seat, I immediately resolved to stop fighting with John and to do the dishes more often!

Dad continued, and advised that the local high school, of which he was the Chair of its Council, was going through a bleak period and that in his opinion would not provide us with a satisfactory education! Dad had consulted family friend Alan Marshall, who advised Scotch College, or if we could afford it, Geelong Grammar would provide the very best education. As a consequence, Dad told us that we would start in February 1961! My brother would go into 2nd Form, and me into 1st Form.

Years later, an elder sister talked about Dad having a nervous breakdown or severe depression coinciding with the time of our departure for boarding school. Financially, the fees must have been met from the continuing windfall of the subdivision and sale of our land at Rosebud!

So off we went. My memory suggests that my elder brother seemed to take to the changes without too many apparent hassles. I know his presence was a comfort, but I still found the transition difficult. From the intimacy of the family surrounds – Mum, my sisters, the family mealtimes, from the coeducational norms of Rosebud Primary into the mostly male-only environment, a large, impersonal dining hall and dormitory, sleeping with fifteen or twenty other boys!

Matron, a middle-aged woman, presumably with some medical background, was our female focus. She tended cuts and bruises, the bedridden, and often provided a friendly shoulder. As a chronic asthmatic, she also oversaw a lot of my incapacities and admissions to the school’s medical centre.

My feelings of abandonment slowly dissipated as new friendships were formed, routines absorbed, and a new life began. Mum and Dad were allowed to visit towards the end of that first term, delayed officially to enable “…the new-boys to settle in!”

Classes do not burden my memories, save the suggestion that I drop Latin, after achieving 2% at a mid-term exam. I do have a lingering disappointment early in that first term. The school’s choirmaster was interviewing all new boys. Singing was something that I was very good at and enjoyed. But when asked if I had ever sung in a choir, and I answered in the negative, “…Next…” signalled my dispatch back to class! My failure to remonstrate has stayed with me, as a wotif-moment, over the decades since. The selected choristers received extensive training, as sopranos and, as subsequent tenors!  I missed all of that training, and it wasn’t until 6th Form that I eventually insisted on singing for the choirmaster and finally took my place with the tenors, in the stalls!

It must have been in my second year when my contemporaries started to talk about being confirmed! Ever eager to conform, I thought I should follow the mob, albeit unsure of any implications! I joined evening classes and was proceeding along the road to godliness, when my journey was interrupted by my mother’s admission that I hadn’t had the necessary precursor, of baptism! Not to be put off, I badgered Mum and Dad, and they arrived at school with one of our neighbours from Rosebud, who swore to do the necessary duties as a godparent, thirty minutes before my confirmation!

But there were some bizarre rules, regulations, expectations, and obligations to be observed. Group-think served, in part to ensure observance but misdemeanours, of a more serious nature, had the cane, mostly delivered across your underweared, or bared bum, working towards compliance.

Sixty years on and I still make my bed in the morning! I fold or hang clothes in the wardrobe and prefer to eat meals at the dining table. Whatever the hangover, I feel better with those few habits observed. But there were other bizarre anomalies remembered that still make me shake my head.

There was a small oak tree, reportedly germinated and grown from an acorn retrieved at Gallipoli. It sat in the middle of the road in front of the clock tower. Junior boys, on their way to the chapel, were required to detour, to walk to the right-hand side of this tree. I think you were also expected to salute, as you passed! I was told it was a mark of respect to the fallen. Oddly, this observance was not required of senior students?

There was the rule that forbad walking around with your hands in your pockets. Corio was not a tropical idyll, and those wintery days could be punishing. Efforts to keep hands warm, if caught, meant that the pockets of your pants – short pants for Junior School, throughout the year, another physically endowing custom, were sewn up! Many, myself included, developed seasonal chilblains.

Then there was the nude swimming. Lessons at the pool were without modest frippery! The first few times caused a great deal of awkwardness and embarrassment. Years later, researching this practice suggests it was prevalent, right through until the 1970s where Tom Brown’s boys and swimming came together. There were no doors on the toilet cubicles, either. Another opportunity for moral guidance at Corio?

In junior school, at the beginning of each year (it might have been at each term) we had to parade, wearing only a dressing gown, in front of the matron. When you were at the head of the queue, you opened your dressing gown, matron grabbed your balls, and with a suitably thoughtful facial expression, she asked you to cough! I never heard of any outcomes from this examination. It apparently confirmed whether or not testicular-descent had occurred, despite the reality that this medical phenomenon is happening in utero! A decade later, I saw the movie If, and I recognised some possible explanations for the practice!

I remember hearing of one young progressive who, upon heading the queue, presented his tumescent member. A mortified matron had the owner of the tumescence taken forthwith to the housemaster, for caning!

My first caning was for failing to present satisfactory progress on a social studies assignment. As an eleven-year-old, I had never been hit before, and the prospect, the terror, waiting outside the housemaster’s door was a torment. He had installed a nifty little system of green and red reflectors on the door. He was able to illuminate and signal from behind his closed door, adding to the overall terror. I seem to remember pissing myself, and his study floor, as that first thwack landed on my bum!

Then there were the banana custard episodes! These were regular outbreaks of ‘the shits’.  We linked it to the banana custard desserts. Imagine three boarding houses in junior school, each with maybe fifty boys. Each house had about five toilets upstairs and five, downstairs. The mayhem almost always arrived in the middle of the night. There were urgent, and extremely critical dashes for the loos, pleas, as some of the afflicted refused to vacate their cubicles!  Ah yes, definitely character-building episodes.

Another test was the late winter, early spring walk across to the gym and swimming pool complex. From Junior School, it meant a walk underneath an avenue of trees that separated the school from Limeburners Bay. It was a prime nesting ground for magpies, and they enjoyed the opportunity to swoop on any and all intruders. I don’t remember ever getting pecked, but the near misses kept everyone on their toes!

While still in the vicinity of the dining room, one of those inevitable rules was that you weren’t allowed to leave until you had finished your meal. Swede was a regular inclusion on your plate. Nobody, but nobody liked swede, except one kid from England! If you paid him a penny, you could swipe your swede across to him, and he would eat it! I suppose the extra cash went into the sweet shop, up the road.

That shop was the high point of the week for many of us. We had a shillings’ pocket money each week, and on Saturday mornings, we were allowed to make the mile-long walk up the road. The decisions, the delicious anticipation – honey bears, clinkers, licorice blocks or straps, jubes, smarties. That shilling could be spun out, with careful selection and consideration and the walk back along Biddlecomb Avenue, sugared mouthfuls, talk of the decisions, the pros and cons of a particular choice, ensured that Saturday mornings were always eagerly anticipated.

The walk to the shops passed quite close to the Shell refinery. One scientifically-minded student had researched gunpowder manufacture in the Encyclopedia Britannica. He found that mixing sulphur and charcoal would provide a reasonable equivalent. So we sometimes detoured our milk bar return to collect a little sulphur that was spilling out from the Refinery’s pile, onto the roadway. The charcoal was readily available from the groundsmen’s burning piles.

At the back of the junior school ovals, there were some evil-looking bull ant nests! Somebody had secured matches, and when a sufficient quantity of the mixture went into the nest, Mt Vesuvius erupted at Corio! Boys could be scientifically-curious!

They could also be mean little bastards. Bullying, name-calling, gossiping and priggish behaviour were almost acceptable. Relatively harmless pranks, short-sheeting somebody’s bed was a trivial example. There was the ‘cruscification’ where arms would be strapped into the verandah’s blinds, while somebody hauled on the ropes! Then there was nuggeting and the royal flush. The nuggeting of someone’s genitals with boot polish or someone upended into a freshly used toilet did happen, although it was never clear to me what if anything had triggered the ‘sporting event’.

Dorm Raids were a diversion that generally involved a lot of clandestine planning and group execution. At an appointed hour, the gang would sneak into another dormitory, and on a signal, two boys per bed would tip mattress and contents onto the floor. The number of beds upended and the speedy return to our dorms, before the prefects descended determined our success.

I experienced quite a bit of name-calling, some connected to my Uncle, at the time being reported in the national press for his loud condemnation of the US presence in Vietnam, and of Australia’s involvement. I was labelled a communist, a traitor, sometimes sent to ‘Coventry’ and generally wore the same wash as the papers were reporting of him. I was proud of his stance, but nonetheless, the labelling hurt.

It was ironic when, six or seven years later, as conscription to fill Australia’s Vietnamese contingents started to impact on some of those same young men, I began to meet them at the anti-war rallies!

I generally enjoyed my years at Corio and especially the year spent in the mountains adjacent to Mount Buller. I grew from a sickly, skinny asthmatic through, and into a bloke who could run a cross country quite well, could read, write and reason and maintain a lifetime enjoyment of Australia’s remote bush.

In long past absentia, thank you to my parents, for their brave choice and inevitable sacrifice to service those fees. Thanks also, to that school. Its commitment to rounded educational outcomes, despite its quite anachronistic embodiment of another time, enabled me to come through and into adulthood feeling somewhat worthwhile

Peccadillos and Pecados

A rake, with chips

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Peccadillos and Pecados

The €10 chip flew high, glistening in the late afternoon light as it fell. Heads. I took the right fork, Mister Chips snugly, securely back into my pocket. My once pretentious brogues, broken, flapping as the sole and uppers continued their separation, sunk into the muddy track.

Mister Chips always made the hard calls, my way forward, predestined, so to speak. I just hoped they would have memory, room for some forgiveness when they saw their prodigal, returning.

So much for my commitment never to revisit these tracts. Here I was, mostly broken, a shouldered bedroll, a black billy secured, gently bumping at my hip, and my scant provisions in a haversack – a small skillet, a couple of spuds, onions, carrots, dug from a roadside garden the other day, a small bag of flour, a twist of salt, my snares, a handline, extra hooks, and a lighter. My, how the mighty had fallen! Francois, why are you doing this? I stopped and fingered Mister Chips. He flew high, dictating that I continue. My pits released bitter staleness, my clothes ripped and stained.

I passed over the creek I played at as a youngster. My dam was in evidence, although mostly breached by many winter rains. There was the tethered rope, still thinly dangling from the overhanging branch – there had been good times, mates, dreams, adolescent plans discussed at this waterhole after school. I sat for a few quiet moments.

I had a spring in my step when I left. Dinner suit packed neatly into the Louis Vuitton suitcase, matching my future, as Mum and Dad drove me to the airport. I had written to my cousin in Nice, alerting him to my arrival, a bed, family, a base to pursue my dreams. Hobart’s casino has equipped me, I fingered Mister Chips, as my memory rewound.

Dad and I would regularly spend Saturday morning pouring over the form guide, considering jockeys, possible ‘roughies’, the short-odds favourites at Rosehill, Flemington or Glenorchy. Dad took my few shillings down with him to the TAB. We both had a few wins, enough to keep us engaged. As my stubble arrived, and my voice deepened, I was invited into the evening poker games.

The casino fitted my trajectory. At interview, I demonstrated my skills with the deck, explained via the weekly euchre games at home. I became a cadet croupier. I knew Draw, Stud and Hold’em Poker and Blackjack, but was introduced to Baccarat, and Roulette. I learnt of the hierarchy, poker machines at the bottom of the heap, the games of skill, of memory, at the head.

The school went over and over the games, from the basic plays, the handling of the shoe, feeling the chips, spinning the pea, payment protocols, common croupier lapses, what to watch out for – the spivs, their methods to blindside you, to cheat the house. It was six months of intensive, exciting labour.

The big night came with my first blackjack table. There were a few nerves, my supervisor watching, and of course, the overhead cameras alerted to my “solo” flight. But the cards were on my side, they slid effortlessly, smoothly – the game went forward without a hitch. I was away!

Over those four, Hobart years, I saw the punters, good and bad. There were the happy holiday crowds, bragging, laughter, a little drunk. There were the sweaty desperadoes, just chasing the next roll, the dudes, dinner-jacketed, pretentious, their chattering bling. There were the professional gamers, emotionless, watchful, considered. These were the punters that were the real entertainers, the ones that I could appreciate, the ones that held my attention!

From my side of the tables, it was a career that I secretly revelled in. But I needed a bigger pond. I considered the alternatives of Macau, Atlantic City or Monte Carlo. Mister Chips spun high, tails dictating that we head to Europe.

So here I was, sitting with my luggage. There had been no familiar faces as I cleared Immigration at Nice. An hour, I waited and sure enough, cousin Pierre eventually came running along the concourse, “…the bloody traffic, merde” as he kissed left, right and grabbed for my luggage.

His car was impressive, a little convertible number, the canopy down, the summer heat blowing over us as we headed west towards his Antibes flat. High chalky cliffs on the right, the bluest blue water on the left, beaches, sand, deckchairs, sunshine and deep shade. Money oozed – the cars, poodled-pedestrians, skimpily-clad chicks, the locked, gated villas, the date palmed avenues, even the birds seem to have a glint in their eyes. Yep, this was where my life was really going to start!

The interview panel were impressed, albeit there would be regulatory formalities to transfer my licensing from Hobart to Monaco. That happened, and I was working the main floor, small-timers, maximum bets €1,000, Roulette, Baccarat, Blackjack.

The constant, mooted conflation of canned music, laughter, the tinkle of glassware, the roulette’s hollow, bouncing pea, the croupier’s call, last bets “dernieres mises” an intoxicating, heady fog that comfortably encircled my being! I was back in the play, I could feel that certain je ne sais quoi, a sense of arrival.

The nightly commute from Antibes became a pain. I found a flat much closer, in Nice and moved in with Brigitte, from the High-Roller’s room. There were a lot of laughs, late afternoons before work, on furlough, bubbles, the clubs, the lines, eventually tumbling into an occasional intimacy. We had it all, for a while!

A group of us, mostly Casino staff, fell into a regular poker game. Five of us, in the pre-dawn hours, at shift’s end, secretly playing, sometimes continuing through to dinner-jacketed employ. Lines replaced sleep, means started to fail, skipped meals, ragged edges were appearing.

There was some discussion around the table of possible security anomalies, camera blind spots, consistent staff lapses at shift changes. Our games intensified, the ante increased, we were regularly playing for ten hours straight. Opportunities to beat the house were being explored. Alcohol, weed and mounting losses drove the discussions more intently.

Our proposed scam was refined and trialled successfully. Cashflows were resecured, I walked taller until the gendarme approached me in the changerooms. I ran up against the French Justice system, learning that its Riverian subset had a particular meanness when it sensed that its’ main source of income was under threat.

I met a hardened mob inside Baumettes’ penitentiary! Scammers, pimps, several innocent murderers, thieves, drug dealers, a few casino staff convicted, as I, after perceiving and exploring Casino weaknesses.

Over the years I learned to survive. I lost my habit, my innocence, my French language improved, albeit I was to learn that some of it was not recommended for polite society! I worked for several years in the infirmary, a year or so in the library, also in the kitchen. Mister Chips and I continued to consider the options, reduced as they were, but we occupied time.

My cousin Pierre came to visit every few months, driving the 180 kilometres down to Marseilles. The stories of his doings, his Antibes antique’s export business, broke up some of the monotony. But he returned to Hobart three years after I went inside.

Mum used to write, her birthday card always included gum leaves. Tears usually followed, a small expression of remorse, shared with Mister Chips in the privacy of my cell. She included snippets, sometimes cuttings from the Mercury, family events, my brother’s marriage, the arrival of two children, my nephews! The letters stopped, a year or so after Pierre went back!

I was eventually released, extradited, at the Republic’s expense, back to Melbourne. My prison allowance provided a modest nest egg. I had Mister Chips. He suggested I head for Hobart and family. I wasn’t even sure anybody was still there, alive, that might remember me. I think it was a first, but I went against Mister Chips and chose the banks of the Goulburn River.

I spent the next eight years on the river, walking, sitting, thinking. I joined a regional library, finding contemplative introspection in Sartre, Marx, Nietzsche. I was quietly content, Mister Chips remained pocketed, mostly retired. Librarians and shopkeepers provided my scant tag to humanity.

I made do, usually able to find shelter, as needed. Summer fruit, autumn spuds, rabbits, sometimes roadkill. Winters could be a bit sparse, but hey, I was making different calls now. Odd jobs provided a basic cash flow, kept me in tobacco, matches, an occasional beer. I sometimes missed Mister Chip’s directives, but there was an inner contentment with my lot. Even in retirement, he provided the rationalization, a window into my being, and friendship.

The seasons rolled on. A fisherman found me and got me to the local hospital. A terminal diagnosis came as a not unexpected, quite appropriate punctuation!

I had help with the ferry fare across to Devonport. I walked and hitched down south. I wondered if Mum would remember me?

 

The North

Farewell to Darwin

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in The North

“Do ya wanna come out sailing wid us tomarraw?” Bill proffered? “Meet yas down at Sadgroves Wharf pontoon at 4.30. Bring some tucker and booze.” For all that, they left me sitting forlornly on the pontoon. I self-consciously hollered, somebody else took up the theme and banged a fuel drum. Attention was achieved, a tender dispatched and I was aboard, meeting fellow traveler, Tad, a teacher at Nightcliff School, ex Grote Eylandt and Milikapiti chalky and a long flowing beard.

The lines caste, we set sail for the middle of Darwin harbour. The gentle breeze flapped the sails as we moved through the lines of several moored yachts. The US Navy was in town with a battle-gray machine tied up at the main wharf. Early diners sat sipping Chardonnay. A couple of cattle boats and other assorted steel moved at anchor as we drifted out into clear water.

I was instructed to steer for a point on the distant Mandorah shore while Tad and Bill arranged sails, did ropey things and generally settled the “Aquatica” into sailing order. The sun was sinking toward Perth as we started to relax, a light smoke haze ensuring that the sunset would be spectacular. In the east, a pregnant horizon confirmed that a full moon was expected shortly. A joint and dolmades were passed around. Why hadn’t I done more sailing as a Darwin resident?

I was in town to bid farewell to friends, to the Stonehouse and to a lifestyle that had supported Catherine, Caleb Lilian and I over the past quarter of a century. Things associated with the house were mostly resolved, it really did look like the sale of Radford Road was proceeding smoothly and our links with the Top End of the Northern Territory were being eased off the bollard.

Nostalgia was on the breezes and was testing resolve. But the move south was standing up well to the proffered insinuations. It was a delight to return briefly, but I knew that all was well in the south.

“Stand bye to come about.” “All hands to the ropes” and “Chris, the tiller, no, away from your body, please. Yep, great, more, yep, that’s sensational” The boat hesitated, but then responded, slicing a smooth curve through the water as we set a new course. More dolmades, another joint? Well, why not!

Tad was telling Bill and I about another chapter in his life – as a buffalo shooter out on the Mudginberri Plains with Frank McCloud. The images of boat, sails, water, evening lights from Darwin and another yacht is powerful stuff. The lights in the clouds! Wow, grab the camera. Is it possible to maneuver the yacht so that camera can record the moment? Yep, great. Sou’westward hosted the suggestion of rain with wet seasonal blue-blackness. The orange sunset had happened and was turning dirty but the moon was ready to compensate with its huge milky presence moving rapidly away from the mangroves.

Tad and Bill were debating the efficiencies of having the jib tighter, the rigging squared and the what-not juried. Authority and experience were being tested. Who’s turn to roll the next number?  Olives anyone? I should have brought another roll of film. The visuals combine deliciously with the wind in my face, the excitement, the thrill of achievement as gained confidence has the boat responding predictably beneath my tentative tiller-work.

Caleb and I have talked about getting a small yacht – well a ‘trailer-sailor’ that we could quietly take lessons with, probably at Clayton, on Lake Alexandrina. Summer weekends with all of us thrilling to the notion of moving with the breezes aboard our own little boat. Formal lessons to start with, then gain experience.

Tad regales us with another spectacular part of his life as the boat tacks across the western side of the Harbour. Bill’s face records words, wind and dope in detached delight as his boat displays personality, temperament and appreciation of the outing. I become absorbed in colours, sensations, emotions and sense that this is a finale’ par excellence. Parallels with a fishing trip to Bynoe Harbour with Caleb, Tony Fitz, Tony Haritoz, et al. I contemplate the quirks of life that have my love for the sea, fostered from childhood excursions into the Bay, flathead gathering with Dad and John, against a reality that I have spent 20 years or so beside the sea and only occasionally ventured there upon.

We are becalmed, tacking back and forth between Doctor’s Gully and some lights that Bill explains indicate reefs and dangerous places out there in the dark. The zephyrs are just not coming from the right direction. What about the spinnaker? Bill and Tad have ideas – two different ones! Some testy words, the captaincy asserted and a spinnaker is set out on a jib, a boom, the stick! Wow, it feels and looks as good as it does on televised Boxing Day departures. I stand at the front of the boat, hanging onto the wire holding the mast. I gaze upwards into the billowed sail. This is what sailors get off on. There is a power here. We have borrowed the wind, it offers its strength for a while, staying with us as it moves thoughtfully around the curved space behind the sail. I am a spectator to a contained happening and it is a heady experience.

We gain easterly direction back towards the main wharf, with the naval light-bedecked super structure, the evening diners at the Wharf. The wind is picking up strength, a few drops of rain, or spray? Bill and Tad are thrilling to the boat’s response as it drops its shoulder, the better to harness the wind. The left-hand side of the boat dips towards the water as it starts to race. Bill yells, Tad whistles. I start to wonder whether the boat can tip over. We race across the Harbour.

Crack. Fuck, what was that? The captain issues considered instruction. I attend, adrenaline moving, thinking that my life depends upon swift, correct reactions. Above us the spinnaker defiantly holds the wooden jibby bit aloft, pointing to the stars in a defiant reminder of our mere mortality.

The ripped sail is hauled down under the critical eye of wharf diners, I vaguely hear applause of our performance as the captain asserts control. “Wow, that was amazing. Did you feel the boat?” OK, now Chris, hold this. No, closer to the body, yes, that’s OK and steer for the mangroves. Great.

The sails were reset and we slipped from under the gaze of US sailors as we moved into Sadgroves Creek. “Mooring’s up ahead. Tad, have you got it? Sensational. OK now whose turn to roll another joint?”

In the quiet of the Creek, freed wind now moves gently through the rigging and there is time to contemplate the action, the splendour and the adventure of an evening spent sailing on Darwin Harbour. I think about the move South and the irony of tasting this experience on the eve of my final departure. The final joint is lit!

Domestics

Addiction

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Domestics

I stopped smoking last Sunday night, October 8th, 2006 a couple of weeks short of my 57th birthday! I had fallen off the twig last June, eagerly anticipating company at ATE, a little tobacco-laced joint was all that it took to get those warm, fuzzy tobacco thoughts pumping again. So four months on and it is time to get my defences back on track, to arm myself with new resolve, new armour and a knowledge that this is IT!

I carefully husbanded the dregs of the tobacco pouch through until I was able to role only a very small zephyr late on Sunday night. “That was it”, I acknowledged at the kitchen sink as I choked down a large glass of water. Water was the trick – a large glass every time I felt the urge for a smoke. I mentally started to tick off the list of smoking associates to be avoided, the likely triggers I would be encountering over the next few weeks. I reviewed my past errors, the tragic lapses and made notes.

Monday morning arrived and I got out of bed with the anticipatory thoughts of what was next. I wandered into the kitchen and instantly came up short with the memory of resolve. Water – some green cordial made it the easier to swallow.

Day One had commenced. No smoking bans and a workstation 10 floors above the pavement were advantages. I found myself mentally gearing up for a smoke all too often. I was into the water in a big way and combined with a dodgy prostate saw me wearing the already threadbare carpet between the office and the dunny down to its underlay.

An interesting revelation occurred around lunchtime on Day Two. While my body was awash with umpteen litres of water, I became aware of the process of addiction. I stood outside of me and made notes, quite objectively and with a delicious sense of triumph – I’ve got your measure – you bastard!

In moments of total absorption, I became aware of a feeling, a thought, a misty cloud wanting to envelope me in anticipatory warmth, offering goodness, even nirvana. The ‘cloud’ entered my psyche, growing and developing – this wonderful sense of happiness just beyond my here and now. It grew with extraordinary intensity. I was finding myself preparing for pursuit, standing at my desk, tapping my breast pocket for reassurance of pouch and lighter’s presence.

As my non-smoking confidence grew, I found myself able to objectively identify these approaching ‘warm and fuzzies’, and to bolster my defences. “Hey – I know who and what you are! Piss off, get away, I am a non-smoker.”

At Day Five, I am drinking less water. I am arriving at ‘warm and fuzzy’s-door less often and can now even smile, confident in the knowledge that I am able to simply sidestep the message effectively. I am still wary of other smokers and while today I am travelling with a casual smoker, have rung ahead and asked that she doesn’t bring ANY tobacco with her.

I move on, one day at a time but know that as a non-smoker, I will not ever smoke tobacco again.

Post script. It is 13th April, 2010 – I have had two cigarettes in the intervening period. I still have a craving – however brief and note that I still inhale deeply as nearby smokers exhale. The difference now is that I am NOT a smoker. I have the craving but my armour thickens as the year’s roll on. I am a pain in the arse to smokers – if it keeps me straight, I don’t care.

The North

Cazneaux’s Tree

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in The North

Lynette and I have been travelling the trade circuit together for years, selling South Australia at shows in London, Berlin, Brisbane, Sydney, New York, Melbourne and Adelaide. Flights, airports and hotels. Lost luggage, set ups, knock downs, smiles and flu. The glamour of travel!

We also share a passion for painting; both dabblers with many foreign nights spent over a shared red debating the merits of Payne’s Grey over Vermilion skies, the frustrations of Heysenesque gums and Centralian light.

She has been badgering me for as long as I can remember to manipulate the diary and head north, where she and her husband run a Resort. This time her call caught me off guard. It had been a bugger of a week; it took about ten seconds to argue the toss. I rang a couple of clients, finding a pressing engagement. “OK for the following week …Yep? Great! I see’ll you then, then.” and left.

I was grinning from ear to ear by the time I got home. I dislodged a couple of redback spiders ensconced in the swag and dusted off the tucker box. I had recently finished pickling last season’s olives and took a generous measure from the tub in the cellar. Lynette always liked my chili, garlic and rosemary brew. She reckons they deliver the perfect entrée for a ‘serious session’.

Four bottles of ‘98 Bernoota should do the trick as I checked my supply of primaries, chucked the paints, a couple of boards, easel, a spare pair of stubbies, jocks and socks into the ute and hit the road. It was as simple as that!

As I drove north, I mused on just how easy it had been to give the office the flick. Mmmm. Food for thought as I delicately balanced the steering wheel on my left knee and rolled a smoke.

The country was getting drier and a hot wind blew through the cab, bringing with it the outback; the smells, the dust and the inevitable couple of blowies. Ahhh, it was great to be back!

The bitumen ran out and the gravel stretched straight for miles, the ute kicking up a billowing cloud as Pavarotti’s huge interpretation of Verdi’s Il Duce, from Rigoletto matched perfectly the rising walls of the Ranges riding shotgun to my passing. I sensed the Maestro bouncing back from the reddening rock walls and again found myself reflecting on wasted, desk-bound time.

Lights were softening to pinks and what I knew as a deft wash of Payne’s Grey as the evening brought a peaceful endorsement to my errant flight to the Flinders’ Ranges. I stopped to open the homestead gate, took a leak and rolled another smoke. Those cliffs never fail to get me going; a little slurp of Burnt Sienna, a tad of Raw Umber and Coral Red mixed into a generous dollop of Cream White will do the trick – tomorrow.

Last light silhouetted a huge old gum, creek-side and just to the right of the track.  Its scarred and battered self, insecurely anchored with roots exposed from innumerably floods looked promising.  I made a mental note to come again.

But I silently cursed that third bottle of red and the several nightcaps as Lynette suggested next morning that we walk down to the creek running past the Resort, past the homestead and off across the plains.  I gathered my scattered mind, paints and boards and shortly stood beneath last night’s tree – a being of huge proportions, proudly matching this broad expansive landscape.

Clean, creamy limbs are streaked with Cadmium Yellow, Burnt Sienna and the dag-ends off the pallet while delinquent branches abruptly angular, grey, capped and truncated reach for the sky. Flood-washed, tangled roots belie unending drought but it stands sentinel, defiant – able to match the next millennium.

Lynette fills me in on the history of the tree as we paint. Apparently, some guy named Cazneaux photographed the tree in the ‘30s – the photo going on to become an iconic symbol for the spirit of the Diggers in the Second World War. We paint on and we return, slapping paint happily onto canvas, the evenings spent slumped comfortably. An open fire, music, good red, companionship and days passing easily as we paint … that tree.

I idly ponder whether new and pressing engagements can delay my southern recall, again?

Poems

Paperbark wasps

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Poems

While paper makes up half their name

The sting suggests less tamer game

Falls prey, this an idle thought, for what

I need be giving is a lethal swat!

 

“Just grab the hose and lift it over that shrub, will ya”. At that moment, beachside, at Milikapiti, on Melville Island, all hell breaks loose. She screams, dances, runs round insanely, yelling hysterically, painfully. It took a moment to absorb the scene, but I run, inevitably joining the dance of the three hundred, wasps zeroing left, swipe, right, swipe, above and below, swipe, targeting two, as easy as one.

Such teeny small, weeny things,

nary a cent twould fit be-twixt their wings,

but packed complete with kryptonite

They leave a horrible, deadly bite

The beasties even come inside

To inspect the damage to our hide

We run and curse and flap abit

The ‘Mortein’ delivers a needed king-hit.

 

Red, raw, bleeding lumps grow menacingly, as clothes are stripped away and we sink, crammed into a hurriedly filled, calamine-infused bath. Seven minutes.

We eventually pick at each other; tweezers employed to draw the barbs. Tears, hiccups, blubbering easing, heart rates slowing, even reflective laughter at our intimate encounter with the beasties. Twenty minutes.

I am on alert for anaphylaxis. We sit en-bathed, refilled oft times for warmth, as we talk of the onslaught. Sixty minutes.

Heck, did I turn the hose off?

The North

Diesel fuel and I

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in The North

A hint of daylight still on the horizon, an evening chill descending, recent drizzle in evidence. My phone rings. “Help! I’m on the side of the freeway – out of fuel!” Diesel, of course, with all the issues that that entails.

The good part of this story – he was only about forty minutes away. “Yep OK, I will get a jerry can and fuel at the servo, as we leave town. I’ll bring some jumper leads and the snatch strap, just in case. Yep, no worries. OK, yep. What, what was that?” He mentions that there had been a bad accident on the eastbound lanes – a bus and truck collision, and traffic backed up for kilometres. “Yep, when you get to Gordon, turn off, head inland a few clicks until you see the old Ballan Road, turn into it and at Ballan, come back onto the westbound freeway. You will see me ten k’s up the road!”

It’s been ages since we went out at night. Catherine keeps me company, moral support as we set off into the dark, dankness.

It has stopped raining by the time we arrive. God, how I hate diesel fuel! The jumper leads provide umbilical connection between our cars. There is an asthmatic whirring, nothing else.  “There’ll be air in the fuel line, I betcha!”

A long story, cut short. Caravans and camper trailers, trucks whizzing past, inches from my window as we crawl along the emergency stopping lane. Our orange emergency blinkers hopefully illustrate our plight to the relentless holiday traffic. 20 kilometres per hour, ten k’s to get the car off the freeway, to gain some overnight refuge, relative safety from vandals stripping an abandoned vehicle.

He bled the lines next morning. His car fired, first thing.

It has been many years since I towed anything, let alone at night, but tension, a little fear and a good dose of adrenalin brought memories of another distant, diesel encounter. Fifty years earlier!

Docker River – Kaltukatjara, 240 kilometres west of Uluru, against the Western Australian border. Saturday morning, Tjungari, the designated generator refueler, in his rush to join a hunting party, had forgotten to pump up the fuel. The community’s power went down.

In the early 70s, the three traditional bush encampments, the Pitjantjatjara, Ngaatjatjarra/Pintubi and the Yankuntjatjarra areas had minimal electrical reticulation – mostly just our small shop’s chillers and freezer, the lean-to shed, serving as our medical clinic, the Ganger’s house and several, clustered caravans housing the nurses, teachers and I. I waited in my caravan for something to happen. Evidently, others did the same.

I wandered down to the generator-shed. The 6 KVA Southern Cross sat forlorn; quietly cooling down, waiting. OK, so what do I need to do? I’ll refuel the bugger, for a starter.

I roll two 44-gallon drums into position and pump the fuel up into the overhead tank. I hit the ‘Go’ button. The battery was good, but a phlegmy, throaty grinding noise was all it could manage. I cursed passionately.

For six hours I dicked around with that bloody motor. I fiddled with the red handled lever, I turned a green knob on and off. I prayed for instructive help, even divine intervention would have been acceptable! I sporadically hit the ‘Go’ button to no avail. Nobody else came across to the shed. My knuckles, wits and spirit were bloody.

Our monthly Alice Springs supply truck arrived at 4pm. Ian Lovegrove saw me in the shed, stopped and listened to my woes. “Have ya bled the injectors?” “What?” “The injectors, ya gotta bleed em, to get the air outta the fuel lines.” I had no idea what he was talking about.

Ian figured that, as he found the wrench and undid #1 injector. He pumped the little handle on the side of the motor. “See that frothy stuff? Air comin’ out!” He retightened the injector and went along the other five cylinders, cracking and pumping each in turn. “Give her a belt now” and with a deep throated, purposeful grunt, the little green machine churned back into life. Did I just see a withering look pass between the gen set and Ian? Ten minutes against my six bloody, fucking hours!

God, I hate diesel engines. Wouldn’t ever own a diesel car, not on your bloody life!

History

The swill

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in History

There would be restrictive outcomes flowing from ‘joining the dots’, and despite several hours spent considering our options, none of them made sense! Church and promised salvation versus a slaked thirst. There would be considerable inconveniences, … and well, bugger it, the arguments went so far up our nostrils that we were finding it difficult to sneeze! We weren’t going to be pushed into something so devilishly evil.

The circling discussion echoed off the old cream tiles, as the mob got down to some serious choogling of the frothy amber liquid. “What about joining those fuckin’ dots? Fuckin bullshit. Bloody irrelevant, if yas arsks me,” proffered Bluey, his beer resting on the beermat as he battled with wet papers, sticky fingers, a damp lighter and a growing frustration with his inability to get the smoke lit.

Bluey had the floor. “That bloody Jack Kane, the DLP-stooge wants to continue the prohibition on Sunday trading. We working blokes gotta stand together. No more of this junk, we gotta back John Cain and the Sunday openin’ push. The missus and kids can still go to church.”  The assembled heads nodded in agreement. Someone gave Florence the nod “nother round, please Flo”, as the bloody dots’ conundrum continued to circulate around the bar stools.

Florence knew ‘em all, had been serving them drinks for a decade or more: knew that Bluey liked a dash; Johnno had a splash of raspberry, and Bill only ever drank his beer in a pony. Their swearing came with the job: she practised giving as good as she got, and she emptied the bar with the rule that the last person out wasn’t served for the next week. Clearing out was never a problem!

A young sheila helped Flo at the bar from 5 o’clock. The furniture factory down the road regularly delivered forty or so thirsty throats, eager to breast the bar right up to the ‘last drinks’ call.

As the clock ticked down towards six, Flo came into her own; able to pour and deliver six pots quicker than a speeding ticket! The youngster was learning, but a cheer went up as she dropped four pots onto the deck!

The hose came in at six thirty every night, just after the local coppers had been in for their nightly ‘complimentaries’. No matter how much water was delivered, the combination of stale smoke, sweaty armpits and the sulphureous aroma of old piss created its own, possibly lethal funk. The young sheila gagged when she first started, but Flo sailed through with nary a snuffle.

Flo was back opening the bar at ten the following morning, Dettol a recent, tell-tale addition to the efforts to freshen the space.

Politics

Pate fluff and fleece …

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Politics

What exactly are your bi-monthly trips to the hair salon about? Are they insecurities coming to the fore, your fear of aging, of possible relevance deprivation? Are they countering a potential loss of virility, a perceived threat from the young Turks?

You walk around the office bleating about grey hair; glancing in mirrors, window glass, and even into the large shiny trophy that sits in the Board room. It is now a standing joke about your ‘incidental’ glances, into whatever reflective surface crosses your path!

Are you aware there is a photograph of you pinned to the wall in the downstairs loo, head tilted towards a large soup spoon you are holding – presumably just snitching a closer look for any encroaching greyness? Have you read the caption underneath? “Black hair matters…!”

You and your mate’s preoccupation with hair, or lack thereof, is drawing hundreds of media articles every week. You have created a distraction from our campaign. The media now follows your pate, its encircling fluff, and your mate’s secured “golden fleece”, both having attained their own aura, the photojournalist’s must-have, essential pic.

Do we really need to listen to your cacophony about the greying of your tonsure? OK, OK not strictly a tonsure, but your head muff. The decision to paint over your ensuite’s mirror, with red paint, for Christ’s sake! As our Il Capo, maybe you are taking things just a little bit too seriously.

Do you understand that about two-thirds of men suffer some degree of hair and pigmentation loss? Most accept it graciously, albeit probably with some wistful nostalgia, memories of former glories.

Do you think your behaviour goes unnoticed? You deny the obsession’s existence, ignoring your colleague’s advice for an adroit awakening, of the need to accept some graceful aging. Consider reducing your workloads and resist that extra double espresso in the morning. These are all consequential! Things could all end badly, suddenly. Your constellation might implode, with a mighty exhalation.

After the media captured, and maliciously posted your most recent hair-malfunction, don’t you think it’s time?  The spectacle of that goo moving slowly down your face. That went around the evening TV bulletins nicely. Not your finest hour, and again, just a serious distraction from the real task at hand – the positioning of fake news!

Hey, you’ve got so little of the furry stuff left, why are you bothering with the pretence? Are you really just trying to keep up with the blonde cowlick? Imagine for a moment, you’re in Fantasyland, and it all went black again, do you really think that your colleagues, the media, or even the El Presidente would think any more or less of you?

The ol’ pate-muff needs to take a backseat. It’s not alopecia, or a failing, it’s just your body talking to you. Let’s present the real you! Let’s start planning your relaunch. What could you call it? Maybe “My muff and I” OK, just joking. But you really do need to reconsider the priorities at stake here.

Domestics

A shared wok

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Domestics

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.

Childhood Memories

Chocks Away

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Childhood Memories

“Granpa, high-yer, sing high-yer.” Giggling from both me and three-year-old Thomas continued as the old tyre was brought back to deliver an almighty swing. Wheeeee – Thomas’ long golden hair swept back off his face, as the tyre, Thomas and his angelic features flew through the late summer twilight.

My memory wandered. Grandpa had bought my favourite, Vanilla ‘Wafer’. The nurse told me off for dripping it onto the sheet. I had a clunky, heavy plaster on my arm, too!

Sixty-five years earlier, I had had those same bird-like fantasies, flying, weightless, up, up and away, higher than the Faraway Tree, as my cousin – she was only four – did the ‘heavy lifting’.  Oh, how I flew!

It was on one of those flights that I honed my plans to construct a parachute. I would need much higher ground than the swing afforded, maybe one of the big banksias, or from the top of the fence, or the shed roof? I anticipated that finding a suitable launch site wasn’t going to be an issue.

The sheet off my bed would make the best ‘chute. I had studied the picture in the Biggles Annual – yep, the sheet would do the trick. I still had to figure out how to get me and the sheet harnessed together, as contrary to the pictured ‘blueprint’, I didn’t have silk string.

I took my plan onto the bus, and to school. During recess, I discussed my ideas with Frankie and Sylvie, my two best mates. Sylvie suggested cutting holes in the sheet for my arms. Mmmm that might work. I wondered if Mum would notice? Unlikely, as all she ever did was throw them on the line. I could put the bits back into the holes before she’d see.

“Granpa, sing high-yer. Sing high-yer, Granpa” came an exasperated intrusion into my reverie. I was back on the job, getting that tyre to arc beautifully from the salmon gum on my daughter’s bush block. The evening light mellowed our surrounds, even tamed the pesky, biting midges.

My hero always wore a ‘chute. It was hanging around his bum, as he climbed into his Sopwith Camel. The harness? I had it. I would tie a couple of loops in the edges of the sheet, put my arms through and ‘hey Presto’, job done!

I was going to need a couple of days to work everything through. The weekend would give me the perfect break. I discussed my plans with my cousin. She had agreed to be my ‘Jump Sergeant’. The schedule was set for after school next Tuesday.

The sandpit under the Banksia was the launch site. I had the sheet with the corners tied off, my arms through the loops and I climbed, with difficulty, up onto the limb. I didn’t get the same magical feeling that I got when I read Biggles, but the Jump Sergeant had started the count down. “Eight, five, four, seven, three, two, one, ready-set-go; chocks away!” I jumped.

“Gran-paaaa. Sing high-yer”.

Family

Loosely hanging

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Family

Sandy: that’s me.  I’m quite down in the dumps, despite it being Tuesday and the day before my psych appointment. Contrary to my usual upbeat self, a depression is descending, unexpected, unanticipated. I have a need to find some higher ground.

The lowness is probably explained by a decision to stop taking my meds. It is a considered position, taken only after sitting in the park for hours, every day, debating the options.

As I sit on the bench, Kookaburras are laughing in some nearby trees, a mob of sparrows squabble over somebody’s forgotten sandwich and the nearby bed of roses is intoxicating. Even the warm sunshine, challenging the dark, threatening clouds in the west, are all on my side. Yep, everything is looking up.

On top of it all, my Centrelink schedules are going well. There aren’t any ‘incidents’ to report, no run-ins with the law, Mrs O’Flarerty, my landlady, is happy. I reckon she likes me; probably my new beard.

I keep my room tidy, although there isn’t enough cupboard space to unpack my duffle. Funny, but I did notice a little jam jar of petunias in my room the other day. I’ll tell her not to come in, that’s an invasion of privacy. I mean, she might spring me doing sumpin’.

Caufield, my Centrelink go-to man, me Case Manager, is optimistic too, happy at the way I handle the fortnightly interview, happy with the paperwork, the verbal updates I give him. But I notice he raises an eyebrow when I suggest we go outside for a toke. He concludes the session with the advice that my payments will be continuing, albeit with a slight reduction to reflect my unauthorised purchase of ‘weed’ last week.

I feel quite distracted when I leave his office, wondering how the hell they found out about the little pouch of ‘relaxant’ I scored. Was somebody spying on me, was the dealer a bloody stooge? I betcha it is that dude in the red shirt, standing at the bar of the pub – I notice the way he was looking at me, as I palm the deal?

I hear about Centrelink’s electronic robots. Can they smell it in my room, maybe it is still on me breath, from the steadier I had toked in the street, outside their offices? Ya gotta be careful, they’re always looking.

They could be bastards, sometimes. Not so much Caufield, but others handled the system like the cash was coming from their own fucking accounts! I betcha it is that bloke at the pub, that fucking arsehole. Jees, he needs to mind his own fuckin’ business. It’s me own money, it is just a hundred grams. Fuck it. I decide to pop in there and give him a bit of what’o! That’ll teach him to mind his own fuckin’ business.

But I forget which pub. I pause and roll a small zephyr. Where is that bloody pub? Bugger the lot of ‘em! The pricks! How dare they

Animals

Good students survive

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Animals

It was one of those oft-repeated family stories that just wouldn’t go away. My parents loved me dearly, but did they have to tell the neighbours, repetitiously, at every opportunity? “Moloch is so clever”, “Moloch never misses his classes”, Moloch this, Moloch that, blah. It was an embarrassment and as I got older, I took on the added baggage of my surname. Moloch Horridus, it was like I was carrying an extra tonne on my back.

We lived in the Outback desert, 600 kilometres northwest of Alice Springs. The days were warm to hot, nights usually cool, although when the sun was away off in the north, things changed dramatically. The ground would freeze overnight and the family usually spent long periods in our underground cave, avoiding the worst of the weather. We even retreated there on the hottest summer days. It was like the family was embalmed – we all just slowed things down, hunkered, and waited for things to moderate!

I had a couple of friends to play with, we took lessons together every day of those first few months. But one of my mates, the guy sometimes called a rogue by the elders, suddenly disappeared. One moment we were in class, the next, there was a great commotion, a big black presence swooped, and he was gone!

You might think drinking water would be a problem in the desert, but the family had developed tricks. Generations of my forebears had learnt to harvest the dew, dew settling on the plants, even dew that condensed on our skin, with a method honed over the millennia, of increasing the water’s viscosity, so enabling it to be channelled, without loss, towards our mouths – problem solved.

We learnt how to avoid potential enemies. There were several elements to learn, my mate had been too smart to learn them! They were clever. I was taught to inflate my body to look bigger, also to duck my head down between my front legs, exposing a headlike bump on my neck, as a decoy.

Then there was the trick of changing my skin colour. This was the one I liked best, surreptitiously watching the look of irritation on the faces of my attacker. One moment a light yellowy-orange, then with a flick of a switch, I could change to dark greeny-grey. While my nemesis was contemplating the camouflage, I was slipping away! I learnt that we borrowed this trick ages ago, from our distant cousins, still living in South America.

Hang on. There’s more. I also learnt to adopt a staggered gait. If threatened, I was to walk slowly, stopping often, swaying back and forth and again, creating bewilderment, as the cover for flight. Easy peasy.

And tucker – mobs of it. I was taught to plant myself adjacent to an ant trail – they were everywhere – extend my sticky tongue, and hey presto, thousands of ants, every day, just for the taking.

For a Thorny, problems were a distant consideration. If lessons are followed, life’s good.

Imagined

The quiz night

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Imagined

“What can be given to the dying, lives in the sea and/or grows in the desert”, asked the Quizmaster? I saw Jason surreptitiously picking his nose: we all noticed, urgh, wondering how this moron got onto our team! He had BO too, and that shirt, complete with deodorant stains, hadn’t been ironed, either! You’d think Beryl would be embarrassed to be out with him. Apparently not!

Mitzi gave a heave of her not inconsiderable chest, moving into a more prominent position and proffered “What about a drink of water?” Nathan, ever the clever dick, clearly suffering irritation at Mitzi’s early posit, huffily threw to the team “It’s a thorny problem for the Reef, a succulent and I believe Jesus was offered a sample!” We all thought for a moment; John considered “…in the desert, ah … oh yes. The Crown of Thorns”, a collective nodding and Jenny, our Scribe, recorded the answer. Mitzi sulked!

“Question fourteen. What is the ancient process for forestalling decomposition?” Jason hissed “Embalming”, we agreed, and Jenny’s pencil obliged.

A break. Nathan and I went to the bar and ordered another round. “Three Sauv Blancs, a half Guinness, two house reds and two of those special rhubarb liqueurs, thanks.” I’d seen Beryl demolish one of these Rhubarb numbers earlier – they looked deadly! I watched as measures of orange juice, orange liqueur, vodka, rum, candied orange, a shake of Angostura, pulped rhubarb and ice were brought together.  The fruity-looking concoction was poured into two generous glasses. “Two Viscosity Slammers!” announced the barman.

The room settled back into competitive mode. “Fifteen. When did the last known Thylacine die?” A deeply seated Maureen sprang forward in her chair – “Nineteen thirty … arrr … six” she confidently offered, and went back to sipping her Sauv.

“Sixteen. How many people involved in a duumvirate?”

The final questions were closing in. There were throat-clearing coughs, squished, restless bums were wriggled, a trouser-toot was politely ignored, competitive glances made across to neighbouring tables, conspiratorial whisperings.

Our rogue member, Nick, was reviewing our answers. Self-appointed El Capitano, he was a terrier at these nights. He was known to argue the toss, to challenge answers, recently replacing his miniature Britannica set with an Apple Smartphone linked permanently to Missus Google. He projected ‘unassailable’ – but to us, he was an embarrassment.

The third round of drinks appeared; my second Viscosity was going to impact my composure.  But they were wonderful! What the heck?

“Three”, said John. Nick spun on his heel. “What?” “Three” John repeated and went on to explain that ‘Du’ means three in Latin, similar to the French ‘deux’. “Oh shit. Hang on. I meant to say two!” Nick delivered a withering look. Maureen thought it meant ‘Whitlam’, but was told by Beryl to shut up. “What was the question”, asked Mitzi, at which point she spilt her wine across our answer sheet. Nick swore!

I had to join another team. Nick: jees, a right royal pain, a prick by any other name

Imagined

Marjorie Sweetman’s nectar

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Imagined

“Look, if we follow your suggestion, we’ll be in deep shit. I mean, we can’t just break her arms: what if somebody sees them?”

We’d been wrestling with the issue for about forty minutes, and really, we were no closer to a solution. Two issues – Majorie Sweetman had reached PORM (premature-onset rigor mortis), long before we had settled her into her final viewing position – her arms were standing out like Christ, the Redeemer, directing the faithful above Rio! And we had run out of formaldehyde before completing her embalming. It was Easter Saturday; our suppliers were closed! Her funeral was scheduled for Tuesday.

“OK, let’s not panic, we agree her RM will start to reverse by midnight, tonight. Right?” There was a shuffling, general agreement among the two assistants, willing to accept the judgement of the mortician, happy also for a diversion from their admitted failure to maintain formaldehyde stocks.

Dr Jake Boode, Mortician, a rogue escapee from the grind of General Practice, seizing a perceived opportunity for early riches via the recently departed. He sat on the stainless benchtop; his Smartphone already in service.

A few grunts, a chuckle, the reflection bouncing from his screen, off the acres of stainless steel, lending a quite surreal lighting to his features. “Honey, ah, yep, that’ll do it, honey, we’re gunna need gallons of the stuff. It worked for Alexander the Great, it’ll work for us!” He continued, “the viscosity, combined with its antibacterial properties.”

The three of us worked the supermarkets. Easter presented a problematic barrier, but by seven that evening, we had assembled every jar and tube of Capilano, Bendigo, Manuka or raw branded supply in metro Sydney.

The honey was about 100 mls deep inside the coffin, at which point somebody noticed it starting to pool on the floor. Was this a thorny problem? Maybe more like a sticky problem! Jake got an identical coffin from the stockroom. We removed the satin lining carefully. Candles – from the chapel – we each grabbed a couple, lit them and waxed the timber generously.

One or two leaks were plugged with additional drippings.  Midnight and she was finally malleable, dressed, made up and slipping into the 300 mils of honey smoothly. Jake pronounced, “we’re set to go”, and a long day, albeit with a few irritations, closed.

Tuesday’s service went well. We apologised for the mix up, re the family’s request for a ‘viewing’, explaining that “… best not too, in the circumstances …” allaying any further discussion. There was some mention of the sweetness permeating the chapel, again explained in terms of the new brand of candles we were using.

The assembled family and friends departed, tears comforted, condolences expressed. Marjorie was parked, waiting for cremation and the Parlour’s routines were re-established, almost!

At ‘firing’, my God, that honey. The oven-door simply erupted, spewing thin spirals of viscous liquid across the entire crematorium. It took gallons of formaldehyde and days of systematic elbow grease before we could risk using the burners again.

Imagined

A failed missionary, maybe.

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Imagined

Last week, this huge, pierced septum walked past me as I approached the supermarket. I saw the dreadlocks first, yards of grey, possibly greasy coils, suggesting an older alternative, home-spun- yoghurt sorta guy, not that I generally jump to any nasturtiums. But ya know what I mean, eh? As I parked the car, he walked past again, and I got this sideways look.

Oh my God, wow! My exclamation reverted to a ‘yuck’, and then all of these questions started to pop into my consciousness. This septum was quite amazing. In my mind, I remember something like a wedding ring, but wider, set longways into the septum. Blowing ya nose, I wondered, even picking it? Wow, how would ya stop things flying out sideways, if ya get me drift?

It must have been excruciatingly painful, presenting a huge irritation when it was first done. Practical issues, like being in bed with ya partner – where do ya look? Maybe they both had one, maybe this was an alternative to the more traditional placement of wedding rings?

I saw him again, standing outside the funeral parlour yesterday, just up from the supermarket. He and another guy were smoking. I couldn’t help myself. I pulled over and parked, but he had gone inside before I got to their doorway. His mate laughed at my enquiry. “Johnno, yer, quite a piercing, isn’t it? He’s actually our senior embalmer.”

I was starting to consider a ‘backstory’. I had seen pictures of men from the Sepik District, sporting these overly large perforations. Might my lad have been a missionary, working in a remote corner of PNG? To overcome resistance to the Gospel, or needing to boost his convert quota, had he thrown his septum into the ring?

What would it mean if ya didn’t get your quota. Would that mean expulsion from the Missionary Club? Did it create a thorny problem for their career paths, “… less than 3% conversion reached at last posting. Others have greater claims …” etc, etc. This, and a plethora of other fantasies started to gather.

I wondered if he had ‘other’ piercings! If he and his partner had them, my mind started to race. I had read about scrotum, foreskin and labia modifications! Belly buttons, lips and of course the near-universal lady’s ear jobs.

Then the setting changed, I was back working in Arnhem land, where it was quite de rigour for men to have piercings. Handy for some. I had seen ornamentation, feathers, bones and the like, inserted during ceremonial participation. There was one old bloke I knew, who used to keep his unlit claw pipe tucked into the aperture. Piercing wasn’t universally practised, some did, others didn’t. I wondered if those not pierced were seen as a rogue element of society?

I had personally never been tempted to have a piercing: anywhere – I was Numero Uno on the hemophobia membership list. The thought of all that blood, the viscosity, oozing, scabbing – oh I feel faint, just imaging it.

Imagined

Spooked, was I

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Imagined

I was noticing that the décor in the study was being moved. Pictures were shifting, furniture rearranged, the floor rug had transmogrified from a beautifully salubrious Persian Kashan, to what today could only be described as a Hardly Normal special!

I thought it must have been the contract cleaners, taking liberties. My efforts to be home during their visits were fruitless, scheduled cleaning changing at the last moment, my work commitments dictating last-minute, interstate trips. Ridiculous really. I left notes, seeking explanations, assurances, I withheld payments, and finally, I had taken the awkward step of changing cleaners.

But things continued to wander! I was becoming quite paranoid. I changed my work schedules, arranging to often work from home.

I tried approaching home surreptitiously, taking a different route, turning left along Crystal Street to achieve an unexpected arrival. To no avail. The desktop accoutrements had moved. I always had the stapler next to the hole punch, eight inches to the right of the keyboard. They were now on the left!

The changes were not happening in other rooms, just the front room, my study. And I noted that the changes could occur while I was actually in the house, between evening’s arrival and the following breakfast! I lived alone.

Mrs Google provided the contact details for a paranormal psychic. For half a gold brick, they installed motion-activated cameras, a recorder and an electromagnetic monitor, all connected remotely, via wi-fi to their van parked in the street. I was resigned to being temporarily decamped. A week later, the remaining half gold-brick changed hands, and they revealed an abnormality, recorded two nights earlier, suggesting something!

I went to the local library to undertake historical research on the building. I was a little startled to learn that the whole suburb was built over a reclaimed late, eighteenth-century graveyard. Jees, hang on. Nah, that’s going down ‘bullshit lane’.

I set up my stretcher, made arrangements to work from home for the week, bought in extra provisions, some malt whiskey, brie, biscotti and settled in, ahh … to do what?

It scared the crap out of me. Day Three. Two am. I don’t know what woke me up, maybe a sort of suspended face, leering, bodyless, dancing in the dark across the study. Rational thought evaporated. The decision to sell was settled the next morning, and I was signing the Real Estate contract by week’s end.

Family

A second chance

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Family

The schedule for clearing out the house had proved a little awkward, squeezed into the school holidays. Nonetheless, I had resigned myself to the task, drawing surprising comfort, a chance to say my own goodbyes. Last month’s funeral, the public sharing and celebration of Mum’s life had been stressful and I was glad for these private moments.

It was now my turn to have her to myself. Her clothes, a lingering perfume, memories of those special outfits, paraded for our approval, before she and Dad sashayed off, dancing in the darkened lounge, Benny Goodman setting the pace.

I waded through a linen closet that could have serviced a salubrious hotel for months, her treasures in the glass cabinet, the books, Dad’s tools, in the shed. There were decisions about what could go to the Salvos, what could be sold, given away.

I hadn’t lived ‘at home’ for twenty years. Funny, to realise how dated things had become, the chunky, green bathroom fittings, the curtains, the tiles in the kitchen. I was camping in my old room, a bit spooky, even discovered some of my old toys in the wardrobe.

I was tackling the bookshelves. I came across the Oxford Book of English Verse, one of Mum’s favourite anthologies. Something fluttered to the floor. It was a sealed envelope, addressed to me!

Inside were several old, mottled pages, covered in my mother’s spidery scrawl. Splotches might be remnant teardrops, smudges that had taken the ink down the page. The letter was dated ten years earlier!

 “My Dearest Phoenix,

 I have held this secret for too long. It is time to release a wickedness, hoping the light of day might provide some forgiveness of my sin, committed all those many, many years ago.

In my heart, I know my actions were wrong, but I secretly took comfort in the belief that I was being asked for help. I could only surmise a cry from some young teenage girl, desperate for my intervention.

 I too was needing emotional support, carrying my own grief over those weeks. I was shattered, but you were suddenly there. Were my prayers being answered?

I was returning from the shops, I heard your distressed cries, and then saw the bassinet as I turned left along Crystal Street. I picked you up, I felt my milk coming down, I hurried home, cuddling you, my hiccupping tears wetting your head.

…”

Peccadillos and Pecados

Village Byways

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Peccadillos and Pecados

I was in our local library, not quite resigned to accept the threatened onset of relevance deprivation. I had attended a post-retirement workshop, suggestions included dancing, cookery, gardening or a research project. The kitchen provided sustenance, I killed plants and the thought of dancing in the dark filled me with dread. I reckoned a research project suited me nicely.

Local street names, the who’s, whys, and contemporary relevance of them, seemed an interesting subject for my research. Two weeks in and feedback confirmed I was turning up rivetingly-relevant material, but explanations, they were far trickier – mostly lost in the mists of time.

One success was the pathway linking two cul-de-sacs in our village. One byway was named Kilmore, the other, Madder and had been connected via Psycho Path. True! They had official Council signage! Records suggest the Council’s nomenclature staffer had a penchant towards the occult! The librarian assured me that that same officer also came up with Fear Street, Stalker Road, No Name Lane – that last one probably reflecting a bad-hair day. But I was trying to dig deeper, to uncover the rationale behind the names.

Viz the Psycho, it transpires that several decades earlier, a young psychologist had had a run-in with the Council over his proposal to construct a Headspace clinic. Bitter revenge?

But there were other mysteries. The homesick Danish émigré, naming his property Farht, accessed via Farht Close. There was a Cumming Court, a Beaver Close, a Finebush Lane, Hookers Drive, and even a Cockshoot Close. (I was still to uncover a Peckadillo Road, but we had a Salubrious Hill.)

What was behind these ‘earthy’ names? Imagine the awkwardness of providing an elderly aunt with your address at 41 Back Passage!

The Village was established in the decadent late 18th Century, a time when Fanny Hill and Tom Jones roamed the streets, long before Aquarius, dope and free love were in the ascendency, a time I suspect well before Tarana Burke‘s Social Media leadership.

Funny thing was that nobody seemed to be particularly offended by the names, in fact, the opposite. From the library, I turned left along Crystal Street, determined to survey my neighbours. Of 120 respondents, all but four thought our name was ‘too tame’. Proffered suggestions included Crystal Passage or Lustre Lane with one degenerate suggesting Bottom Road. For the moment it remained unchanged but a Blog site is seeking nominations!

Imagined

Annus Horribilus

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Imagined

“Wodger, you know, after so many years working on this project, and now to be finally at the pointy end, I actually feel quite deflated. Can you understand that?”

“Yer, I can Sheridan. I know what you mean – beavering away on this inevitability, this financial bonanza just waiting to happen. It must be seven years since we started. How many scenarios have we developed, the variabilities explored? The market research, my God, we spent tens of thousands trying to refine expectations and build capacities to deliver satisfactions. And now, yes, we’re finally here. You’d think we’d feel some sort of gratifying acknowledgement of the milestone.”

“Those endless ‘hush, hush’ meetings with the Protocol officials, Health, the Governor, Emergency and Transport Services, Police, the Military, even the tourism mobs. I think we nailed it, but there has been a certain amount of luck. I mean, what if we had gone with another strategy, like, oh you know, the green one? In hindsight, that wonderful crystal ball, it would have been a complete trainwreck!”

“But, jees, the Top Brass, the establishment certainly played ha..hardball over the media rights. No wonder they are so well-healed. I gotta hand it to you Sheridan, you handled them beautifully. Bloody arseholes, wanting 50% of the broadcast revenue! Ya ready for another drink?”

“Yes, Wodger. that would be great. But make mine a Vodka Tonic this time.”

It had been a querulous journey, when you think back over our schedules. We’d approached the networks back in 2015. Of course, it had to be all off-the-records, quiet discussions, no leaks.

But they saw the logic of our proposal to deliver ‘public-interest’ coverage, the need to be prepared, to have capacity in place, to have the facility to swing into gear within the inevitably short lead-time, to be able to have the technical know-how in place, as needed, when events unfolded.

I continued to mull things over as Rodger did battle at the bar. He returned with the drinks: I noted a twist of blood orange in my vodka. “Do you remember those Government twerps, those castellated princes, wanting assurances in regard protocols? Their concerns that we would breach their ‘new, ancient traditions’ – absolute bullshit.”

“We knew it was going to happen. The scientific community, Emergency Services, the Police have all been rehearsing these scenarios for years. It just needed our blanket media coverage strategy to capitalise on the event. And we were in the box seat to stream nationally!”

We looked up at the screen above the bar. Our footage, our reporters, our technical team providing wall-to-wall coverage as the springtime flood waters surged, houses and cars floating away, towns, infrastructure and livestock engulfed.

Childhood Memories

Out and about with Alice, and Mum

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Childhood Memories

I remember when I first stepped on them! My foot–faulted. I had aimed for a long step, achieving just three quarters. Reckless behaviour. Mum, and my older sister Alice, had warned me against such loose stepping. My hand went to the bottom of my right pocket, squeezing the bejesus out of my rabbit’s foot. Careful, think, there was no time to get in a funk!

I had wondered if a backwards step would suffice. Nah, that was just kid’s stuff. I had heard Clarke Kent say that if you raced around the world really, really, really quickly, six times, you could turn back time. Mmm, that might work. But my cape was in the wash – Mum pinched it after I spilt the chocolate milk. I needed to think.

I could see old people coming towards us –one with a long beard was going to … . I clutched Mum’s hand, ever so tightly. Phew, we got passed, unharmed.

Ahead I saw they were painting the Palace Hotel – green! The guys had ladders right out on the footpath. Hey, excuse me, surely we’re not going to – were we? At the last moment, Mum, with a perfunctory spring in her step, took us out and around the ladders. I had looked up at Alice and noticed a sort of triumphal look on her face, she mouthed “You silly!” as we made the move.

We approached Donaldson’s dairy, with that old lemon tree to the side. No Hairy about, but I could see hundreds of squished lemons, windfalls, smelly, slippery and … OMG there was a milk can, lying on its side, milk puddling with the lemons, and were those chillies? This couldn’t be happening to us? Mar-um!

Luckily the Masked Warrior was always prepared. I carried a bag of salt in my pocket. I grabbed a bit and quickly threw it over my left shoulder. There was a moment’s hesitation: was it the left shoulder? I was careful not to spill any. Looking across at Alice, I again saw that sort of smug look cross her face. She had seen me throw the salt. It wasn’t disgust or odium, rather, just a superior, older sister sort of look.

She could act like that sometimes, but I knew that without my extra-sensory alerts, we would always be at risk. I was ready to save Mum, maybe even Alice: well, at a pinch.

We approached the Milk Bar on the corner. There would be three pence worth of mixed on offer. Memories drifted – one gobstopper or two humbugs? Humbugs would leave enough for six honey bears, four clinkers and, ah, those flavours sloshing around my gob! The ecstasy, those delicious decisions.

In anticipation, I skipped a few steps. Ooh, no, dead-meat! I had landed on a crack, again! Lightning flashed, the pavement opened wide – a deep, dark chasm, tortured cries, wafting smells of rotting flesh, peril, punishment, possibly permanent perdition!

Seventy years on. My grandchildren and I still take care to avoid the cracks!

Peccadillos and Pecados

Knobs, men and languages

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Peccadillos and Pecados

She’d rarely got in a funk, but when asked to cover the Northern Territory’s Cannonball Run, she was unsure whether to book flights to Canada or Australia. Motor Sports were her journalistic gig, covering some of the biggest races on the international circuits, so WTF was she doing in Darwin, this hot, steamy, godforsaken backwater. The quiet odium she’d noticed among her colleagues suggested she had drawn the ‘short-straw’!

She found the stories inside the stories, race-strategies before they were strategies, gossip or innuendo on the drivers and team members, factual, or not, it didn’t matter, so long as the legal-eagles’ were sweet.

She collected languages, she had six as her tools-of-trade, milking loose lips, insider scoops. She also had a passion for men, and gear stick knobs, in no particular order, although, in a moment of perfunctory contemplation, realised her peccadilloes were all interconnected, each fed off the other, so to speak!

Her Parisienne school gave her French, German, and Italian. Hungarian came from her mother, English, picked up on the circuit and Spanish/Brazilian came from the bedroom of an engineer, working with Senna’s Formula One team. She left the Northern Territory with a seventh – Walpiri.

She arrived into a steamy Darwin, humidity at about 95%, clear skies, save a translucent, smokey wash. An air-conditioned motel was something, but the next day started with one of the worst coffees she’d ever had. “Do ya want fluffy milk with that, love” queried the waiter.

She taxied down to the ‘pits. The Japs had Ferraris, the Italians’, Maserati (noting she needed that knob), a German team were tinkering with a Porsche, and there, an Alice Springs team – surely not, an old Morris Minor. On closer inspection, the body was the only original component. A pregnant pastie had more room inside, space just for a driver, and part of a huge motor, occupying the rest.

She knew a story when it blocked her view. There was a pair of dirty overalls, covering a colossus demolishing a plate of toast. She met Jagamara Jack; “I’m the Engineer. Can I help ya?” as a slice disappeared into his maw. “Could I share some of that toast?” “Sure love, there’s jam in the pot.”

One thing led to another and they had dinner together that night – a tough steak, a limp salad, mixed fruits and custard! Jack became quite effusive, as things progressed, an invitation out to his country, west of Alice, after the race. Jack shared the story of the ‘Morrie’, “… came from the Coniston Station tip, rusted as buggery, engine kaput, but, well, I love Morries.”

The Morris lacked a gear stick, let alone a knob, but she managed to flog the Maserati’s after its’ crashed. She stayed with Jagamara for several weeks after the race, exploring the tips at Yuendumu, Haasts Bluff and Coniston. She was in quiet ecstasy, finding knobs from a Monaro, and a Moke.

Three knobs, a bloke and a language. Her collections continued to grow!

Domestics

Gorgonzola in ya jocks

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Domestics

I stuffed it down the front of my shorts and walked out. My fallback, if challenged, was that I was excited! Money was tight, we were hungry and the cheese wedge fitted quickly and easily into my jocks! The girls were less enthusiastic about the Blue as I extracted it. Ashley was in a funk until Florence pointed out that it was still in its wrapper!

Florence unloaded two small avocadoes from her bra. Ash had scored tobacco, papers and two rolls of dunny paper. On the way to the beach, I went into a bakery and bought a sliced loaf. We were set for a feast tonight!

But that night, I lay on the sand thinking about my larceny. Was this to be my lot? A lifetime of crime, a gorgonzola tonight, chops and pasta a few nights earlier, petty heists from suburban supermarkets, as the opportunities presented? There was a family anecdote featuring a distant pheasant-stealing relative, transported to Sydney Cove. I had also heard tell that my grandpa had done time in a reformatory, as a young bloke. Was this nature, or nurture – a predisposition, a genetic imprint?

We still had three days to eke out an existence before Centrelink kicked in again. Squashed avo and cheese sandwiches were not going to cut the mustard! Two nights ago, the cops had moved us on. We knew it would happen again.

Just four months since our landlord had perfunctorily upped the rent, we were on the street within weeks, sharing the luxury of my station wagon, an awning, a gas cooker, pans, cutlery, a water can, an esky and a spade. Welcome to our world!

Ash lost her shifts at Maccas – they said she smelled. Flo and I had both been laid off while we still had the flat.

We got to know which beach toilet facilities included showers, their opening and closing times. We sensed the daytime odium from other beachgoers – but they would piss off, as the weather cooled.

I was realising that I didn’t mind the stealing. The system had screwed us, we were taking a little in return. We each got to know our capacities, adapting circumstances to suit our needs. I got large-pocketed shorts from St Vinnies: 350gram tins fitted seamlessly, noodles in my shirt front, I repeated the cheese secretion regularly.

Florence found a hundred buck note in the street. We were almost in ecstasy with a splurge on a few beers and a cold bottle of cheap bubbles. A bloke outside the pub gave us half a deal of weed with the change, and we spent the evening plotting to overthrow the system.

Covid arrived and our status shifted down a gear. Late autumn rains added an extra layer of shit. It got worse with both Ash and Flo getting the bloody Omicron. I got them to the hospital but both were put on ventilators, a high price for the roof over their heads.

The beachside existence got lonely without them!

Tripping

I met Tom

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Tripping

That flick, just a lick of burnt sienna with my 3 mm brush, but it failed, again. I had recently delighted in walking through the Fredrick McCubbin exhibition – his effortless expertise – a whitey-ochre streak, travelling up the canvas, interrupted with highlights from the easterly sun, dark scratches of peeling bark, shadows underneath the intersecting branches. I had studied the same results in Ashton, Streeton, Conder and that wonderful highlighted leg Roberts achieved in SA Gallery’s Axeman! My despair put me in a funk.

Bill and I bought paints, fine paper blocks, had water carried in old vegemite jars, travelled far and near. His sisters even paid for him to attend classes, and I think there was a set of the finest Derwent pencils included in the present. I am not sure if he ever went to those classes, but we made up for any lapse with earnest discussions around the evening campfires.

We took two days facing some fine looking sandhills, east of Coober Pedy. We sat beside the Murray River, in the open woodland. Our appreciation of the subtle play of colours, the way the grass played against a wetland display often held our gaze, we knew the theory, just the odium settling as the pallets are cleaned-off yet again.

There have been a few finished paintings that we individually take comfort from. Bill produced a masterpiece at a Flinders Ranges waterhole, my seaside landscape, from Mundoo Island was also appreciated. But for twenty years, not much outcome to cover the walls!

We drank deeply of honeyed coffee, sought stoutish inspiration of an evening, even occasional weed consumed to mellow the inhibitions, to inspire. But artistic outcome continued to allude.

One late afternoon, camping on a bush block on the upper Yarra, near Heidelberg, something changed. I remember there was a sunset, flecking through the young saplings, orangey-yellow hues, as a pipe smoking bloke approached our fire. A huge bushy moustache dominated a youngish face, a red kerchief wrapped perfunctorily around his neck, knee length boots, calico breaches, paint-spattered shirt, a knapsack over his shoulder. “You fellas here for the school?” he queried. I said we were, and he suggested we come down to the river early in the morning to meet the others. We said we would, as he passed on by.

We made our way through the trees towards the river. There was a light mist in the valley, a fire’s smoke competed for attention, a billy of tea sat off the flames. A gent broke from the assembled group and proffered pannikins of tea and we wandered over. Was it a dress-rehearsal, a fancy dress, it seemed that we were in some sort of a time warp – all were smoking pipes, hairy-faced, dressed as the chap from last night, someone, introduced as Tom was talking of his recent years spent in Paris, the new Impressionist Movement gaining a following, Tom’s shipboard companion, enroute to Tahiti, Paul someone, a key devotee.

Domestics

Domesticity

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Domestics

What is it about domestic appliances that is so complicated? I have provided the necessary operating instructions countless times – explained patiently about not needing to unwrap the dishwashing tablets and of having the confidence to just place the used, dirty dishes straight in – no need to rinse, just in they go. A non-too-subtle response is just to continue the sink washing – it has been five years since the dishwasher was installed!

I have even explained that we can use our solar energy to run the bloody thing, so long as we turn it on during daylight, and NOT straight after dinner.

There is an ugly spot at the back of the fridge. That large plastic container, sealed yes but “… don’t open it! That was the remains of the chicken casserole from ten days ago – no – that is not a fancy flower arrangement – that is mould.”

My favourite omelette pan, seasoned, burnished, and oiled lovingly over the years, found gleaming, back to the bare steel, in the cupboard! Jees, that really pissed me off!

When did a washing machine effectively clean clothes when it was loaded to the gills, then, for good measure, or as an afterthought, a sheet is added. The 28-minute fast-cycle is chosen, two measures of powder added, (“… it works better”!), the ‘go’ button pressed and the washing left to mature for 48 hours. Still in the laundry, who would put their grubby overalls in with the delicates?

Why is the new Dyson Stick vacuum not the go-to tool to remove the spider, and its’ webbing off the ceiling! “Why?” “I’m not going to grace that with a response.”

“Yep – the sheets might look fresh, but they have been on the bed for several weeks, every night assaulted with your methane, grubby feet, hair goo and other bodily excretions. Humour me and help change the bed – pillow slips as well, please.”

“Do you want me to go on? I can!”

“The dog hair in the carpets has reached epidemic proportions, both the kid’s eyes are streaming and with the choice of two vacuums – stick and barrel, why has neither been used.” I am reminded that I have a Rostered Day Off next week!

“And I draw the line with the dog poo. I will not pick it up! Yep, I know you designated a corner spot in the garden, but Roger just hasn’t picked up on that, preferring the grass under the clothesline. And the semi-dissolved lumps are a disgusting eyesore, a play and health hazard, not to mention an embarrassment.”

“Toilets – are this is where the gender divide really comes into its own! Nothing to do with seat-lifting – rather the failure to clean it properly. Both have habits that necessitate a check under the seat lip – stale urine competes with ‘other’ residues – do we need a notice sellotaped to the bathroom wall?”

“You say that I put your bras in with the general washing. I admit I did that on a few early washes but I never do it anymore! I’ve learnt!

The phhft of the Blue Pyrenees bubbles steadies the acrimony, there is a hesitation, a reflective moment, shoulders relax, bums sink into the couch, two glasses chinked, the kids are tucked up, asleep. Friday evening has arrived. It’s been a long week.

The North

Djamina tellin’ me

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in The North

“Nah, nah, nah, that’s not right. My ole granny’s granny had a story about that balanda mob – long before dat Matthew Flinders come ‘ere!  She showed me when I was just a little kid, she took me to that special place, dat ‘ollow cave, and showed me ta bit o’ mirror, dat ole white smokin’ pipe. She reckon dem olden mob was gib it for showing dat balanda sailor the water ‘ole behind the beach.”

I was sitting on the beach at Malga Point with Djamina Ganambarr, a senior Galpu man for the country adjacent to Galiwinku, Elcho Island, in East Arnhem Land. I had been reflecting on a recent read – Ernestine Hill’s My Love Must Wait, prompting me to mention Matthew Flinders, to recount what I thought was accepted history; Flinders’ contact with the Galpu people on his 1802/3 circumnavigation. A wonderfully shadowy, counter story unfolded!

Djamina’s family were able to draw upon a long oral history. I reckoned that the story was at least three hundred and fifty years old, back to the earliest voyages of the Dutch East India Company.

His family recall a distant fishing expedition, two lippa lippa in the shallows off the coast, the family on the beach. A huge boat sails around the point and anchors. A small boat appears, with ‘moon men’ rowing towards the canoes. Fishing is abandoned, as terrified fishers race the ghosts back to the beach. The strangers gesture an urgent need for bogala, unloading a water barrel.

The family lead them up behind the dunes, to the bush apple tree: it’s still growing next to the spring. The ‘ghosts’ fall upon the water, drinking greedily. Their barrel is filled and returned to the ship. Over the next few days, the rest of the crew came ashore, in rotation.  Galpu hospitality offers roasted meat, and is reciprocated with several mirrors, tobacco, clay pipes, and metal belt buckles.

Djamina’s story references the appearance of a pussy-cat, a strange animal coming assure with the men. There were sports played on the beach. The ghosts join a hunt and use guns to kill several wallabies. Not to be outdone, an old Walamanu demonstrates his skill with the spear, dropping an animal at 50 paces.  The story tells of the cat’s death, from snake bite, and its beachside burial.

It’s a couple of weeks later that Djamina calls me aside, and says we should go “…to dat ‘ollow cave.” We walk across the savannah, sometimes wading across remnant wet season flood plains. Djamina breaks into liturgical song as we approach the upland, a fire is lit, its smoke cleanses us before entering the space. I am instructed in the protocols to be observed inside the ‘ollow!

There is a crevice, maybe 300mm wide, a metre high and we squeeze through. There is a shaft of light softening the gloom. I follow Djamina. Inside there is a ledge with an old mummified cat, also two mirrors, a broken meerschaum pipe and an old metal buckle.

History

An orange-enhanced, naval trip

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in History

 

“Whither journeys goest with or without end, shall maketh thee, lad” was considered advice given to my great, great, great uncle, John Jarvis, by his father, at the Plymouth docks, as the eleven-year-old shouldered his canvas duffel, and bordered his ship’s lighter. He recorded those words as the opening phrase in his diary. The year, 1768.

There was a cold breeze riffling across the harbour on that late summer morn, as he boarded the HMB Endeavour, instructed to “…string hammock, and stow duffel ‘tween decks, under the for’castle.” His ‘master’ was yet to come aboard, so, at a loose end, he went a’lookin. Gantry were lifting barrels and boxes, crew sweating, swearing, and stowing supplies needed for the Atlantic crossing.

Mister Banks and retinue arrived at last light, noisily, a little intoxicated and his duties began. Meals to source and serve, unpacking, clearing away, to bed, awake, morning duties, mid-afternoon sailing down the channel.

Stomach, sea legs and routines had settled well before they reached the Canary Islands. A brief stopover, restocking water, meat, citrus and vegetables for the haul across to Brazil. The toffs went ashore, Uncle worked aboard. Demands at morning and evening mealtimes left him largely free during the daytime. He and two other young lads delighted in watching the dolphin performances, at the bow.

The Doldrums, colder weather, again restocking supplies in Rio before down, into and around the Cape. Mountainous seas, sails shredded, shrieking winds, working the pumps, gut-wrenching fear, partly assuaged by the captain’s demeanour.

They wallowed into the Pacific. Moods lightened as warmth, then humidity returned. Tropical isles, barely-clad beauties, fresh food, clear skies, rostered shore-leave, the temporary loss of his shipboard stagger!

While crew unloaded scientific paraphernalia to record Venus’s transit across the sun, he accompanied Mr Banks and Mr Solander on regular expeditions into the interior of the islands. He was instructed on using layers of tissue paper to press collected specimens. For my uncle, he recorded his sadness at eventually farewelling new found friends, feasting, fishing and effervescent frolicking in the lagoon.

As the barque weighed anchor, the captain assembled all-hands, to share the Admiralty’s secret orders for the journey ahead. They were instructed to find, and claim Tasman’s Zealand islands, thenceforth to search, and claim the assumed Terra Australis, somewhere further to the west!

He records the excitement of sighting land, months spent charting coastlines, landing and meeting heavily tattooed warriors, spending three weeks ashore as the barque was beached and careened.

He also recorded a growing angst at the close, shipboard quarters, and of his delight at being out with ‘the gentlemen’, collecting plants. Petty jealousies had become an issue, thieving, vicious brawls, even knife-work. A thirteen-year-old, salt-hardened, but nonetheless, a vulnerable lad.

Sir Joseph recorded his death, by misadventure occurring on Sunday 29th April, 1770. A curmudgeonable old tar was convicted, and court marshalled. They were both buried in the dunes of Stingray Harbour, New Holland. Sir Joseph ensured that his diary eventually came back to the family.

Childhood Memories

Maybe I could’a been …

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Childhood Memories

“Next!” trumpeted through the doorway.  My eleven-year-old self nervously entered the choir master’s rooms. “Have you ever sung in a choir?” “Ah, er … no” He bellowed ‘next’, signaling the end of my audition and any choral opportunities!

During school holidays, my sister and I continued to sing soprano duets to all of the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, the popular musicals – South Pacific, My Fair Lady, Oklahoma, Fidler on the Roof. Dad bought us a folder, full of the lyrics. He often joined us, tentative inputs, moving to preferred whistling or humming accompaniment, as we sang.

And we did – in the garden, in the car, doing the dishes, at the beach! One or other of us would pitch a note at the other, a taunt to correctly guess which tune was next, sometimes needing a second, even a third note, and then away we went!

Back at school, as the years rolled on, I kept my disappointment to myself, consoled in the knowledge that anyone singing in the school choir was a ‘wuss’! I didn’t need any more distinctions – my socialist parentage had already provided enough ammunition for my comrades at this privileged institution.

Sundays came around and I secretly revelled in the hymn-singing, often inserting my own descants, blocking out the assembled school as they heaved their way through the 23rd Psalm. I had my eyes and ears fixed on the choristers, two rows either side of the aisle, in the Apse, junior’s singing soprano and alto, backed with tenors and bass singers drawn from senior school, all kitted in red and white outfits.

There were special days – Saint’s feast days, Easter and Christmas, that were just ethereal – the Te Deum Landaus, Handel’s Messiah, Bach’s St Matthew’s Passion opened unknown joys.

In sixth form, my final year, I finally had the self-confidence to throw off my fears. I joined the choir. What a year – I matriculated, but of more import, I had professional voice training. I was intimately involved in making those harmonies –  with my left, right, and with those across the aisle!

I suppose it was a case of better late, than never, although I knew that missing those pre-pubescent years of training would restrict my capacities, forever! I went on to occasionally sing in amateur rep musical theatre, a few solo performances, choirs, folk club gigs, I often sang in the car, by myself.

In moments of quiet, idle contemplation, I still wonder how those shoes of Luciano might have felt, to have taken a leaf from the pages of Jose or Placido, Andrea Bocelli. Ahh – braggadocio, don’t be silly! Briefly, a dream offers its own unchallengeable reality.

I am regularly brought up with the never-ceasing angst of ‘what if…’, why hadn’t I protested, maybe just sung a few lines from South Pacific, kicked the Choirmaster in the groin, demanding to be heard! “If I could turn back time.”

I listen intently for early signs that my grandchildren might have a voice! That’s dangerous, careful!

Politics

If I’m going down…

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Politics

“Nothing to see here. Yes, ah no. Look, the Minister enjoys the full confidence of her cabinet colleagues. Pardon? No that is ridiculous! Expert advice is directing the roadmap, …”

My phone vibrates. I looked across at the PM, lifting the phone to my ear. I purposely turn, and walk through the doors, into the building. Steady, don’t run! I turn left, along the corridor and into the loos. I choose the furthest cubicle and sit. Do not start to cry! Stop it. Control!

That bloody bastard. He just threw me under a whole shitload of buses. That fucking … I feel my lower lip start to tremble. Stop it!

A click, someone enters the room. “Come on girl. Jesus, come on. Your not the first, and your not going to be the last! Suck it up.  You knew this was likely. Why did you flee the presser?”

There was a quiet chuckle “You should have seen the look on the PM’s face as you turned, and left! Mmm I suppose you will, on this evening’s bulletin. He’s gonna want your guts for garters!”

“Just piss off and leave me alone” I yell at the Whip. There is a hesitation, but heals scrunch and depart.

White hot steam continues to surge! Jesus, how could he? Twelve loyal years, family sacrifices, late nights, the boozy meetings, the sleazy inuendo, travel!  That’s it. Bugger em! Jesus, how could he?

I call Comcar and quietly leave the building, picking up vodka enroute to Manuka. The phone rings incessantly, unanswered. I turn it off!

Ice tinkles as I sit, staring blankly, reviewing the last few hours! I keep coming back to his “… she enjoys the full confidence…” the bloody, fucking, prick, slimeball, snake – wriggling out from under, again!

I check the bottom draw of my desk. The folder is still there, thirty odd pages of colour-coded spreadsheets. Just another slosh, tonic, ice. Mmm. Shit, they will be here shortly. Better get photocopying!

Thrring. Two guys in grey shiny suits at the door, asking for the folder. What, oh, er, yes. I go over to the desk, withdrawing the manilla envelope. The shorter guy undoes the strings, flicks through the document. They leave, advising that the PM instructs me to join his next presser at 9.30 tomorrow morning!

I still cannot really believe what’s happening. My political career kaput, just like that! My God, the calculated treachery! How long has it been in play? Who else is involved? I betcha that baldy-headed, close-eyed potato is at the table, Moshi too!

Senior cabinet portfolio gone! Crossbenches here I come but first, I better call Michelle. “Yer, just wondering if you have a moment to pop over this evening, yep, quietly. That’s it, great. See ya then.”

I take a leaf out of Julie’s playbook and wear my stunningly blue shoes, the Armani stilettos. Moshi stands between me and the PM. Probyn fires first. PM-obfuscation. Gratton’s question, delivered quietly, skewered the bastard!  My face remains inscrutable.

Tripping

Ray’s day out

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Tripping

The turbulence didn’t worry Ray. His mate Bill had told him years ago that bumping over air pockets in the sky was the same as bumping over pot holes on a bush road. However that persistent knocking in the right engine did have him a little rattled.

He distracted himself by looking out onto the magnificent, whiter than white, mile high cumulous clouds. It always felt magical to glide in and out of these billowing monoliths.

“Hello everyone, sorry about this but we have a problem with the right engine. I feel the safest course would be to make an emergency landing. So can I ask you all to keep an eye out for a dirt road or even a clearing so we can put down.

 “Jesus!” “Can’t rely on him I’m afraid.” She let them know in Darwin that she was attempting an emergency landing as soon as it was safe to do so.

It wasn’t long before one of the four passengers in the six-seater, twin-engined Cessna called out. All Ray could see out of the left was trees, mangroves and a river. “Over to the right there is a clearing”. “Got it” said the pilot reassuringly calm.

It was a very bumpy landing but to the credit of the young pilot she kept the plane on an even keel and pulled up safely before the bush started again. Unfortunately the radio no longer worked. The pilot assumed wires had been dislodged in the heavy landing.

They all climbed out not sure whether they felt elated that they had landed safely or distressed that they were in the middle of nowhere, with a buggered plane.

“Who are we going to eat first?”, some bright spark said. “You, ya clown”, replied Ray.

“Ok, we need to get our ducks in a row if we are going to get out of this as quickly as possible. We are not far off our flight path so they will start looking for us along that corridor. Could you all start collecting fire wood. Some small kindling and some larger stuff so we can build up some decent fires to light if we hear an aircraft.

Ray looked at his phone optimistically but “no service” was all he got for his trouble. He headed off in search of firewood. As he hauled the wood back towards the group he noticed a tortoise lumbering through the grass. Amazing, he thought to himself, you are just going about your business here, able to survive quite happily in what we see as a hostile environment, and we won’t last at all unless we get help.

They worked together to build four fires at the four corners of the clearing, to let any searcher know the size of the landing space. Although a search plane wouldn’t land here after dark it could mark the location and note the dimensions of the landing area for a morning rescue. The fires would also indicate survivors rather than bodies.

As the sun started to set each of the five found a spot to rest, some in the plane others on the ground. Ray had just put his head down on his briefcase when he thought he saw lights at the far end of the clearing. He sat up quickly. They definitely were lights and he could now make out a Toyota heading straight for them.

A tall man stepped out of the truck with a huge smile on his face. “I thought I heard a plane in trouble. So I thought I better takea look. I knew this clearing was here so I thought I’d try here first. My outstation is just an hour or so south of here and we have a radio. So jump on and come back with me. We can contact Darwin and you can all have a drink and a feed.” “Thank you”, they chorused and climbed up on the truck.

In the jargon of all pilots and with enormous relief in her voice, the young pilot shouted, “Thank Foxtrot, Uniform, Charlie, Kilo, for the outstation movement”.

Poems

Ode to my neighbours

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Poems

Skimble Shanks the railway cat was read to me at three

I don’t remember much of it ‘cept rhyme did capture me,

Mum the pages turned for hats, and a cat in coloured coat,

E’vn cashed up owls and pussy awash, at sea in a pea-green boat.

But if I’m honest, I must admit, the only puss worrying me,

Is the one that comes around at night, and shits on my Pe-on-y!

 

I set the trap the other night, I’d hired to work my scheme,

Ostensibly for retrieval, to remove the possum team,

But my real intent was dastardly bent, on trapping that fluffy shitter.

So I warmed the milk, and sent a prayer to dear little Mister Kitter,

An invocation sent by me, inviting one more spree,

As I placed the cage beside the couch and went inside for tea.

 

I dreamt a dream that final night of Tom’s oft streetly skives,

About a giant pterosaur that roamed the night time skies,

Intent on getting justice, jees so much bloody pshaw,

For lizards, birds and frogs of yore, dispatched via puss’s paw.

Enoughs’ enough her cry went out, safety and equality,

No more obfuscation dears, nor bleatings “nought here to see”.

 

When I awoke I took my smoke, and went outside to pee,

Forgotten last night’s trapping stunt, until delightedly,

I heard the hiss, I saw the face, and now I am a-doing,

This Puss was mine, his anger real, capture, his undoing.

“I wasn’t here” I heard him snarl, “You can’t believe this stuff”,

“I went outside for toileting, due home in just a juff!”*

 

“OK, OK, enough” I said, the cage I lift carefully,

To take a closer look to confirm the anatomy,

Did it match the fleeting glimpse of squatting arsehole shute,

Of scrape and grunt, a lick of paw, and tail waved in salute,

I had no doubt, resolve affirmed, so ready to dispatch,

A cage upon the neighbour’s lawn, with subtle note attached.

 

In part, it read: “keep yer fucking shitting-cat off my Peony, or else …!”

* (Ed: cat is of Kiwi origins)

Domestics

The cheese beat us …

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Domestics

Matthias and Fran had moved in next door about four years ago, after migrating from Herve, in Belgium, to pursue Fran’s medical career.   They were a lovely couple, urbane, well-read, and sociable. Both couples enjoyed camping, bushwalking, cooking, wine, reading, and it wasn’t long before we had proposed a camping trip to the Grampians.

Most of the day had been spent walking around several ancient rock art sites. Exertions and sunshine had left us excitedly tired. More so the Europeans, who had never before encountered this ancient art. The flickering flames from the fire fractured a nosey Merlot, swirling in our glasses.

We had dined, from a camp oven rendition of Boeuf de Anglaise, followed up with home stewed quinces with a macadamia ice cream. It was time for cheese and Matthias had been promising to introduce us to one of his family’s ancient runny cheese recipes.

He returned from the car fridge with a sealed container, inside, a wrapped, cellophane parcel. There were wafer-thin biscotti, and then … all hell broke loose. Aged, homemade Limburger! It fairly took your breath away, possibly damaging our nasal passages, and scarring the back of our throats!

Delicious, if taken with the nose pinched, but that night in our tent, the farts were malodorous! It was fortunate that it was a warm night, enabling all tent-sides to be rolled up.

Since that first exposure, Limburger fumes have been coming over the back fence regularly. We talked to Matthias about the issue. We suggested limiting cheese-making to weekend excursions out in remote bushland. He agreed to limit production. But we always knew when a new round was being ripened. The odour only intensified as the weeks went by – twelve weeks, and it meant that parts of the neighbourhood were evacuating!

We eventually approached the Council’s OH&S Officer. Emilia spoke with a distinctly Gaelic accent, but she investigated, eventually confirming that no By-Laws were being broken! She suggested we move, if we thought it was so offensive!

With some misgivings, the House Sale sign went up! We moved to hippiedom’s Nimbin Central.

Imagined

The Great Turbulence

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Imagined

The Great Turbulence took 20% of Victoria’s landmass on April 1st, 2030!  Most of the Bellarine Peninsula, following a jagged line north to Ballarat, thence southwesterly, including the cities of Colac, Camperdown, Hamilton, Warrnambool, Portland, Coleraine across to Mount Gambier, and numerous smaller centres, simply disappeared.  A massive earthquake, molten lava, a cataclysmic series of eruptions as the volcanic reawakening tore through the regions, turning everything into a jelly-like slush, that over the coming week slid off into Bass Strait!

South Eastern Australia had embarked upon a massive expansion of its hydraulic fracking activities. Federal Energy Minister of the day, Tug Seamor talked of research showing commercially rewarding returns from fracking, in the old caldera of SE Australia’s extensive magmatic volcanic uplifts.

Almost all of the 400 calderas, stretching out between Mount Macedon and Mount Gambier were under scrutiny. Many, by 2025 were covered by fracking licences held by the international energy consortium, Hydraulic Oil & Alternatives Xploration Ltd. Their CEO, Louise Muscovy’s [nee Seamor] commitment to delivering lower prices, supply securities and virtually unlimited, renewal energy reserves, was beautifully wrapped in appropriately syrupy, sweet, political jargon. Even before the first holes were drilled, share prices were in free-climb, punters eager to get a toe-hold, “money for jam…”, a bonanza, driving a frenzied market.

Against this noisy, speculative madness, little was heard of the dissenting advisory group, Vulcanic Observatory & Intraplate Consultative Enterprise Pty Ltd. CEO, Tim Nimbello was urging caution, based upon extensive historical research into earlier Icelandic, and Indonesian volcanic-sourced gas extraction mishaps.

Records suggest it was at one of the early ‘fracks’, where hot magma was first encountered. Company hydrologists were able to dismiss the intersection as an anomaly, authorising deeper penetrations into a satisfactorily-rewarding gas field. Good news travels at lightning speeds, early successes driving HOAX prices stratospherically.  But the not-so-good news travels like a tortoise.

By early 2030, a network of extractive infrastructure was connecting Portland Bay, the massively expanded export hub, with the world. Tankers jostled for moorings, the Port, a bustling hive of opportunities. Employment, across Victoria, and much of Australia was intensely focussing on the energy sector, the call for engineers, hydrologists, system analysts, surveyors, and of course the heavy machinery maintenance teams, drivers, loaders, night-time entertainers, spivs and semi-skilled labourers.

It was welder, Antonio Incendio who had the dubious distinction of being the first casualty. He and his team were working on the Mount Buninyong caldera. Spears had penetrated down to 5,000m and were capped, waiting for Tony’s team to complete the intricate welds necessary to connect the well into the network.  Mates recollect super-heated steam erupting adjacent to Tony’s station. Seconds later, a deafening cacophony, a roar. Tony disappeared, the team ran as the mountain dissolved, the township of Buninyong swallowed.

The only survivor, Mustapha Mahomed, sustaining burns to 75% of his body, was subsequently interviewed from the hospital. Through hiccupping tears, his softly-delivered account of molten lava, house-sized boulders, a sulphurous, enveloping cloud, screams of terror, serpentine redness, oozing, shocked the nation! Shock turned to horror as the eruptions continued over the following week, cities dissolving, thousands of square kilometres simply slithering into “…a new Australian Bight”!

Like ducks in a row, 174 of the 350-odd calderas connected to the gas-extraction network simply exploded, in a cataclysmic display felt around the planet!

CEO Muscovy was initially taken into custody. That first accident claimed 2,324 lives, but hundreds of thousands of people were to perish that week, hundreds of billions worth of infrastructure and the confidence of a nation were shattered!

The entire magmatic field was obliterated. A Royal Commission was established. An early finding, leaked from a source unauthorized to speak, suggested that “the activity was anomalous”, 99% likely to be a one-off event, triggered by mistakes made by the welding team as they worked to tap that gas reservoir on Mount Buninyong. New regulatory procedures were agreed, but volcanic fracking remained off industrial agendas.

Estimates of the death toll ranged between 750,000 and 1 million people in that first week. The impact sent the national economy into a recession, the Greens called for a government of National Unity, and HOAX Ltd was declared bankrupt. No criminal charges were ever laid, but instead, its CEO and Directors were banned from holding executive office for ten years!

Next week marks the centenary of that volcanic implosion with satellite and drone imagery of the conflagration continuing to be played, capturing countless moments of horror, titillatory vision, writ large and reported at the time as a “Warning to the World”*.

*Borrowed from the original title of Wilfred Burchett’s Hiroshima expose.

Peccadillos and Pecados

The gift

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Peccadillos and Pecados

I sat alone, the car at the clifftop park, facing the ferocious redness of sunset. The gift remained unopened on the seat, despite temptation leading me to undo the curled ribbon, to reading the card “Yours, affectionately.” I knew what was inside. I wanted innocence reinstated!

Opening the package would confirm complicity, condemning my ethical self to eternity in the gutter, hollow speculation, familial derision. But months of connivance, planning, and questionable-decision making, had led to this cardboard box. I had desperately wanted it, but now, within my grasp, I started to snivel, snot and tears moving down my chin.

The backstory was long, convoluted and boring: an explanation would waste time, so too, justifying my travelled road!

The car and I flew seaward!

History

Vincent

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in History

Am I going mad? A vast, blinding flare in my face, lighting canary-yellow sunflowers behind, and yet I cannot determine whether it is sunset or sunrise! Sometimes my head wants to explode!

My shadow splays out in front of me, but is it to the east or to the west? As the minutes march, is it getting lighter or darker? I must keep painting, drawing, using knife and brush to translate the constant movement, to capture the play of light on the trees, the swirling afternoon winds sweeping in from the west.

As his patient, Doctor Gachet allows me to borrow his bicycle. I find it leaning against the Asylum wall. I load my gear and head towards and through Arles, into the yellowing farmlands of late summer. Crows caw as they lazily drift, the bumbling bees hum among the flowerheads. I unpack and challenge my demons. They are not going to spoil my day!

I have my easel, and a new canvas set up to capture the moment, but uncertainties are at every turn. I paint these sunflowers often and am timing this outing specifically to catch the early light. But darkness might approach, ensnare and, and  – no, it is definitely morning, I see the grassy moisture.

I sit for a few moments and consider my position. I have the security of the hospital’s support, guiding me through the dark times, encouraging me forward. No matter the missing ear! My dear, dear brother, so far away but still my constant companion. And the village folk, at the Tabac, at the Boulangerie, in the fields, ever ready with their “Salut, Vincent” as I pass. I recognise they probably see me as odd, … harmless, but odd!

So, it is morning, not more than an hour after sunrise. Theo has sent me more materials, including several palette knives and a rich assortment of the new yellow pigments gaining popularity in the north. His accompanying letter advises of the birth of their son, that they are naming after me! Is that wise? Mmm, what might I offer this young, unmet Vincent, to guide him safely through the future?

I play deliciously with the combination of cadmium and lemon, my brush swirling playfully in concert with the nodding flower heads. Chrome yellow reflects the distant wheat fields, and snaking blue-black inserts the poplars, defining the laneways. I revel in the unquestioning freedom given me from the landscape, its uncomplicated acceptance. The sun is high overhead, hot and baking as I attach my signature, at the bottom, left.

What am I to do? I peddle furiously back through the Village to my monastic, medical sanctuary. Another self-portrait suggests itself.  Visions of a young nephew, Theo, Doctor Gachet, my spurned lover swirl, briefly, before my brush begets my tormented face, a mostly shaved head, eyes staring, unseeing, but inwards towards a tortured soul.

The old pistol, found on a distant hillside, months ago, now lies on the floor beside my bed.

Ooh, Theeooo …

Imagined

A spot of bother

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Imagined

There was a moment of hesitation, with the Bureau predicting wild weather, winds, hail and the possibility of a light dusting of snow. We had been sitting on the fence, wondering whether to proceed or not, but decisions were taken out of our hands. Eternity stretched out forever as the wall collapsed around us. Death looked remarkably uncomplicated, it just happened, bumph, there we were, squished and flattened!

So what did I have to do now?  There was quite a bit of gore, should that be cleaned up? What if people walked past and slipped? Mmm. The two bus tickets I could see were still clutched in my tightly-held fist. Should I let Mitzi and Bruno know that we were going to be late, maybe that we wouldn’t get there for the celebration, not to wait, start without us. I checked my back pocket but just a smattering of broken black plastic, a vinyl cover and glass fragments remained of the phone.

I looked down again and noticed the mess all over Katie’s new outfit. She was going to be really pissed, when she notices. And the bouquet, again looks like it is totally ruined, the rose petals have scattered and were blowing down the road! I think I remember being told that preen and a cold water soaking will fix the stains.

Gawd here comes the cavalry! Low and medium-pitched nee-naws are in the distance, getting closer, and louder! Ah, a different siren, I reckon that’ll be the cops. Funny how ya don’t really differentiate the siren noises but if ya listen, yep they are quite different! The cops are higher pitched, more intense, maybe!

Let’s get outta here, those people all rubber-necking, the ambo’s and now the cops. The rain is starting to get heavier. With a bit of luck, we should be able to hitchhike to Mitzi’s – yer we’ll be a bit late but better late than never!

Those bastards just about ran us over, didn’t even acknowledge us as they sped by. Its been a while but the ol’ finger should get somebody to slow, to take a chance on us. Jees, another bugger. Do ya reckon they see us? Hey watch it, jees that was too close.

We should walk for a while, put some distance between us and that mob of high viz jackets, sirens and the crowd. I reckon that’s spokin’ the drivers.

Is that snow? That’s why it has gone so quiet, but funny, it doesn’t seem to be all that cold? Despite the rip, the jacket still seems to be keeping the worst of the weather off. You OK? Righto.

A few corners, it’s a lot quieter, still background drama off a bit somewhere but I’ll try the finger again. There’s an incredibly bright light down the road. It’s getting closer, bloody truckie, lights on high beam but I can’t hear the truck! That light is getting brighter, God that is bright and I still can’t hear the truck!

Tripping

Celeste and I go birdwatching

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Tripping

Celeste’s leg was broken, maybe in a couple of places, and there was a bone splinter poking out through her trousers! She was in a lot of pain, and she and I were on the side of a bloody mountain, on an island, off the south-west coast of Tasmania. Brilliant! No mobile coverage, of course – I needed to think, fast, as I sensed Celeste was going to get a lot worse.

We had been trying to photograph an active nesting site of the endangered Swift Parrot. Birds Australia wanted the article in-market next month, adding some urgency and probably, some ill-considered timing for our outing – the weather was terrible!

I started to look for stuff to splint her leg. I looked in the camera bag. The fall had destroyed her 600mm lens, there was a Tombola marble, lens cleaners, scissors and not much else. Her trouser leg would do, as I cut it off, and ripped it into several lengths. A Tombola?

Two stoutish sticks, and I ignored her shrieks. My teen-attained St John’s Ambulance certificate finally earnt it stripes over the next couple of days! The four-hour ascent took me fifteen, in reverse. I stumbled three times, but I just had to turn-off from the cries, that, over the journey, turned to grunts, eventually – to nothing!

For such a lightweight, she weighed a tonne. Periods between rest breaks shortened. An audit of our food came up with three muesli bars, a bag of marshmallows and two fruit boxes. I also had my two-litre water bag, and I remember thinking that the sugar intake would be important for Celeste. She had one of the sticky treats at each stop.

There was a full moon behind the clouds, it actually broke through a couple of times. I reckon it was about ten o’clock, and I just had to rest – I was utterly exhausted. My shoulders were on fire, my legs felt like jelly, and Celeste was only vaguely conscious. We both drank, she had a marshmallow, and I know I fell into a sweaty, slouched sleep for several hours.

A kookaburra was quarrelling with a murder of crows somewhere. The dawn light showed me the inlet, not far below, and our little red inflatable boat, still tied off to a tree, temptingly close, but still a few hours away!

I forced a drink and a muesli bar into Celeste. We talked, we cried a bit and my words of encouragement cheered me up. I lifted her again, up onto my shoulders.

At midday we achieved the inflatable. Water, a muesli bar each and with one pull, the motor roared into life. What a deliriously joyful sound, and we were making headway without my legs and shoulders screaming!

We rounded a headland and tringgg – my mobile jumped into service! Bloody marvelous. I called Emergency Services. I could see the harbour wall, soon I could see that ridiculous, old red telephone box.  A collective sigh, a slump, tears “we’re delivered”, I said.

The North

A demented allegory

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in The North

There it was, growing right in front of us – a potential cure for dementia.  There was no golden glow, beating drum, or trumpet fanfares, just this little yellowy-vine, snaking up a clump of rare-ish Hydrasteele palms. We sat, stunned, breath collectively held, at this quite wondrous moment. I carefully bagged two or three cuttings, took photos, made notes.

I was alert, knowing that Harry would not hesitate to kill. This was going to be worth billions – high stakes, calculated moves. I shot first!

A quick reckoning – yep, fifteen years we’d been searching for this! And it’s been here, under our noses all that time! If we hadn’t been so scared on those razor-sharp, prehistoric teeth, if we’d just plunged in and swam the two hundred and fifty metres across to this little heart-shaped Island!

I dragged Harry’s body to the back of the island, close to the water’s edge, assuming the crocs would make short work of my deed. His body was already puffing up in the humidity, soft and doughy!

I remembered sitting on the beach, opposite this exact spot, a decade before. There had been an easterly breeze blowing. I said I thought I could smell a hint of what I had been told to seek, a delicate perfume on the breeze. Harry dismissed it as a “croc-fart”, that silent and still permeation, that had so often put us on alert, as we moved through these swamps!

Mary Galbuma, our Bining informant, had been our constant and inspirational guide. There were stories and ceremonies – Yarrpany, yarrpany – from these areas of Central Arnhem Land, adjacent to the Arafura Swamps – telling of the magical properties of a special Sugarbag native honey. But it was not a real honey. No, Yarrpany was a thick syrupy liquid that oozed when its vine was cut, thick as honey, but when mixed with Bush Apple juice, helped the old people regain function.

Mary had met Harry and me in a Darwin bar, many years earlier. We had talked long into that night, and years of tramping through the open woodland, the swamps, the stone country uplands of Central Arnhem Land, followed. Mary had precautionary warnings – “him cheeky one. Dis Sugarbag, no like oba one,” that were largely dismissed, as the potential rewards blinded our faculties! “Him got special family with dat Ginga, dat crocodile,” she murmured.

Our registered company, Yarrpany Pty Ltd, had three directors: Mary, Harry and I. After getting an exploration license, negotiated through the local Land Council, we secured financial backing from the European pharmaceutical behemoth, Astra Zeneca.

When I looked up, Mary had swum back to the mainland, with my camera, cuttings and notes. I could make out her distant form moving rapidly away. I would deal with her later, but first, a ‘chopper to get me, and new specimens, back to civilization!

Bugger, my sat-phone was still in my bag, on the mainland beach. A quick survey of the waterway.

Midway, an enormous mouth, piercing eyes! “O Gesu Mio!”

Family

Portrait of a family

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Family

I had been hung. That was always a good start, at least you were under consideration by the packers. Yes, quite nicely positioned at the end of the second room. A great ‘long view’, as they say. The title, ‘Portrait of a family’.

There were bubbles, torrents of the stuff from Crozier’s vineyard, grown on the hillsides above his Fleurieu Peninsula hideaway. The ladies were frocked up, designer necklines plunging towards exposed navels, red and blue Armani stilettos, threateningly lethal, heads working the crowd for the most rewarding inanities. Toasts were made to meaningless space, eyes continued to roam!

I drifted towards the long view. Bloody hell, five hours and nearly a grand’s worth of oils on that wall, not to mention the half-tonne of sand, shell grit and other detritus I had unintentionally secured.

Those mutts! Loveable, but … fur kids, reflecting my low sperm count. They were eighteen months old now. Siblings, and we had eagerly handed over two gold bricks as we loaded them into our little Beetle. So cute, wrinkly coats at least four sizes too big, “…for the growth spurts”, we we’re told!

They were racing along the beach, great russet sacks on steroids – Rhodesian Ridgebacks, insanely, joyfully running. They regularly returned to where my easel was set, offering sloppy salutations, sandy slobbering, tongues and wicked grins as they rushed to drink – the water bowl inevitably pushed over in the process.

He was quite restrained, she obsessive, pushing her nose and tongue forward – gulp, slurp, and they were off again, into the waves, jumping through the short breaks to retrieve Yvonne’s ball. The seagulls had their measure, lifting, peeling off into the wind, a metre or two in front of their onslaughts!

Thank God the beach was mostly deserted. We were distantly sharing it with a family, off down the beach, rakes, nets and buckets, harvesting the Goolwa cockles at the wave break.  In the other direction, I could vaguely make out a group of four-wheel drives, hunkered up under the dunes, smoke from a fire wafting skywards, shapes in the sand suggesting swags and an overnight intention.

I refocused, my gaze shifting out to sea where a coastal tramp was making heavy weather northwards, towards Adelaide, disappearing, reappearing, disappearing in the swell. The wind was starting to pick up, the horizon clouding in the west, Payne’s Grey smudges moving upwards; never a fair-weather portent!

I felt, maybe heard the sand pounding as the dogs made another sortie. My easel went flying – oh bugger it!  The painting was stuffed too, paint and sand combining in a heavy, three-dimensional sludge! There was a premeditated attack from the rear and I was on the sand, slobber, tongues and waggery pinning me down. Yvonne strolled up “I thought you wanted to paint!”

But now, actually hung upside down, that slash, down and across, works beautifully. The two huge paws slipping through the oils – adds a certain je ne sais quoi, even if I do say so myself!

Tripping

Pesky thoughts

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Tripping

Am I awake? Jumbled thoughts, tumbling. Images whizzing back and forth, trailing comet-like tails. Projected black and yellowy shapes dance inside closed lids. My mind, an ever-active attic is doing a review of my recent night wanders.

An eye briefly tests the day. It’s still dark, but a sliver of moon dips towards the horizon. Misty coldness envelopes.

I stretch. Toes first, towards the bottom of the swag, dragging cramped legs, hips and spine through a deliciously reflexed assault. Again, a slightly different position works a spinal crick. I break wind, I desperately need a pee, as I throw off the warmth. Instant chill, bladder pressed in urgent release, crawling back into the fuzzed jumble of blankets.

I become aware of a lump; something digging into my hip. I roll over. It’s still there! I move again – gone, and I argue for another hour’s sleep. Dawn is off, maybe still over towards New Zealand, as I muggle back down and drift. Thoughts intrude, like sharp sticks, teasing me, challenging me to wake.

Last night’s fire was tamed by a watery fog, although I can taste that dank, near-dead fire smell, drifting through the camp. I open an eye and search out the hearth – yep there is still a red glow flickering from under that log.  I close my eye and desperately try to ignore intruding thoughts. Bugger it. Stop it! I scrunch my eyes tighter. I hear a fart from a neighbouring swag.

I must have drifted off. Coffee. Smelt first, seconds later I hear the pot starting to gurgle. I lie still, doggo, then use the blanket to wipe the drip off my cold, exposed nose. Eyes are still closed, thinking about that first sip. There would be a generous spoonful of honey stirred in.

I could hear the spoon scraping around the mug and I cracked an eye. The old chipped pannikin – my designated red one, was approaching and it was plonked unceremoniously, a foot from my head. The damp earthy smells were instantly replaced with a steamy, sweetened cloud.

I wonder about a straw. Could it be bent, reticulating coffee between mug and mouth? Maybe an intravenous delivery? Nah, that wouldn’t deliver taste. If I lie here, could I manoeuvre my blanketed arms around the mug and sip, without spilling the brew?  Probably not. I grumple upright, scalding noisy slurp. Oohh, wunderbar!

Two camp chairs at the fireplace, one is occupied! The fire had been kicked into gear and looks like it is delivering some usable heat! There is movement underneath the table. As I focus, I can make out a trail of sugar ants making off with the remnants of last night’s damper.

A couple of kookaburras cackle – I wonder if it is at us, or in competitive chorus with the murder of crows somewhere off in the scrub.  A family of blue wrens arrive and compete for the damper.

“Cold last night!” “Yep, sure was” as I cracked my swag towards a new day!

Peccadillos and Pecados

Joy de Morte

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Peccadillos and Pecados

I grew up in regional Victoria: Kilmore. Good school, free Uni, job on graduation, yet I had murdered by the age of 21! We were competing for the same guy – those chalky clifftops, where we all used to hang, an arranged meet, a push – problem solv-ed! I just explained to the cops how the crumbly edge collapsed.

I scored a placement with a hedge fund’s Melbourne franchise, helping the rich get richer. Top End of Collins Street, 34th Floor, and within four years, Junior Exec, keyed access to the rooftop bar. French fizz, after finishing a feverish Friday, always a few of us gathering for the weekly brag.

Julie and I were the last to leave, she was pissed, revelling in her latest foray into the US Bitcoin scramble. Made a motser, she reckoned.

We stepped out, more booze, dinner, my place for a line, before Southbank clubbing. She was found in a laneway at dawn: dazed, disheveled, distressed, disorientated.  A garbled Police interview, both with her, and me, eventually led nowhere. Julie resigned and moved to Sydney.

Booze and powder were sustaining my capacities, but I was too self-absorbed to pick up the vibe, the collegiate odium. I was good, just going through a rough patch. The ‘readies’ were drying up.

I lost a weekend at the Lemon Tree pub, and a bloke, vaguely known, approached with a proposition. We met at the beach the following weekend to discuss details. His financial competitor needed wasting! Twenty grand was being offered. Could I do it?

It took a couple of weeks to consider and plant the dodgy ‘molly’. But by Sunday evening, job done!

It was a couple of years later, the phone rang. “Frank said to talk to you…” We met, discussed circumstances, fees, and timeframes. Timing was critical as the intended victim was giving evidence at the Banking Royal Commission.

I flew to Brisbane with gent’s clobber, an adhesive goatee, gloves and wig. A pistol was purchased locally. She opened the front door, a perfunctory single shot to the head. She dropped neatly. I chose the least travelled fork in the road, into the darkness, driving directly back to Melbourne.

The calls were regular, every few months. My methods varied, but I was experiencing unexpected euphoria, as I planned each MO! Shooting delivered instant results, the ‘Chicago Overcoat’, mmm, sometimes, but the boat launchings were too public. Car accidents were ok, but danger lurked in randomly passing dashcams. That nearly brought me undone a couple of years ago – took me several days to track down the car and eliminate the evidence!

If I had to choose a favourite, I reckon it would always come back to the elevated dispatch. It’s surprisingly easy to get the target to high, isolated spots – buildings, lookouts, from the top of a high voltage transmission tower once – results were always the same.

Life was good. However, I increasingly reflected on the possibility that things were actually predestined – maybe absorbed through my childhood water supply!

History

The Met tries a rescue

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in History

Tuilaepa looked down at the planet. As always, the swirling mass of weather systems held her at the window – this view, the ultimate prize for her six-year, double degree in Meteorology and Planetary Sciences, her application and successful recruitment into Australia’s arm of the International Climate Institute, further years of post-graduate study and research, and finally the pay-off, selected to serve a twelve-month stint aboard the Aristotle international met station.

She had flown from Woomera, with a week spent adjusting to weightlessness at the International Space Station, then the tricky wire transfer across to the Aristotle, involving a mathematically precise alignment of the two orbits, followed by astronautical gee wizardry.

Her tasks involved monitoring, recording and reporting Earth’s increasingly unstable weather patterns. Her three companions shared a common background, all Climatologists, all rostered to compile the three-hourly observational log, the information transferred down simultaneously to the twenty, planetary-based met stations, used to direct and coordinate PESA, the Planetary Emergency Services Agency, in their never-ending confrontations with climate-induced catastrophe.

Tuilaepa reflected often upon the stories she had heard from her grandmother, about the Pacific nation of her forebears.  That time before the Water-Terrors, that time when tidal surges moved across her country, drowning the villages, whole families, the gardens; that heralded forced migration, a resettlement into Far North Queensland, and labelled taunts of ‘reffos’. Other low-lying populations had fled to New Zealand, some to China, others to the US.

It was a resettlement carrying significant social disquiet, met in many quarters with antagonism, violence, and disputation, as their new ‘homelands’ meant displacement for others. History’s pages were littered with similar upheavals.

The world stage had been turned on its head. Almost all of the large, coastal cities suffered inundations, catastrophic dislocations of infrastructure, and major social upheavals. It was continuing to impact hundreds of millions of people. Coastal farmlands had been lost to saltwater intrusion. The pressure on elevated land for new residential and commercial development had become intense. Food security was one of several new battlegrounds.

The water wars of last century have transmogrified into bitterly contested Elevated Territorial disputes. The concept of national governments had largely dissolved into racially-identified, vigilante cohorts, heavily armed terrorist groups, organised and with the unofficial backing from industrial oligarchs.

The polar caps, the Greenland ice sheet and most of the planet’s glacial topography had gone a generation ago, a geopolitical map of the 2200 planet, now looked like large mice had been chewing the continental coastlands of yore. There were expanded estuaries along the major river systems, most of the Amazon Basin had gone, Sydney’s Vaucluse was now on an island, and a new Gulf of Mexico coastline offered sea views along Baton Rouge’s esplanades.

The Planetary Government, formed after the collapse, last century of the United Nations, was taking a belatedly keen, some would say desperate rear-guard action to salvage humanity’s wherewithal. Their sponsorship of the work that Tuilaepa did, just one of a number of initiatives being adopted to try and generate planetary-warming’s reversal.

History

It continues …

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in History

Two men, (I am sure one was the local constable) and a woman had me pinned to the ground. The woman had a pair of shears. She roughly turned my head and cut off my queue, holding it aloft, a growl of triumph as she brandished my hair for the mob. I struggled, a leg free, finding a groin, hearing a grunt, and I was up on my feet.

The Ararat mob was fiery, drunk, and baying for blood, as they came for us at the mine. Chants of “slanty chinks”, “murderous chinamen” “poxed coolie chinks” could be heard as the mob came up the hill, picks and shovels shouldered to do battle. There were fifty or sixty, men and women in the chanting mass – we were six, all family, and I was just taking my place at the mine face, to relieve my cousin Zhang Wei.

As I rushed to the mine entrance, I saw my younger brother, Junjie Xi  fall to the ground, blood pouring from his head with two men, picks held high, about to strike. Bo Wei, my elder brother was surrounded by a group wielding shovels, and I saw him take a cut to the side of his head! Hell was upon us.

A snarling, bearded man saw me, yelling to alert the mob as I ran. I ran, and I ran, up and over the hill, down the other side, into a gully. I found a hollow log. My pursuers, initially rampaging, fell behind as I ran. I remained in that log until daybreak.

I tentatively inched out, I could smell smoke but all was quiet, save for a kookaburra laughing, somewhere in the distance! I couldn’t see the humour, and cursed the silly bird!

I buried five souls that morning! There was no burning joss paper or incense to assist their journey into the ‘afterlife’, just my humiliation, anger, tears and frustrations.

Our encampment had been ransacked, tents burnt, our few possessions strewn or missing, and the vegetable garden trampled. So much for the lucky future promised last year, as we boarded the tramp steamer at Shanghai.  I sat, unsure of my next move. Would the mob return?

My mind ranged back over the year, the voyage, my outstanding indenture, the eventual landing in Robe, the map, with instructions for the long overland trek to “X”, the cross promising riches, and great fortune, at Ballarat.

I recalled that propitious overnight camp, just behind the settlement of Ararat. Bo had been to the toilet and came back excitedly waving a small lump of rock. He pointed, we gathered and saw the yellow flecks. Was it gold? Zhang assured us that it was, and the decision was made excitedly to abandon our Ballarat quest, for the moment.

Eventually, I made my way to Ballarat. I found my countrymen, a little work, even a little gold, but I knew I was homeward bound, humiliated, debt-ridden, and without the anticipated golden future.

I was never to return.

History

Maralinga

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in History

Reg and Deirdre pushed six-year-old Johnny across the park. It was a glorious spring day – sunshine, a light breeze, the ducks on the lake. Johnny squealed, and dribbled with delight, the weekly outing, away from the home, just him, his Mum, Dad and the birds.

Seven years earlier, Reggie piloted the aircraft that deployed the only British atomic weapon dropped from a plane.

Reg had always assumed it was his charm that got him selected for the Australian tour. A routine application, his schmoozed interview, confirming his endorsement to fly the new Vickers Valliant bomber, and he was onto the 36-hour flight, London to Adelaide.

”Just pack a light suitcase, you’ll be home by Christmas” the flight sergeant had advised, news that brought some comfort to his young bride. “Think of the extra money, love. We’ll have enough for that house deposit.”

It was a short hop from Adelaide up into the remote desert, a secret British military base codenamed Maralinga. Reggie teamed up with the other 1500 service personnel. While the village was being finished, his job was pretty cushy – mostly ferrying VIPs between Adelaide and the testing site, bringing in supplies and conducting aerial familiarizations of the surrounding desert.

Christmas came – the crush at the Officer’s Mess was only challenged by the rigours of negotiating the trip across the crowded room towards the catering station. He’d sourced and flown in the large Christmas tree, gift-wrapped cases of beer, a festive distraction that kept him and the rest of the officers in high spirits.

He’d spoken to Deirdre, and his parents – able to let them know that he was in the Australian desert “somewhere”, and that the daytime temperatures were over 110 degrees, every day!

Festive excitement mellowed. Crews were now far more focused, there was a sense of drama sweeping the base and despite efforts to keep the operational teams separate, and incommunicado, confidential chit chat established that the ‘pointy-end’ was approaching.

Reggie’s Vickers’ bomber flights were tightly monitored, a routine, practiced over and over – dropping a 44-gallon drum of water through the bomb bay onto a ground target. Code named Kite, his brief included dropping the weapon, and then, with special collectors attached, to circle around and fly through the mushroom cloud.

Reg was the toast of the Mess that evening – much congratulatory back-slapping, maybe a few too many beers, slurring, a stagger and an early night. His roommate called the medic at 2 am as Reg noisily rose from his cot, yelled something incomprehensible and fainted, flat-out onto the floor.

He was in an isolated room off the end of the sickbay for a week before being evacuated back to the RAF military hospital at Uxbridge. He was again in an isolation unit, for two months, before Deirdre and his parents were even advised of his return to the UK.

He was eventually discharged, with a small military pension and the deposit on a small cottage. Johnny arrived. The Doctors advised it might be spina bifida!

Tripping

Insanity or Fury

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Tripping

I could just make out “…quum tumultusitas vulgi semper insaniae proxima si.” My schoolboy Latin was being tested, but a couple of the words triggered memories, took me back to a classroom’s endless rote conjunctions. ‘I love, he/she loves, they love’, “amo, amas, amat …” torturing young minds insanely, as the hot summer sun beat through the windows; the buzzing, window-knocking blowflies sharing our desire to be outside that room.

 

The broken ancient tablet, frail, crumbly. The powdery blue text flaked, was barely hanging on to the whitewashed pottery. ‘Tumultusitas’ gave itself away, but ‘vulgi’, something to do with the mob, the common people, and ahh ‘insaniae proxima’ – ‘madness is close?’ On a whim, I haggled and we settled on a price, but I insisted that the old crone wrap it up for me. She grumbled but found brown paper and secured the parcel with string.  My money moved to her apron pocket.

 

I continued to meander through the Grand Bazaar. The narrow, crowded alleyways, jostling hijab-shrouded mothers quibbling over the groceries, smartly dressed men moving purposely, visitors, like myself, self-consciously and ineffectually trying to blend. By mid-morning I have settled below the vine-entwined lattice of a taverna, a pomegranate juice, a refreshing interlude. The noisy touts, the smells, the sights, the crowds were wonderful: people-watching, par excellence.

 

Two delightful weeks in Tehran, almost every day this market has drawn me, tempting wares, souvenirs, a suitcase bought to accommodate my trinkets. My Latin continued to elude, translations just out of reach, but intrigue continuing to justify my impulsive purchase. My best effort concluded that the crowd, maybe the unruly mob, were mad?

 

Three days ago, I had heard loud voices, maybe screaming somewhere, muffled, echoed, distant. There may have been gunshots. There were young women moving past my taverna, intent, hurried; definitely not shoppers. Slight unease replaced my worrisome Latin. A short time later I saw police moving down the alley, purposefully intent.

 

Midday heat and uncertainty saw me retreat to my hotel. The TV carried a story of some public unrest. The images, not the voice, grabbed my attention, as a group of women were shown publicly shaving their heads. One of the signs was in English and in bold lettering stated ‘It’s not Islam or the West, we want choice.’

 

Al Jazeera carried a comprehensive coverage, reporting on the martyrdom of a young girl, in custody for defying the strict dress codes. Cars were being torched on the streets, Police, and then the Army were out as the demonstrations grew, women, young and old, some with their men marching in the streets.

 

My empathy was with the marchers, but without the advantage of language, an incapacity to read the nuanced inflections of the uprising, it was time to leave Iran.

 

At home, I hung my pottery shard on the wall in my study. In the weeks since my return I have reinterpreted its text:

 

“Quum tumultusitas vulgi semper furor proxima si – the local people were furious, not insane.

Childhood Memories

A train to Jupiter

Written by Chris Burchett
Posted in Childhood Memories

I had passed this old oak tree a hundred times before but had never noticed that tiny door! How had I missed its bright, fire-engine red invitation?

I got down on my hands and knees to take a closer look. There was a tiny, blue doorknob that I grasped. The door is locked, I thought, as I applied as much pressure as my thumb and forefinger could gingerly deliver. It wasn’t, just really stiff: it started to give, and suddenly a bright ray of light shadowed the door.

I went through the door and saw an old steam train at the station. Clouds of steam were billowing from the funnel, the conductor impatiently blowing his whistle, calling “All aboard”! I jumped for it, as we moved off, out and up, in a flurry of sparks, steam and excitement.

We went up through the clouds, passing close to the Moon. I saw that Old Man: he was smiling and winking! I remembered that I hadn’t had breakfast and I was starving. There was a bulge in the pocket of my spacesuit, and I found a pot of Cumquat marmalade, another of peanut butter, and some fresh, buttered toast. Yum, my favourite combo, as I munched. We passed quite a few planets – one was blue, another green, and we were getting close to an orangey-red one.

I was dropping a lot of crumbs, but the little silver-suited attendants quickly brushed them up and threw them out the window. “Would you like coffee? With cream? Sugar” A silver pot of scalding, hot coffee arrived.

We were whizzing along. We passed through a shower of sparklers, and the kids were waving them around, making sky-pictures. The noise in the train was deafening, excited chatter among my fellow-travellers. I asked one of them what was happening and they said that we were getting close to home! It had been ages since they had been home and everyone was keen to see their families.

One of the girls pointed to the orangey orb. “That is our home. You call it Jupiter

Scroll to top